mother, startled by the wild gleam in her daughter’s eye. Mrs Sullivan padded across the carpet in her old felt slippers and placed a cool hand on her daughter’s forehead. It wasn’t hot at all.
‘Well, go to bed now, ’ she told her. ‘It’s very, very late and you’ve got school tomorrow.’
‘She was doing homework, ’ Mrs Sullivan told her husband a few minutes later, when she was sure Kate was safely tucked in bed. ‘At least that’s what she said – I hope she’s not sickening for something.’
‘She’ll be right, ’ said Trevor Sullivan sleepily.
‘Perhaps she’s growing up, Trev.’
Kate’s dad sighed and turned over. ‘I’d better get on with that sleep-out then – sometime soon.’
‘ Very soon, ’ said Mrs Sullivan firmly.
10
Awkward
Neema lay on her bed thinking about the flying boy. She’d seen him again this afternoon; she’d glanced through the window halfway through music and there he was playing cricket on the oval with the Year Eight boys. The way he ran, with a long, loping stride, had seemed utterly familiar to her. Now she knew he was in Year Eight, only a year older than her. But she still didn’t know his name and she didn’t want to ask anyone. It could be embarrassing to ask the name of a boy at school.
Sheep, shepherd, lamb: if she could work out why those words kept coming into her head whenever she thought of him . . .
‘Nirmolini?’
A small wrinkled face peered round the edge of the door. A wisp of floaty white sari.
Nani!
Neema sat up quickly, pulling her skirt down over her knobbly knees.
Nani had been with them a whole week now, and she wasn’t the least bit like bossy old Gran, but it was all sort of – awkward. How Neema wished she’d learned Hindi back when she was younger, as Mum and Dad had suggested. But it hadn’t seemed important then. Why learn Hindi when Mum spoke English all the time, and Gran too, when she was here? Why waste every Saturday morning at the Indian Culture School, when there were so many other things you could do?
And now . . .
Nani stood in the doorway.
‘ Soti ho kya ?’ she asked Neema, making a small rocking motion with her hands.
That must mean ‘sleep’, thought Neema. Nani must be asking if she’d been asleep.
‘Oh, no, no, ’ she said quickly, politely, the way she always spoke to Nani. ‘I wasn’t asleep, you didn’t wake me up or anything. I was just having a rest, lying here, thinking about, um . . .’ she tailed off, hearing her own silly voice rattling round the room.
She was gabbling again. She sometimes did that when she found herself alone with Nani – talked really fast, as if she couldn’t stop, because she was embarrassed that she couldn’t understand a word her great-grandmother said. And Nani kept trying to talk to her. Nani would try to tell her something, and then stand there silently, waiting, as if she expected Neema to reply. But how could she, when she didn’t know what Nani had said, and couldn’t give any answer that Nani might understand? So Neema gabbled on in English to fill the silence up.
There was a silence now.
Nani stood patiently, a little way inside the room, her gaze fixed intently on her great-granddaughter’s face. Studying it, thought Neema, as if her face was some kind of map and Nani was searching for a special landmark there. It made Neema long to run away – and then it made her feel mean, for wanting to.
Because Nani was lovely. She was gentle and kindly, and she loved all three of them; you could see it in her face. You could see it especially at dinner-time – now that Nani insisted on doing all their cooking – in the way she ladled her marvellous food onto their plates (Mum didn’t think it was marvellous, but Dad and Neema did) and then watched while they ate it, as if giving food was a kind of love.
Neema sprang up and began to bustle round the room, picking things up and putting them away, a set stern expression on her face, as if she
‘Well, go to bed now, ’ she told her. ‘It’s very, very late and you’ve got school tomorrow.’
‘She was doing homework, ’ Mrs Sullivan told her husband a few minutes later, when she was sure Kate was safely tucked in bed. ‘At least that’s what she said – I hope she’s not sickening for something.’
‘She’ll be right, ’ said Trevor Sullivan sleepily.
‘Perhaps she’s growing up, Trev.’
Kate’s dad sighed and turned over. ‘I’d better get on with that sleep-out then – sometime soon.’
‘ Very soon, ’ said Mrs Sullivan firmly.
10
Awkward
Neema lay on her bed thinking about the flying boy. She’d seen him again this afternoon; she’d glanced through the window halfway through music and there he was playing cricket on the oval with the Year Eight boys. The way he ran, with a long, loping stride, had seemed utterly familiar to her. Now she knew he was in Year Eight, only a year older than her. But she still didn’t know his name and she didn’t want to ask anyone. It could be embarrassing to ask the name of a boy at school.
Sheep, shepherd, lamb: if she could work out why those words kept coming into her head whenever she thought of him . . .
‘Nirmolini?’
A small wrinkled face peered round the edge of the door. A wisp of floaty white sari.
Nani!
Neema sat up quickly, pulling her skirt down over her knobbly knees.
Nani had been with them a whole week now, and she wasn’t the least bit like bossy old Gran, but it was all sort of – awkward. How Neema wished she’d learned Hindi back when she was younger, as Mum and Dad had suggested. But it hadn’t seemed important then. Why learn Hindi when Mum spoke English all the time, and Gran too, when she was here? Why waste every Saturday morning at the Indian Culture School, when there were so many other things you could do?
And now . . .
Nani stood in the doorway.
‘ Soti ho kya ?’ she asked Neema, making a small rocking motion with her hands.
That must mean ‘sleep’, thought Neema. Nani must be asking if she’d been asleep.
‘Oh, no, no, ’ she said quickly, politely, the way she always spoke to Nani. ‘I wasn’t asleep, you didn’t wake me up or anything. I was just having a rest, lying here, thinking about, um . . .’ she tailed off, hearing her own silly voice rattling round the room.
She was gabbling again. She sometimes did that when she found herself alone with Nani – talked really fast, as if she couldn’t stop, because she was embarrassed that she couldn’t understand a word her great-grandmother said. And Nani kept trying to talk to her. Nani would try to tell her something, and then stand there silently, waiting, as if she expected Neema to reply. But how could she, when she didn’t know what Nani had said, and couldn’t give any answer that Nani might understand? So Neema gabbled on in English to fill the silence up.
There was a silence now.
Nani stood patiently, a little way inside the room, her gaze fixed intently on her great-granddaughter’s face. Studying it, thought Neema, as if her face was some kind of map and Nani was searching for a special landmark there. It made Neema long to run away – and then it made her feel mean, for wanting to.
Because Nani was lovely. She was gentle and kindly, and she loved all three of them; you could see it in her face. You could see it especially at dinner-time – now that Nani insisted on doing all their cooking – in the way she ladled her marvellous food onto their plates (Mum didn’t think it was marvellous, but Dad and Neema did) and then watched while they ate it, as if giving food was a kind of love.
Neema sprang up and began to bustle round the room, picking things up and putting them away, a set stern expression on her face, as if she
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