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hands and feet hennaed. She also became more attentive towards me as my body developed.
    The biggest fear Muslim parents had in those days was that their daughters would bring shame upon the family. I wasn’t allowed to go out on my own any more and I had to wear a headscarf and loose-fitting clothes around the house. My brothers could do what they wanted; go out at night, talk to English girls and wear Western clothes.
    Dad didn’t really get involved in these matters. He was busy building up the butcher’s shop, working seven days a week, and never moaned. He tried to have as little as possible to do with the visitors that came to the house, who were mainly from my mum’s social circle. He didn’t have time for illness, people who ran to the doctor’s with a headache, or signed on the dole. He enjoyed quietness, simple food and sometimes a game of chess with me on a Sunday.
    By this point Mum had time on her hands. I was out at school all day and in the evenings would go to the mosque or do my homework. She asked Dad if she could help out in the shop but he didn’t have anything for her to do.
    However, Mum wasn’t having it and decided to throw all the stereotypes of child brides and illiteracy aside to go her own way. She taught herself to read with Ladybird books, which I had to fetch from the library. During the day, she began to travel independently by randomly jumping on and off buses and getting lost for hours on end. Then she began inviting the English neighbours over for tea to practise her English. Though most of them politely declined, two did come round; they turned out to be Polish and Irish.
    She admired Margaret Thatcher on telly and one day told Dad she wanted to vote at the next election. Herliterary skills weren’t fully polished and she needed Dad to indicate which box represented the Conservatives. Unfortunately, when she arrived at the polling station she was holding the card upside down and voted for the National Front. My dad found out by asking for a description of the ballot card, which turned out to have the tick boxes on the wrong side.
    He was so annoyed he stopped speaking to her, saying enough was enough of her recent shenanigans. But she wasn’t listening, she didn’t care – she was on a roll.
    My dad tried not to let it get to him even when she’d witter on about it during their walks in the summer evenings. Sometimes I would tag along. These were the only times I was able to see the area we lived in.
    One evening we took a longer route and ended up in different part of town. We walked past a detached bungalow with a hairdressing shop attached to it with a ‘For Sale’ sign up. Mum stopped and stared at it for a moment then looked at Dad and suggested they buy it. My dad laughed because it looked expensive, with a big garden. They would never be able to afford the mortgage and bills on that place.
    ‘You won’t have to worry about the bills and housekeeping, I’ll take care of that,’ Mum said.
    This made my dad laugh even louder.
    It was the first time I stopped and looked at Daddifferently. Did he think she wasn’t capable or was he concerned that Asian women didn’t work, let alone try to run a business.
    Just at that moment, an English couple came out of the house towards their car, which was parked on the drive. Mum nudged Dad to go to speak to them. He finally plucked up the courage and engaged in conversation with them about their house. They were ‘polite’ and excused themselves after a few minutes saying it was best he contacted the estate agents. Dad’s last attempt was to ask if they would consider ‘part exchange’. This made them both shake their heads and walk away.
    ‘We live on Drayton Road,’ Dad called out.
    The woman stopped in her tracks and turned round. ‘The Drayton Road up there?’ she asked, pointing her finger in the air over her shoulder. She looked surprised, probably because it was an English area.
    He nodded.
    ‘What