White Teeth

under those great sable sheets.

About six hours later Millat turned up at the Chalfen kitchen table, very, very drunk, weepy and violent. He destroyed Oscar’s Lego fire station and threw the coffee machine across the room. Then he did what Joyce had been waiting for these twelve months. He asked her advice.

It seemed like months had been spent across that kitchen table since then, Joyce shooing people out of the room, going through her reading material, wringing her hands; the smell of dope mingling with the steam that rose off endless cups of strawberry tea. For Joyce truly loved him and wanted to help him, but her advice was long and complex. She had read up on the subject. And it appeared Millat was filled with self-revulsion and hatred of his own kind; that he had possibly a slave mentality, or maybe a colour-complex centred around his mother (he was far darker than she), or a wish for his own annihilation by means of dilution in a white gene pool, or an inability to reconcile two opposing cultures… and it emerged that 60 per cent of Asian men did this… and 90 per cent of Muslims felt that… it was a known fact that Asian families were often… and hormonally boys were more likely to… and the therapist she’d found him was really very nice, three days a week and don’t worry about the money… and don’t worry about Joshua, he’s just sulking… and, and, and.

Way-back-when in the fuddle of the hash and the talk Millat remembered a girl called Karina Somethingoranother whom he had liked. And she liked him. And she had a great sense of humour which felt like a miracle, and she looked after him when he was down and he looked after her too, in his own way, bringing her flowers and stuff. She seemed distant now, like conker fights and childhood. And that was that.

There was trouble at the Joneses. Irie was about to become the first Bowden or Jones (possibly, maybe, all things willing, by the grace of God, fingers crossed) to enter a university. Her A-levels were chemistry, biology and religious studies. She wanted to study dentistry (white collar! ?20k+!), which everyone was very pleased about, but she also wanted to take a ‘year off’ in the subcontinent and Africa (Malaria! Poverty! Tapeworm!), which led to three months of open warfare between her and Clara. One side wanted finance and permission, the other side was resolved to concede neither. The conflict was protracted and bitter, and all mediators were sent home empty-handed (She has made up her mind, there are no arguments to be had with the woman – Samad) or else embroiled in the war of words (Why can’t she go to Bangladesh if she wants to? Are you saying my country is not good enough for your daughter? – Alsana).

The stalemate was so pronounced that land had been divided and allocated; Irie claimed her bedroom and the attic, Archie, a conscientious objector, asked only for the spare room, a television and a satellite (state) dish, and Clara took everything else, with the bathroom acting as shared territory. Doors were slammed. The time for talking was over.

On the 25th of October 1991, 01.00 hours, Irie embarked upon a late-night attack. She knew from experience that her mother was most vulnerable when in bed; late at night she spoke softly like a child, her fatigue gave her a pronounced lisp; it was at this point that you were most likely to get whatever it was you’d been pining for: pocket money, a new bike, a later curfew. It was such a well-worn tactic that until now Irie had not considered it worthy of this, her fiercest and longest dispute with her mother. But she hadn’t any better ideas.

‘Irie? Wha -? Iss sa middle of sa nice… Go back koo bed…’

Irie opened the door further, letting yet more hall light flood the bedroom.

Archie submerged his head in a pillow. ‘Bloody hell, love, it’s one in the morning! Some of us have got work tomorrow.’

‘I want to talk to Mum,’ said Irie firmly, walking to the end of the bed. ‘She won’t talk to me during the day, so I’m reduced to this.’

‘Irie, pleaze… I’m exhaushed… I’m shrying koo gesh shome shleep.’

‘I don’t just want to have a year off, I need one. It’s essential – I’m young, I want some experiences. I’ve lived in this bloody suburb all my life. Everyone’s the same here. I want to go and see the people of the world… that’s what Joshua’s doing and his parents support him!’

‘Well, we can’t bloody afford it,’ grumbled Archie, emerging from the eiderdown. ‘We haven’t all got posh jobs in science, now have we?’

‘I don’t care about the money – I’ll get a job, somehow or something, but I do want your permission! Both of you. I don’t want to spend six months away and spend every day thinking you’re angry.’

‘Well, it’s not up to me, love, is it? It’s your mother, really, I…’

‘Yes, Dad. Thanks for stating the bloody obvious.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Archie huffily, turning to the wall. ‘I’ll keep my comments to meself, then…’

‘Oh, Dad, I didn’t mean… Mum? Can you please sit up and speak properly? I’m trying to talk to you? It seems like I’m talking to myself here?’ said Irie with absurd intonations, for this was the year Antipodean soap operas were teaching a generation of English kids to phrase everything as a question. ‘Look, I want your permission, yeah?’

Even in the darkness, Irie could see Clara scowl. ‘Permishon for what? Koo go and share and ogle at poor black folk? Dr Livingshone, I prejume? Iz dat what you leant from da Shalfenz? Because if thash what you want, you can do dat here. Jush sit and look at me for shix munfs!’

‘It’s nothing to do with that! I just want to see how other people live!’

‘An’ gek youshelf killed in da proshess! Why don’ you go necksh door, dere are uvver people dere. Go shee how dey live!’

Infuriated, Irie grabbed the bed knob and marched round Clara’s side of the bed. ‘Why can’t you just sit up properly and talk to me properly and drop the ridiculous little girl voi-’

In the darkness Irie kicked over a glass and sucked in a sharp breath as the cold water seeped between her toes and into the carpet. Then, as the last of the water ran away, Irie had the strange and horrid sensation that she was being bitten.

‘Ow!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Archie, reaching over to the side lamp and switching it on. ‘What now?’

Irie looked down to where the pain was. In any war, this was too low a blow. The front set of some false teeth, with no mouth attached to them, were bearing down upon her right foot.

‘Fucking hell! What the fuck are they?’

But the question was unnecessary; even as the words formed in her mouth, Irie had already put two and two together. The midnight voice. The perfect daytime straightness and whiteness.

Clara hurriedly stretched to the floor and prised her teeth from Irie’s foot and, as it was too late for disguise now, placed them directly on the bedside table.

‘Shatishfied?’ asked Clara wearily. (It wasn’t that she had deliberately not told her. There just never seemed a good time.)

But Irie was sixteen and everything feels deliberate at that age. To her, this was yet another item in a long list of parental hypocrisies and untruths, this was another example of the Jones/Bowden gift for secret histories, stories you never got told, history you never entirely uncovered, rumour you never unravelled, which would be fine if every day was not littered with clues, and suggestions; shrapnel in Archie’s leg… photo of strange white Grandpa Durham… the name ‘Ophelia’ and the word ‘madhouse’… a cycling helmet and an ancient mudguard… smell of fried food from O’Connell’s… faint memory of a late night car journey, waving to a boy on a plane… letters with Swedish stamps, Horst Ibelgaufts, if not delivered return to sender…

Oh what a tangled web we weave. Millat was right: these parents were damaged people, missing hands, missing teeth. These parents were full of information you wanted to know but were too scared to hear. But she didn’t want it any more, she was tired of it. She was sick of never getting the whole truth. She was returning to sender.

‘Well, don’t look so shocked, love,’ said Archie amicably. ‘It’s just some bloody teeth. So now