I tried to concentrate on getting home and the journey to Bradford with Dad. We would laugh and joke with him as we crossed the Pennines, pointing out funny things by the road and playing ‘I spy’. He’d open the windows and get rid of this horrible fuel smell. Perhaps we’d stop at a café before we reached the city. Once Rafiq was out of the way we’d be fine.
As we reached Hawesmill and pulled into Hamilton Terrace there was a group of people standing outside number 44. Abida was in the middle of a group of women, and I could see Fatima, Ayesha and Yasir, Fatima’s eldest son, standing among them.
Rafiq pulled up against the kerb. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.
Yasir came over and leaned into the open window. He saw us and silently beckoned Rafiq out. Abida was clutching her hijab, or headscarf, across her face. She looked frightened. Someone put a hand on her shoulder and whispered to her. There was something terribly wrong.
The bus’s engine was still running as Abida and Rabida got in, along with Yasir. The younger children were hustled back into the house by Fatima. Rafiq climbed back into the driver’s seat.
‘Are we off to Bradford now?’ I said. ‘Why’s Dad not coming? Is he still poorly?’
Abida took hold of my hand. ‘He’s not very well, Mohammed,’ she said. ‘Not very well at all. He’s had to go to hospital. We’re going to see how he is.’
In the front seat Yasir turned round. ‘Don’t worry, kids,’ he said, smiling. ‘He’ll be OK. He’s just a bit … hurt. We’ll see him soon. That’ll cheer him up.’
We parked close by the hospital’s A and E department and hurried through its doors, the adults looking right and left down the wards to catch a glimpse of Dad. Everyone seemed to be staring at this scared-looking bunch of foreigners in their flowing clothes, running down corridors and shouting Dad’s name.
Ahead of us, a man in a white coat saw us coming and put out his hand to stop us in our tracks. ‘Can I help you?’ he said brightly. ‘Are you looking for anyone in particular?’
The women looked at one another. They knew no English and hadn’t a clue what the white man in the white coat had said. Rafiq knew a few words, but not enough to answer the doctor, and he simply shrugged his shoulders. Fortunately Yasir’s English was good, saving us from looking like a complete bunch of village idiots.
‘We’re looking for Ahmed Khan,’ he said, ‘from Hamilton Terrace, Hawesmill. He’s 50. He’s been brought in by ambulance. How is he? Can we see him?’
The doctor looked at his clipboard and ran his finger down a list of names. ‘Please, all of you come over here,’ he said, ‘just to the side of the ward.’
Obediently we shuffled into a small office off the main corridor.
The doctor bit his lip and looked down as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Khan died half an hour ago. He had a huge heart attack.’
I caught the words but didn’t understand. Yasir paused, taking in the terrible news, then translated for Abida and the others. Immediately she started caterwauling, beating her chest and head with her shut fists. Rafiq stared out of the office door, expressionless, as Rabida wept and clung to her mother.
‘I’m sorry,’ repeated the doctor. ‘I’m afraid there was nothing we could do.’
The next hour or so was a blur of tears, screaming, shouting and grief-stricken fury. ‘Mr Khan died half an hour ago. Died … died … died …’ The doctor’s words were repeating in my head. Dad was dead. Something had happened to his heart and he’d died. We wouldn’t see him again. He’d gone, this time for good.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d never known anyone to die. It seemed a really stupid thing for Dad to do. Stupid enough for him to return home later on, when everyone had stopped crying, and apologize for being so daft. But he wasn’t going to. They said he was dead. Dead people didn’t come back.
Chapter Four
We arrived at Hamilton Terrace to find the house deserted. Rabida was sent down the street to Fatima’s with the bad news. Abida was still weeping and beating her chest. Rafiq and Yasir stood a few feet from her, not wishing to be contaminated by female grief. Muslim men have their own mourning rituals and there is little mutual comfort between the sexes, at least not in public. Jasmine and I stood on the pavement, not knowing where we belonged. Jasmine pulled at the sleeve of Abida’s jilbab, or coat, but she didn’t want to know. She was too caught up in the horrifying shock of what had happened.
Within five minutes Fatima came marching up the street, Rabida behind her, clutching the hands of the little kids we’d left in her care before we set off to the hospital. She was crying hard, but as the nearest of Dad’s relatives in this country, she was second in line to the chief mourner and therefore had work to do. The first job was to organize a very large pot of tea and find as many cups as possible.
The men, including Rafiq, Yasir and Dilawar, went into the front room and shut the door. The women trooped into the kitchen with us children. Chairs were arranged in a circle in the back room while Fatima made the tea. She put her arms around Abida and the two cried on each other’s shoulders, praying to God for Dad’s soul.
News of Dad’s death spread quickly and within quarter of an hour the little house was full of people from the surrounding streets. To us, all the women were ‘aunty’, no matter whether they were related or not. Many of these grieving ladies were gazing at Jasmine and me with pity as we stood bewildered in the back room.
‘God bless them,’ said one aunty, putting her hand on my head and pulling me to her. ‘What have they done to deserve this?’
She squeezed hard and I felt uncomfortable pressed up tight against her salwar kameez. As she released her grip, I was bundled into the folds of another mourner, who asked God to forgive us: ‘Astaghfirullah.’
‘Don’t worry, child,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘You will be fine. You will be looked after. God has willed it.’
In the far corner of the room Jasmine was getting an equal amount of attention. She was being passed from one aunty to another like a precious china doll. Our step-sisters and brother were around, and just as upset as we were, but getting nowhere near the amount of fuss.
‘Oh, Mohammed, God bless you, I’m so sorry about your father. He was a good man.’ A tubby aunty stood in front of me, her hand flat on the top of my head. She smiled sympathetically and wiped away a tear. ‘God bless you both,’ she said, ‘you poor little orphans.’
I stepped back, shocked. Orphans? How could we be? I’d heard the word in school, but had taken no notice of it. It seemed to be something that happened to people a hundred years ago. Then I realized: our Dad was dead and our Mum was … well, where was she? She certainly wasn’t here, and we hadn’t seen her for seven years. Did that mean she was dead too? Was it something they all knew about, but weren’t telling us?
Suddenly I felt very sick, and for the first time that day, my resistance crumbled and I began to cry. This had a chain reaction and soon the tiny back room was filled with women lifting their arms up to God and keening loudly with grief.
Not long after, the front-room door was opened and the men left the house. That room was also full to bursting and they’d decided to find a quieter place. Their way of mourning was to tell old stories about the deceased and make arrangements for the funeral. Under Islamic law the body must be washed, dressed in a shroud and buried as soon as possible, usually within hours of the death. As Dad’s body was to be flown back to Pakistan, however, this wasn’t possible. His funeral would be in two days, followed by immediate repatriation. In Muslim communities, individuals pay into a fund that covers funeral and travel expenses. One family looks after this money and makes all the