“Easter, Christmas, Hanukkah, Eid—all absolute rubbish.”
“How so?”
“Consumerist gavage. Group presentation of our buttery wallets in obsessive genuflection to the pound.”
“Oh, Tara. Religious celebrations are considered by most—including atheists—of course, not presuming what you believe—to be a comforting link to heritage, community…”
“You know what else has links?”
“No,” the older man chuckles at the perceived feminine domestic irreverence. “Come on?”
“Metal cages.”
“Ah, well, but at least most cages have bars—so you can have a bit to drink.”
The laughter a bore.
Free of the BBC newsroom, Ms. Diddle enters the evening. As was custom in London, she folds her cashmere scarf in half and throws it behind her head so she can stuff the frayed end into the loop created around her neck. Her Mohair blend sweater is snug underneath her LK Bennett coat. She feels the dampness from the cuff of her slacks above the ridge of her heeled Margiela boots. The December frost bites at her lips. She licks, but there’s no crack, no taste of blood; just moisture and the waxy smoothness of lipstick.
When Tara swings her Radley tote, she nearly hits her.
“Big Issue” is the only reply.
Tara barely hears it. She’s charitable, so it wasn’t the deafness of guilt. She knew she didn’t have coinage, who really did, and hungered for the warmth. Years without ice, she no longer tolerated the cold. Only prepared to enter her bag to pull out leather gloves, she blindly moves past.
Rushing, Tara raises her hand for a hackney.
“Hey, you. Big Issue.” Her teeth stained and dry, contorting her mouth, bottom lip protruding and quivering in the cold. Hasina holds the plastic-wrapped periodicals in her left hand, and just like Tara, had her right hand up—though, in her case, aimed at the woman who nearly hit her. The hem of her shiny polyester coat barely reaches her hips, and her legs are covered by thin, weathered jeans. Her boots, second-hand and soaked, sent shivers through her as if she stood thigh high in a bucket full of slush.
Yet her present discomfort was far from the woman’s current focus.
Tara didn’t look back. As the black cab slowed in front of her and she took the door, Hasina is forced to speak louder. “I know you Tara Diddle. And you know me.”
Tara’s neck finally snakes. It takes a full minute before Tara comprehends the familiarity of the sound. “Hassy?” She hisses. It takes another 30 seconds to absorb what she sees. “What happened…”
Hasina looks down, speaks hesitantly; “I couldn’t… After—”
“Are you going to take this?” The cabbie asks, indifferently annoyed.
Tara slams the door.
“But…?” Tara sputters at Hasina, now fully facing her.
“But what?” Hasina replies with hurt, or more rightly, shame.
Tara shakes her head slightly, her expression a kaleidoscope of shock and poorly contained disgust. She composes herself; she isn’t them, the rioters. Immigration is good for the country…
“Don’t look at me like that. I see what you’ve made of yourself. On the telly— benefits, Labour, Trump. I’m who the Tories crouched over, that’s the ‘but’.”
“Trounced.”
“What?”
“The word you want is trounced.”
“Fuck you, you arrogant cow!”
“Well, you know it’s bloody trounced, crouched doesn’t make any sense. Were they looking for a hidden dragon, Hassy?”
Like a poultice for her gangrenous fury, Hasina laughs, one deep and loud. She hadn’t intended to but didn’t restrict herself. She hungered for laughter like Tara for warmth.
“You’re the one with the 1st in Chemistry. I haven’t forgotten. You’re no dimwit. Come with me.” She extends her hand. “Please, let’s catch up.”
Hasina removes her wet gloves. Their fingers intertwine and they hook arms like they did as young women.
Tara takes Hasina to a Wetherspoons, weaving through until a far end booth is found. Hasina begins her story when their paths forked 25 years ago—what Tara missed when she took her scholarship place at Stanford.
A lot of tragedy can occur in 25 years.
“You’re glazed.”
“What?”
“I am using that word correctly?”
Tara’s lips curl. “I had no idea. I had no idea that’s what would happen if—”
“Listen,” an intense seriousness gripping her, “I am capable. I can get out of this despite the likelihood of success for someone my age, my gender, ex-muslim, outcast… in my state—”
“Don’t say state—”
“No Tara, I don’t need sympathy.” She softens. “I know my life, and today, I only need a friend. I forgot the sound of my own voice, especially laughing. Day-after-day and year-after-year everyone looks through you. You knew me when there was a Hasina Rahim.”
“There’s still—”
“Tara?” Hasina sees a glint in Tara’s eyes that makes her shiver in a way the cold never could.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be a cause. I know you have your show…The podcast. Everything on the news. I want to work my way out of this myself. I want to retain a shred of my self-respect.”
“Hassy—”
“Tea with a friend, just that? I only have my privacy. Dignity has long left.”
Tara’s face sobers, “The secrets of women are a covenant.” The first strong memory…in the kitchen, invited to Ramadan. “I only want to help you Hassy.” Tara grips her hand.
***
Five days later, Hasina sits on the loud springs of a moldy mattress in a bedsit with a stained sink. She stares at the £10,000 cheque Tara had written her, and the card underneath in her meticulous script. She smiles, tucks the cheque back into her purse. She decides to watch Tara’s show.
She walks through the shadowed foyer, down the stairs into the vacant living room. She grabs the remote and searches. She waits through BBC promos until she sees Tara’s face. She smiles again, leans back into the damp sofa, and turns the sound up.
“Is immigration a problem? And for whom?”
Hasina leans forward. A boarder wanders in and nods, but she doesn’t see him.
“How does a woman who gained a 1st in Chemistry from a redbrick University, end up on the streets peddling Big Issues? In a country of undeniable wealth and fairness, how could someone I personally know be ravished so severely by austerity? I’m speaking with Professor Griffiths from the London School of Economics about the real burdens immigrants face in the UK…”
A loud squealing dominates her ears. She doesn’t hear Tara say she would never disclose her friend’s name. Even if she did, it meant nothing. How many African women did the pompous bitch know?
The tears are imperceptible as they trickle down her cheeks. The cracked lips remain stiff, the dryness almost shining metallic in the darkness.
As the strips of paper fluttered down onto the carpet, you could see where the ink was stained with bits of numbers. Swinging and swaying slowly down, scattering the gradient, Hasina decided it was better to be faceless, it’s better to be ignored.
White people have a habit of purchasing you.
Her cloudy eyes made of the window the illusion of snow, and she stood, smoothing her old clothes, smoothing her dry hair.
She walks back to her room as upright as possible to count how many Big Issues she had left.
——–
Image: MS Co-Pilot remixed