Payback Read online

  PAYBACK

  This book is dedicated to the brave young woman who told me her story

  Payback copyright © Frances Lincoln Limited 2009

  Text copyright © Rosemary Hayes 2009

  First published in Great Britain and in the USA in 2009 by

  Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4 Torriano Mews,

  Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ

  www.franceslincoln.com

  First paperback edition 2009

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available on request

  ISBN: 978-184507-935-2

  Set in ITC New Baskerville LT

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  PAYBACK

  ROSEMARY HAYES

  CHAPTER ONE

  Halima

  I was only four years old when my father came back. I remember standing beside my mother – my ammi – outside our house in the village in Pakistan, staring towards the distant mountains, waiting for him.

  Ammi knelt down beside me up and kissed my neck. ‘Look at those grand mountains, Halima,’ she whispered. ‘How small they make us feel!’ She was young and pretty then, my ammi. I snuggled against her and breathed in her smells – the familiar smells of cooking and the oil she put in her hair.

  We didn’t see much of my father when I was little. He was important in the village because he owned land, but mostly he was away working in England, earning money to send back to the family.

  I was only two years old when he went away. My mother and the other women had been preparing for his homecoming for days, cooking up a feast, laughing and shouting together, cleaning the house and then putting my brothers and my sister and me in clean clothes to greet him.

  I couldn’t stand still any longer. I broke away from Ammi and ran to and fro, excited and noisy, getting in everyone’s way. Ammi caught up with me and picked me up, laughing.

  ‘Look at your clean clothes – dusty already,’ she scolded. But she wasn’t really cross.

  We watched as the minibus laboured up towards the village from the plain beneath. The excitement mounted. There were shouts as it came nearer, then people started waving and my brothers and my cousins jumped up and down.

  ‘He’s coming! He’s nearly here!’

  I don’t know what I expected – perhaps a tall, handsome man in flowing robes. I joined in the excitement, clapping my chubby hands, wriggling in Ammi’s arms.

  Then, at last, the dust-covered minibus shuddered to a halt and I saw him climb down from it. A stout, short man with balding dark hair. He wasn’t the handsome hero I had imagined. I remember feeling disappointed as he came towards us, all smiles, his arms full of presents, everyone crowding round him, talking, greeting him, touching him.

  But not me. I was shy and awkward with him. He took me from Ammi’s arms and I squirmed and tried to get away when he lifted me up to hug me.

  ‘Come on, little Halima, give your baba a kiss,’ he said, and his smile turned to a frown as I twisted my face away from his.

  I went rigid in his arms. He gave a grunt and put me down, and I ran back to Ammi and clutched her legs.

  My mother stroked my hair and smiled nervously. ‘Be patient,’ she said to him. ‘She’ll get used to you again. You’ll see. She’ll soon get to know her baba again.’ But my father moved away, irritated, as I sucked my thumb and peeped out at him from behind Ammi, my eyes wide.

  He was a distant figure in those early days; none of us really knew him. It was Ammi who cared for us – for Khalil and Imran, my two brothers and for Asma, my sister, and me. Ammi accepted my father’s long absences without question. She had married my father when she was only thirteen and she never questioned his authority.

  Mostly, those early years in the village were happy times for us – though even then, they were happiest when my father was away. I was the youngest of the four children, trailing along behind the others. Imran was my favourite of the two boys. He was always teasing me, always laughing, and as I grew older I attached myself to him whenever he let me.

  ‘Race you to the water!’ he would say.

  He knew I couldn’t race him, but he’d pretend I was overtaking him as I panted behind, until we reached the irrigation channels which led to the fields.

  ‘Let’s cool you down, little sister,’ he’d shout, wallowing in the channel and then standing up with rivulets of water running down his lean brown chest, his hair plastered to his head, splashing me until I was weak from giggling and squealed for him to stop.

  Imran was bright as quicksilver, never still, always on to the next thing.

  ‘Tea!’ he’d call out, and we’d race through the village, dodging women coming back from the well with heavy water jars on their heads, and make our way to the tea-shop. I would lurk at the edge of the crowd as Imran proffered his five rupees for a cup of sweet, milky tea.

  ‘Where did you get the money from?’ I always asked him this as we shared the drink, but he never told me, just tapped the side of his nose and grinned.

  The owner of the tea shop had a television and it was on all the time, so Imran and I would sneak a look at programmes we’d never be allowed to watch at home, hoping none of our relations would see us and tell Ammi.

  Sometimes we’d run down through the orchards to the fields. The tracks were always bustling with grubby barefoot children, carts towed by buffaloes, battered tractors and herds of goats. Once, when we stopped at Baba’s land and watched the men working with their hoes and scythes, I asked Imran why Baba was away all the time.

  Imran shrugged, and snatched at a dry stalk of grass. ‘He makes more money over in England,’ he said. Then he added, ‘But he says one day we’ll all go over there to live with him.’

  I remember that moment. Some women were toiling along the side of the track, bent double under huge bundles of twigs. They didn’t look up as they passed us, but I was conscious of their presence as I stared back at Imran and I felt my heart beat faster. Surely he’d got it wrong?

  I frowned. ‘You and Khalil,’ I said. ‘He’ll take you and Khalil to England, but not us. Surely not Ammi and Asma and me.’

  Imran was on the move again, running along the track. ‘Who knows?’ he shouted back over his shoulder.

  For a while I stayed where I was, looking into the distance, out over the Peshawar plain and the Kabul river which snaked through it, gleaming like dull silver in the harsh sunlight.

  So much has happened since then. We left the village long ago, but I still think of it and the smallest thing can trigger my memory and bring the place sharply into focus. A hot steamy day or the crackling of a fire and I’m there again, smelling the buffaloes, the wood smoke from fires, the warm fruit, the sticky sweetness of sugar cane and the petrol fumes from the decorated minibus that drove to and from the bazaar in the town nearby.

  And the kite flying and the magnificent mountains – always the vast, distant, mysterious mountains which made me feel so tiny and insignificant.

  The sounds of village life are still with me, too. The chattering children, the creaking carts carrying sugarcane to the factory, women talking and laughing as they went about their chores in their loose tops and trousers, with scarves over their hair.

  Memories of laughter and gossip and dust and steamy dampness – and of being part of a huge extended family w
ith a secure routine to my life.

  I cling to the memories, trying to make sure I don’t lose them. For I can never go back to my village. I am an outcast and I would not be welcome.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was all my father’s doing. He made the deal when I was eight years old. Of course, I knew nothing of it then. I knew nothing of it for years afterwards.

  He was back in the village again. We hadn’t seen him for two years and I was still awkward with him and found it hard to accept the authority of this stranger in the middle of our family. Khalil, the oldest, was scared of him, but Imran was confident and had an easy charm. He was Baba’s favourite. Even as an eight-year-old, I could see the way Baba’s eyes softened when he looked at Imran and how he smiled at him, proud of his quick wit and ready humour.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said to Ammi and the mass of uncles and aunties and cousins who were listening. ‘You’ll see. He’s a clever boy. My Imran will make something of himself.’

  And Imran grinned and ran off, while Khalil stood around looking spare. Khalil longed for my father’s approval, but he didn’t have Imran’s winning ways.

  That time when Baba came back, there was some crisis in the village. Something to do with his land, and he was very worried about it. Ammi told us to keep out of his way and not bother him. We didn’t need telling twice, for whenever anyone spoke to him he was short-tempered and grumpy. Even Imran couldn’t please him.

  ‘Go away, boy,’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my sight.’

  And then, suddenly, Baba was all smiles again, patting the boys on the head, hugging us girls. Apparently some guy – some distant relation – had solved the problem, and the problem, whatever it was, was fixed.

  One day not long after this, I was with my cousins on our way back from school. I remember that it had rained a lot that week and I’d missed some lessons. There wasn’t enough space for us all inside the school, so some classes were taught in the courtyard and if it rained, the children in the courtyard were sent home.

  But that day it was fine and sunny and my lessons hadn’t been interrupted. As I walked back towards our house, I saw my father standing by one of the wells with another man. I didn’t know it then, but the other man was the relation who had solved the problem with the land. My dad was laughing and talking to him and I saw them shaking hands, and then my dad put his arm around the man’s shoulders.

  Baba saw me and beckoned me over. He was all smiles. ‘Come here, little one,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet my cousin and my very good friend.’

  Nearly everyone in the village was related. We were all members of the Pushtoon tribe and we were all cousins of some sort. But I’d never seen this cousin before.

  The man bent down, smiling, and cupped my face in his hand. He looked up at Baba.

  ‘Youngest, eh?’

  Baba nodded. ‘She’s a good, obedient child,’ he said.

  I was surprised. Baba never praised his daughters. I blushed and looked down at my dusty feet.

  The man straightened up. ‘Good and obedient, you say? Excellent, excellent.’

  Then Baba gave me a little push. ‘Off you go, Halima. Go back to Ammi. She’s waiting for you in the house.’

  And so I trotted off home. Our house was one of the biggest in the village and one of the oldest. It had two storeys and was made of brick, and the first floor was completely surrounded by a wall so that outsiders couldn’t peep at the women in the back yard.

  Ammi was at the door to greet me. She’d been watching for me and she’d seen Baba call me over and show me to his new good friend. She said nothing. She just put her arms round me and I remember that she stayed there, holding me tight, looking over my head, back towards my father, until I wriggled free.

  The incident meant nothing to me and I soon forgot it. It was only later – years later – that it all came back to me and I realised what it meant.

  On that visit, Baba was only with us a few weeks before he went back to his job in London. Before he left, he called us all together.

  ‘Good news,’ he said, smiling at the two boys. ‘Khalil and Imran, you are to come back to London with me.’

  Imran leapt up and did a dance round the room. He punched Khalil on the arm.

  ‘London, brother. We’re going to London. See, I told you Baba would take us there!’

  The boys were excited, particularly Imran, but London meant nothing to me then. It was a strange, faraway place, a place where Baba worked and where he made money to send back to us, a place I’d seen on television. Ammi didn’t let us watch much television but we were allowed to watch the six o’clock English news. At home we spoke Pushtu and we understood Urdu and a little English, and although Ammi spoke no English, she wanted her children to learn it. Some of our neighbours had Sky television and we longed to watch it, but Ammi despised them and it. ‘Showing off,’ she would mutter.

  I remembered what Imran had told me when we were walking in the fields – but I thought he must have got it wrong. Baba had said that the boys should go back to England with him but there was no mention of us girls – or Ammi – going with him, even though Asma was older than Imran. Like me, she would stay and help Ammi at home in the village.

  Baba went on. ‘Khalil and Imran will go to school in England and live with me and their uncles.’ And, as he spoke, his eyes rested on Imran. ‘They will have a good education in England. Maybe they will go to university there.’

  But his next remark surprised us all. Baba smiled broadly and flung out his arms.

  ‘Then, when I come back in two years’ time,’ he went on, ‘the rest of you will come back to England with me. We shall all be together again.’

  Ammi’s eyes flew open in surprise. It was obvious he’d said nothing to her about this. But then, Pushtoon men can do what they like within their families and Ammi never questioned any decision Baba made. She said nothing, just looked down at her hands. Any questions or doubts were quickly squashed. Allah willed it. She went wherever her husband led.

  Asma and I were sitting on either side of Ammi and she drew us closer to her and tightened her hold on us.

  Back then, I thought that my ammi would always be there to comfort and protect me.

  How wrong I was.

  Not long after this, all our cousins and aunties and uncles gathered together to say goodbye to Baba and the boys. It took ages, because everyone got a hug and people pressed presents into Baba’s hands and wished them all well. Then at last, the minibus lumbered into the village and stopped beside the crowd of people, the engine still throbbing. Baba, Khalil and Imran heaved their backpacks, cases and rolled-up mats into the minibus and then hung out of the windows, shouting and waving.

  Ammi, Asma and I stood and waved them off. We watched as the minibus wove its way across the plains between the fields towards Mardan, the nearest town. Then it turned a corner and was lost to sight.

  I imagined the bus jolting its way along the road to Mardan. It was a journey I knew well. I often went to the bazaar there with Ammi. It was big and bustling and noisy and when we went, I stayed close to Ammi while she searched for goods we couldn’t buy in the village. Many of the local women did beautiful embroidery and I would squat down by their mats spread out on the ground and stare at it, wondering at its intricacy.

  Mardan was the furthest I had ever been, the extent of my world. I thought that I was going on to secondary school in Mardan, but now Baba was saying that we were all going to England and to schools in London next time he returned.

  After Baba and the boys left, life resumed its seasonal rhythms. The hot humid summer, the monsoon season when everything seemed damp, the cooler winter days, the sowing and harvesting of crops, the fetching of water, the milking of buffaloes, cooking and sewing.

  I loved sewing.

  ‘You have a good, steady hand, Halima,’ said Ammi one day, as I was bent over a piece of embroidery.

  I looked up at her and frowned. ‘I’ll never be as good as you.’
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  Ammi sat down beside me. ‘I couldn’t do this when I was your age,’ she said. ‘You will make beautiful things when you are older, you’ll see.’

  I was pleased to hear this and after that, whenever she could spare the time, she would sit down and show me how to do more complicated stitches and create patterns.

  My days were full. I went to the primary school in the mornings for lessons and to the mosque school in the afternoons to learn the Koran. And whenever I could snatch a moment, I would embroider.

  I had to help with the housework, too, and Ammi often sent me to buy things from the small shops in the village. Sometimes pedlars came to our house to sell household goods we couldn’t get in the village. They sold shiny trinkets and jewellery, too, and I loved fingering these and holding them up to the light so that they winked and sparkled.

  I didn’t think about my future. Baba said we were going to live in England and, like Ammi, I accepted it without question. I didn’t know what this meant, but I knew the family would be together and that there were lots of other uncles and aunties and cousins already living there. If I thought about it at all, I probably imagined London as a bigger version of Mardan.

  So the two years went by, the pattern of life hardly changing. Occasionally there was trouble in the village and the culprit was punished by the elders. The punishments were brutal and this certainly brought home to us children the power of the elders. So we did our best to avoid them.

  Girls, particularly, were expected to be quiet and modest and not cause our families any anxiety, so Asma and I kept a low profile.

  As the time for departure grew closer, I began to question Ammi.

  ‘Will we come back?’

  ‘Yes Halima, of course we’ll come back. We’ll come back to visit, for sure. We’ll come back for family weddings.’

  ‘Will we still have our house – and the buffaloes?’

  Poor Ammi. She was probably as ignorant as I, but she did her best.