were allowed to travel back and fore, see? And they put me on a ferry with all these other kids, and when we got to the other side we were put in Dovercamp. They made it seem like we was on holiday. And about a month later my foster parents, Mr and Mrs Ostroff, came to pick me up.
âOh, they were a right pair. They were a lot older than my real mum and dad. Must have been in their late forties, early fifties when they took me in. She was tall and thin, looked a bit like a schoolmarm, but she was lovely. One of those voices thatâs full of kindness, you know. And Mr Ostroff, well, he was about six inches shorter than his wife, and big and round and cuddly, like a big bear. And if someone said something to make him laugh, he couldnât stop! Heâd laugh until there were tears rolling down his cheeks and he was bright red in the face. He was a carpenter, Mr Ostroff, and his hands were huge, like shovels, even though he was so short.
âI was just five when I came over. Just me and my clothes and a piece of string around my neck with my number on it. Itâs funny. Youâd think Iâd remember something like that, but I canât. It was my dad who told me most of it. He said when they were sending us off they made us use a railway station outside the city, out in the suburbs. They said the sight of all of us together might upset the Viennese. As if weâd come from somewhere else. Canât remember any of that. I was too young to remember much of anything, I suppose.â
For a while they walked in silence, and more and more it made sense to him that they should both have chosen to make this journey on foot. Born in London, heâd never fled a country, but his grandparents had, and the story of their journey â every overcrowded boat, every lost bit of luggage, every bout of sickness and diarrhoea, from Okara to West Ham â was recycled at family get-togethers. Sometimes they were trotted out to make a point, to illustrate to the youngsters just how easy their lives were, how much they had to be grateful for. Sometimes they were just stories, funny anecdotes, the trauma and heartache stripped out leaving only the slapstick and punchlines.
As a teenager, heâd come to resent their stories, whichever version was being told. At first it was the repetition; the umpteenth retelling of how his dadâs older brother, Ibrahimâs Thaya Ahmed, was seasick when they were only ten minutes out of Karachi, or how his Bhua Yasmin, tried to eat a banana with the peel still on it, as if that were the funniest thing any child had ever done. Then, more and more, he began to resent the idea that he should be grateful. Grateful for what? For being looked down on every time he wandered outside a certain, safe little corner of East London? He remembered those school trips, when they had strayed out into the Home Counties, and he remembered the looks they got. Never seen a group of Asian kids before, youâd think. And that look, always the same look. Policemen stopping and searching because you look the type, talking loud and slow before you say a word because they think all Desis have a limited command of the Queenâs English. And always some posturing twat in the paper saying how if you donât support the cricket team you arenât properly British or bitching because a local council printed something in Urdu. They come over here, they take our jobs. Was he meant to be grateful for all that? No. Britain wasnât a sanctuary; it was a place where every Desi had just a handful of choices. Doctor, cabbie, shopkeeper. Theyâre your options. Donât like it here? Well why donât you piss off home ? Britain was cold and it was godless. Full to the brim with cross-of-St-George skinheads, tattoos on their necks, singing âLager! Lager! Lager!â But worse than them were the bastards whoâd make a joke, take the piss out of you for your colour or your name, and
âOh, they were a right pair. They were a lot older than my real mum and dad. Must have been in their late forties, early fifties when they took me in. She was tall and thin, looked a bit like a schoolmarm, but she was lovely. One of those voices thatâs full of kindness, you know. And Mr Ostroff, well, he was about six inches shorter than his wife, and big and round and cuddly, like a big bear. And if someone said something to make him laugh, he couldnât stop! Heâd laugh until there were tears rolling down his cheeks and he was bright red in the face. He was a carpenter, Mr Ostroff, and his hands were huge, like shovels, even though he was so short.
âI was just five when I came over. Just me and my clothes and a piece of string around my neck with my number on it. Itâs funny. Youâd think Iâd remember something like that, but I canât. It was my dad who told me most of it. He said when they were sending us off they made us use a railway station outside the city, out in the suburbs. They said the sight of all of us together might upset the Viennese. As if weâd come from somewhere else. Canât remember any of that. I was too young to remember much of anything, I suppose.â
For a while they walked in silence, and more and more it made sense to him that they should both have chosen to make this journey on foot. Born in London, heâd never fled a country, but his grandparents had, and the story of their journey â every overcrowded boat, every lost bit of luggage, every bout of sickness and diarrhoea, from Okara to West Ham â was recycled at family get-togethers. Sometimes they were trotted out to make a point, to illustrate to the youngsters just how easy their lives were, how much they had to be grateful for. Sometimes they were just stories, funny anecdotes, the trauma and heartache stripped out leaving only the slapstick and punchlines.
As a teenager, heâd come to resent their stories, whichever version was being told. At first it was the repetition; the umpteenth retelling of how his dadâs older brother, Ibrahimâs Thaya Ahmed, was seasick when they were only ten minutes out of Karachi, or how his Bhua Yasmin, tried to eat a banana with the peel still on it, as if that were the funniest thing any child had ever done. Then, more and more, he began to resent the idea that he should be grateful. Grateful for what? For being looked down on every time he wandered outside a certain, safe little corner of East London? He remembered those school trips, when they had strayed out into the Home Counties, and he remembered the looks they got. Never seen a group of Asian kids before, youâd think. And that look, always the same look. Policemen stopping and searching because you look the type, talking loud and slow before you say a word because they think all Desis have a limited command of the Queenâs English. And always some posturing twat in the paper saying how if you donât support the cricket team you arenât properly British or bitching because a local council printed something in Urdu. They come over here, they take our jobs. Was he meant to be grateful for all that? No. Britain wasnât a sanctuary; it was a place where every Desi had just a handful of choices. Doctor, cabbie, shopkeeper. Theyâre your options. Donât like it here? Well why donât you piss off home ? Britain was cold and it was godless. Full to the brim with cross-of-St-George skinheads, tattoos on their necks, singing âLager! Lager! Lager!â But worse than them were the bastards whoâd make a joke, take the piss out of you for your colour or your name, and
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