{"id":23146,"date":"2022-10-12T16:33:51","date_gmt":"2022-10-12T15:33:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.city-academy.com\/news\/?p=23146"},"modified":"2022-10-14T11:40:01","modified_gmt":"2022-10-14T10:40:01","slug":"the-postcard-by-jean-ashbury","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.city-academy.com\/news\/the-postcard-by-jean-ashbury\/","title":{"rendered":"The Postcard by Jean Ashbury"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n\t

The Postcard<\/h2>\n

My name is Aleesha and I will be sixteen in a few months. I live with my brother Dipesh, he\u2019s twelve, and my Mum and Dad, in a posh part of London, near the river. Lots of trees everywhere, and people walking dogs. Mum says she and Dad hocked their souls to buy our house so Dipesh and I could grow up in a nice place. She says we\u2019ll be grateful one day. We came here when I was quite little so I don\u2019t know where we were before or what it was like.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re the only blacks in our street. Lydia says her Dad wanted to move out when we came, but he changed his mind because my Mum and Dad seemed so well educated and talked posh. She says my parents speak better English than hers, and they are English born and bred.
\nWe get on with the street. Dad is into DIY and football with the men, and Mum runs the book club. She started it when she finished her degree. The club\u2019s moved on from Jane Austen. Took a while, Mum says, but she can bring out Toni Morrison now without anybody walking out.
\nIn summer, there\u2019s always a barbecue in one of the gardens, and then everybody gets pissed, and Lydia\u2019s Dad goes all Brexity.<\/p>\n

\u2018No offence Chandy, but we\u2019re swamped with all these immigrants coming into the country and living off us.\u2019<\/p>\n

Sometimes Mum gives him an earful about what immigrants have contributed to this country, and he laughs and says, \u2018Chandy your wife should be in politics.\u2019
\nI get on with all the kids, except when they take the piss out of how I dress. I like black. What\u2019s wrong with that?<\/p>\n

Mum started studying when Dipesh was two. Now she\u2019s a deputy head in a primary school in Westminster, the crappy end, poor people and refugees from everywhere. Every night she tells us how tough it is to teach children who\u2019ve been damaged by war, and who speak all kinds of different languages. She\u2019d really like to be in some old university teaching Shakespeare but she never gets shortlisted for those jobs. And Dad, Dr Ramchandra Mahase, PhD in history, teaches basic skills in an FE college.<\/p>\n

Dips and I go to the local comprehensive. We should be at private school, according to Mum, but it\u2019s against Dad\u2019s principles. In any case, we don\u2019t have the money. For as long as I can remember, Mum would give us extra lessons in English and maths at home so at school we were always ahead of what they were teaching. Dips and I get good grades without trying too hard. Actually, I\u2019m ahead of all the kids in my class. The teachers don\u2019t like that. They\u2019re always complaining on parents\u2019 evenings that I am cocky. Mum plans for Dips and me to go to university to study medicine, or law, but I want to be a singer, and Dipshit wants to be a travel writer (so he can shag a lot of foreign girls).<\/p>\n

Our house is semi-detached, garden front and back. Mum does the gardening, always clipping and pruning. No bright coloured flowers in our garden, just purples and lots of white. Mum says we have to show that we have taste, even in gardening.<\/p>\n

Dips and I have our own bedrooms. My wall has all my ballet certificates. His is plastered with girl pop stars.<\/p>\n

Once a month, we eat out, usually at one of those places with unpronounceable food in toy size portions. Mum loves all that.<\/p>\n

\u2018Rip off,\u2019 Dad says but he likes to please Mum.<\/p>\n

If she eats something she likes, she tries to get the recipe from the chef and then tries it out on us.<\/p>\n

At weekends Dips and I get dragged round museums and art galleries, so we can top up on culture. Once a month we go to something at the theatre for the same reason. Dips always makes a fuss when we go to the ballet and tries to get out of going but Mum always has her way. Though she can\u2019t convince Dad to sit through an opera.<\/p>\n

In summer, we drive to France and go glamping in the Vende\u00e9, or Brittany, and Dips gets all wanky because of the girls.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re a normal family, I think. At breakfast Dad is stuck to the Guardian, Dips and me are glued to our phones, and Mum to her laptop. We always know when it\u2019s time for Mum to head to work, and Dad to take Dips and me to school before going to his college. It\u2019s always the same but this Monday morning my left eyelid twitches. Always does when something big is about to happen.<\/p>\n

The post arrives. I collect the letters and dump them in front of Mum. She sorts them, tossing bills at Dad.<\/p>\n

\u2018One for you, Chandy. Another one for you Chandy.\u2019<\/p>\n

Then she goes all quiet as she picks up one of those old-fashioned airmail envelopes with the red and blue edging that I didn\u2019t think existed nowadays. Her hand shakes, and she looks like she wants to disappear. Dad and Dips don\u2019t seem to notice. She stuffs the letter in her bag and stands up in a hurry.<\/p>\n

\u2018Chandy, I have a staff meeting tonight. Take something out of the freezer, will you.\u2019<\/p>\n

She picks up her briefcase and laptop and leaves without the usual cheek pecks, without telling me to come straight home from school or else, without asking Dips if he\u2019s got clean pants on, without telling Dad that two pints is his limit and he mustn\u2019t be late for dinner again or it\u2019s divorce.<\/p>\n

Something\u2019s up because Monday isn\u2019t one of Mum\u2019s staff meeting nights. She would have told us on Friday if it was, and the kitchen would be covered with a million post-it notes about when to nuke our dinner, for how long, and to make sure we wash up afterwards.<\/p>\n

She revs the car real hard and speeds off.<\/p>\n

Dad notices. He puts his paper down and frowns at me over his glasses.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh dear, did we do something wrong?\u2019<\/p>\n

Our kitchen is always neat and spotless. Shining stainless steel sink, ordered racks of spices, sparkling china and glass on the shelves, burnished copper pans hanging from the beams next to strings of garlic and bunches of dried herbs, and stacks of cookery books from all over the world. Everything has a place and there\u2019s hell to pay if we muck it up.<\/p>\n

Dips and I wash up the breakfast things. Dad rummages in the freezer.<\/p>\n

\u2018Hmm, what shall we have?\u2019<\/p>\n

The freezer is chock full of stuff, from Lancashire hotpot to boeuf bourguignon. No curry, though. Mum doesn\u2019t cook curry because she says it stinks out the house and clings to our clothes and makes us smell. When we eat curry, we go to a restaurant. Everything in the freezer is labelled with the food name and the number of portions, and stacked so that you have to eat your way through meals by date order. Every Saturday afternoon, Mum cooks a batch of stuff and puts it in there. She doesn\u2019t believe in us coming home and frying sausages, or fish fingers, like all my friends do. She says that just because she\u2019s a working woman her family shouldn\u2019t have to starve. If ever there was a famine in London, we wouldn\u2019t go hungry.<\/p>\n

\u2018Lasagne, OK?\u2019<\/p>\n

We don\u2019t answer. Dad takes that as \u2018yes\u2019 and puts a container out to defrost. He grabs his briefcase.<\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s go, people.\u2019<\/p>\n

As he goes to the car, I run upstairs and stuff some things in my bag. When I get back, Dad says, \u2018Aleesha, what\u2019s in the bag? You look like you\u2019ve packed for a holiday.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018She\u2019s got \u2026ouch \u2026 that bloody hurt you skank,\u2019 Dips says.<\/p>\n

\u2018It was meant to dipshit. Better stop or I\u2019ll tell what\u2019s under \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018OK, OK.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What\u2019s under where?\u2019 Dad asks.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, nothing Dad,\u2019 we say together.<\/p>\n

Dips has a heap of porn mags under his bed. I know he looks at them and wanks when he\u2019s in bed. He glares at me and I glare back. He elbows me and I elbow back. We keep this up till just before the school gate, and Dips asks to be let out. He doesn\u2019t want to be seen walking into school with me because it\u2019s not cool to be seen with your sister.<\/p>\n

As he gets out of the car, he says, \u2018Dad, I\u2019m staying over at Barnaby\u2019s tonight. Mum knows.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Right. Have you got clean pants?\u2019<\/p>\n

Dipesh makes a face. \u2018Dad!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Just being your mother, son. See you tomorrow.\u2019<\/p>\n

When we get to the school gate, I give Dad a hug and a kiss.<\/p>\n

\u2018Dad, I\u2019m gonna be late. Detention.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Detention? What did you do? Did we get notice about that?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, I cheeked Miss Hall. Mum knows.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018So straight home after, eh.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Can I go to Lydia\u2019s after? For a little bit, please? She said I could come and listen to her new tapes. Can I Dad? Please.\u2019
\n\u2018OK, but get back before eight. Your Mum\u2019s sure to be back by then. I\u2019ll go and see Fred after work since you\u2019re all abandoning me.\u2019
\nFred means the pub and darts.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I scan the school grounds for Ben. My heart flutters when I see his red hair. He\u2019s carrying his guitar today because we\u2019re auditioning for the summer concert. He and I are going to do David Bowie\u2019s Space Oddity (I\u2019m singing the countdown). Everybody\u2019s into Harry Styles but Ben is old school. Bowie is his idol and he looks like him, too \u2013 thin like he doesn\u2019t eat, pale like a vampire, and tall like his body\u2019s reaching the sun.
\n\u2018Right, Leesh?\u2019 he says when I get close.<\/p>\n

But I can\u2019t speak. My voice often gets stuck in my throat when I\u2019m near Ben.<\/p>\n

We don\u2019t get chosen for the concert and Ben stomps out of school. I catch up with him on the road outside.<\/p>\n

\u2018Bunch of tossers. I\u2019m going home. You coming, or what?\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n

Ben\u2019s home is a council house, on the other side of town from us. Ben says his grandfather bought it in the big council sell off, and his Dad inherited it. I like hanging out at Ben\u2019s. It\u2019s like being in an ark under permanent construction. His Dad, a builder, is always doing something to the house. Ben\u2019s Mum doesn\u2019t seem to mind.<\/p>\n

Ben\u2019s an only child and his Mum is always hugging him and ruffling his hair. She ruffles mine, too. Often says, \u2018You should dye it red. You\u2019d look good with a red afro.\u2019<\/p>\n

My Mum loathes Ben. \u2018Boys like him are only after one thing.\u2019 She goes all kinds of shitty when Ben comes round. Makes us sit in the living room instead of letting us go to my room.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re sitting on Ben\u2019s bed, and he\u2019s singing, \u2018Can you hear me Major Tom \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n

His voice sounds lonely and like it\u2019s coming from far out in space. It makes me want to hug him. He turns as if he knows my mind and kisses me. Lip peck at first, then we\u2019re in each other\u2019s mouths, sucking, probing, and my world is all him, his hand on my breast. I start to feel warm and wet below. I hear him moan \u2018Leeesh\u2019, and I am so gone. We lie back on the bed. I feel him hard against my thighs, then I hear my Mum:<\/p>\n

Boys like him \u2026<\/p>\n

\u2018No Ben, geroff.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019ll be all right. I\u2019ve got some things.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No, Ben.\u2019<\/p>\n

We tussle for a bit, then he rolls over. \u2018Everybody\u2019s doing it Leesh. Get on the train.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Have you done it Ben?<\/p>\n

\u2018Mine to know.\u2019 He picks up his guitar and starts playing.<\/p>\n

I should go but can\u2019t seem to leave his side. \u2018Shall we go to the park, Ben?\u2019<\/p>\n

He keeps plucking chords, doesn\u2019t answer, then says, \u2018Yeah, come on.\u2019<\/p>\n

In the park, we play silly games rolling down the hill and running up again, then we lie under a tree and watch the sunset. Ben lets me puff on his cigarette and I pass him the bottle of vodka I swiped from our cabinet. The sunset turns more beautiful.<\/p>\n

\u2018Can I touch you?\u2019 Ben asks after a while.<\/p>\n

I let him, and as his fingers rub and knead, and my skin turns to fire, something better than sunset happens throughout my body.<\/p>\n

\u2018Touch me, too.\u2019 His hand guides me.<\/p>\n

I hear him cry out and then all is still, and dark.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

All the lights are on in our house. I sneak in the back to the kitchen. As I let myself in, Mum and Dad are standing there in the doorway. Mum is still in that undertaker\u2019s suit she wears for school.<\/p>\n

\u2018And where have you been young lady?\u2019 Mum\u2019s voice oozes menace, and I know I\u2019m in for it.<\/p>\n

\u2018Sweets, you should have phoned,\u2019 Dad says. \u2018We were so worried we called the police. You could have been run over or taken.\u2019<\/p>\n

The smooth liar in me doesn\u2019t hesitate, \u2018I\u2019ve been at Lydia\u2019s. We\u2019ve been listening to music and I forgot the time.\u2019<\/p>\n

Mum\u2019s not having it. \u2018You bunked off school. We know. Mr. Samuels called. You left school at lunchtime. And you were not at Lydia\u2019s. I spoke to her Mum. Where have you been?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Shit Mum, why the fuss? It\u2019s only nine.\u2019<\/p>\n

Before I know it, my cheek is stinging. She\u2019s never hit me before.<\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t talk to me like that. And it\u2019s nearly midnight.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s so unfair. You never tell Dipesh off when he comes home late.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Dipesh is a boy. It\u2019s different. Where have you been?\u2019<\/p>\n

Dipshit gets away with murder. One time he sneaked out to see The Rocky Horror Show at our local theatre in Mum\u2019s bra, suspenders, stockings, and sweater dress. He crept back into the house through the kitchen, and I got the blame for mucking up her clothes.
\nShe is under my nose, a petite thing to my lumberjack, and I\u2019m wondering what would happen if I hit her back if she whacks me again.
\n\u2018You\u2019ve been with that boy, haven\u2019t you? I can smell him on you, and you\u2019ve been smoking weed, too, haven\u2019t you?\u2019<\/p>\n

Dad gets between us. He stinks of beer and cigarettes as he does most evenings. He doesn\u2019t get drunk, just has a few beers to take the edge off things, he says.<\/p>\n

Mum starts to cry. \u2018All this effort we put into you, and you\u2019re going throw it all away and get yourself pregnant.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dad puts his arm around her waist and tries to kiss her. His lips land on her ear. He turns to me, \u2018Sweets, you should be concentrating on your studies. Make the most of your education before it\u2019s too late.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And look how she\u2019s dressed.\u2019 Mum is shouting now. \u2018She was born to disgrace me.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dad takes in the head-to-toe black attire I changed into at Ben\u2019s, and my graveyard make-up. \u2018Sweets, you look like a funeral.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Everybody dresses like this.\u2019 Trying to make an escape, I pick up my rucksack. The vodka bottle rolls out.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh God.\u2019 Mum crumples.<\/p>\n

Dad holds her up. \u2018Don\u2019t get into such a state, darling. You\u2019ll only get a migraine.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I have one already. Caused by my underage daughter drinking and having sex.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am not having sex. And we didn\u2019t drink much. See, the bottle is almost full.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dad walks Mum up the stairs. \u2018Come let\u2019s get you into bed and I\u2019ll bring you some paracetamol. I\u2019ll deal with Aleesha.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t be soft with her, Chandy, she needs a firm hand.\u2019<\/p>\n

After Mum is in bed, Dad says, \u2018Is there something you want to tell me, Aleesha? Where were you tonight?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018In the park, Dad. Just walking and talking and watching the sunset. We didn\u2019t do anything bad. We auditioned for a music thing at school and didn\u2019t get a place and Ben got mad and I went with him.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Did you two have sex?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No, Dad. We just kissed and touched.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Sweetheart, that\u2019s how things escalate. We talked about this. And where were you when all this happened?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Um \u2026 at Ben\u2019s house. And then at the park.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018My God, girl. What were you thinking?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I like him, Dad. A lot.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018But you\u2019re young, sweetheart. If it\u2019s real, it will keep. We can\u2019t police you but we hope you won\u2019t ruin your future.\u2019<\/p>\n

My Dad\u2019s lovely and I wish I hadn\u2019t upset him. He\u2019s tall and gangly with thick, floppy hair. He\u2019s always running his fingers through his hair to keep it out of his eyes. He\u2019s a little bit vain and he makes quite an effort when he goes out, co-ordinating his shirt and sweater and polishing his shoes till they shine. I guess he\u2019s kinda handsome because women smile at him all the time. Lydia says her Mum fancies him, but Dad only has eyes for Mum.<\/p>\n

Dad\u2019s not my father, though. He\u2019s Dipesh\u2019s, and I\u2019ve always known that. My real Dad is somewhere out there, like Major Tom, probably. I\u2019ve never missed him because Chandy is the Dad I\u2019ve always known, and I\u2019m his favourite. When I was little, he used to read me bedtime stories and drink tea from my doll teacups and we would both hide behind the sofa when I got scared of something on TV.<\/p>\n

He picks up my bag now, and the vodka bottle. \u2018Sweets you shouldn\u2019t drink this stuff. It rots your brain.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We only had a few mouthfuls. I didn\u2019t like it.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Good. Now go to bed. We\u2019ll talk again tomorrow.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Dad?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why does Mum hate me?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Whatever gave you that idea? She doesn\u2019t hate you. She just doesn\u2019t want history repeating.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What do you mean?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s late. We\u2019ll talk again in the morning.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Dad?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Not now, sweets. It\u2019s been a long day.\u2019<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

My bedroom is across the landing from Mum and Dad\u2019s. I hear them talking and creep across to listen.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh God Chandy, she\u2019s behaving just like I used to do. I can see the signs. I see how she is when she\u2019s around that boy. I was the same with Holly.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dad says something but it\u2019s a mumble, and then Mum starts sobbing.<\/p>\n

\u2018It all came back with that postcard. Why has he made contact now after all these years?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Maybe he\u2019s been afraid. Maybe he\u2019s been thinking about it all this time. Maybe he wants to see her. She\u2019s his daughter after all.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018She\u2019s your daughter Chandy. You brought her up.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Blood is blood darlin\u2019 you know that.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What am I going to do? I never said he was dead, but I never said he wasn\u2019t either.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We\u2019ll just have to come clean. We\u2019ll do it together. She knows we love her.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I should have told her the truth long ago.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018She wouldn\u2019t have understood. Better now.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh God Chandy I don\u2019t know what I would have done if you hadn\u2019t rescued me. I was so young. Too young to have a baby.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I love you girl, always have.\u2019<\/p>\n

I stand there at the door thinking of breaking in and demanding to be told whatever it is Mum should have told me years ago. Instead, I creep back to my room wishing Dips was around so I could torment him, take out whatever this is that I am feeling on him. I look out at the garden shed half expecting to see Ben leaning against the wall. At night, sometimes, he throws pebbles at my window and I creep out of the house and we sit in the garden shed and talk, or go to the recreation ground and play on the swings.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t sleep so I go down to the kitchen for a glass of milk and a biscuit. Mum\u2019s briefcase is on the kitchen table. I realize that what drove me downstairs was to see if I could find that letter. It\u2019s tucked away inside the briefcase, and my hands tremble as I pull out the envelope and take out what\u2019s in it. It\u2019s a postcard with a picture of a tree with strings of pink flowers hanging down. On the other side it says \u2018Bootlace tree, Botanic Gardens, do you remember?\u2019 In the space for a message is a drawing of two ants with their antennae entwined. On the lines for the address, there\u2019s a telephone number. I sit for a long while turning the card thinking about who sent the card, and wondering why Mum was so upset. I find a post-it and write the telephone number down, then I put the card back just the way I found it and go back to bed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>

\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\tEXPLORE OUR WRITING COURSES\t\t<\/span>\n\t<\/a>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>

Jean Ashbury<\/h3>\"\"<\/div><\/div>
\n
\n\t
\n

Jean is a Trinidadian living in London. Her writing has appeared in various anthologies including Spread the Word, and the Arvon Foundation. She is currently working on a novel.<\/p>\n

I was looking through some old family letters and papers one day and discovered a whole lot of mysteries about relatives. All of them had been immigrants in various places. I already had a story in my head about a woman with a secret, so The Postcard took shape with a fragile relationship between an immigrant mother and her first-generation daughter. <\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Postcard My name is Aleesha and I will be sixteen in a few months. 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