Beads, Boys and Bangles Read online

  ‘Beautiful,’ I say.

  She turns round to look at me, surprised. ‘Beautiful’ is one of the few English words she knows. She must use it a lot to try and persuade tourists to give her money, but I don’t think she’s had it said to her before.

  She’s very beautiful, though. Tiny and strong. The eyelashes on her remaining eye are long and curved – like the fake ones I used on the First Kiss Disaster Date, but less unreliable. Her features are small and delicate. Her smile reminds me of Crow’s: sudden and blinding. It feels very natural for her to be sitting in my lap. I don’t want her to go.

  A shout goes up. Ganesh is here. A tall boy compared with some of the others, with the body of a skinny ten-year-old and the wary eyes of a grown-up. He’s still wearing his dress as he approaches, watching us all unblinkingly, especially when he sees me with his precious sister.

  Sanjay talks to him rapidly, indicating me and mentioning the word ‘beautiful’ and laughing. Ganesh seems slightly less wary after that. He joins the group and Sanjay translates for us as we ask him about what happened last year.

  Did he see children making the dress that he’s wearing now? Is it a fake, or a real one? What happened?

  At first he doesn’t want to answer, but the other children beg and plead with him. After all, they’ve told us the worst of it. Slowly, Ganesh agrees. He lets Crow examine what’s left of the dress and she’s convinced it’s too well made to be a fake. He lifts his shirt up to point out a mistake on the embroidery, which is why it was discarded. Then he explains how the panels for the dresses were made last autumn, after the rainy season, in a building not far from here. They were the last clothes Lakshmi worked on before the fire. Ganesh thought they were some of the most beautiful things he had seen and was thrilled to get this one, despite remembering the beating of the boy who made the mistake with the embroidery. At the same time, some tee-shirts were brought in to be finished. They had crystals sewn on them to make English words.

  Edie groans. ‘“Less Fashion More Compassion”. My first slogan.’

  We hear spluttering behind us and turn round to see Harry grinning sheepishly. ‘You have to admit, it’s ironic.’

  Sanjay spots Harry grinning and giggles without knowing why. The other children join him. They’ve told the story about Lakshmi the way I might describe an evening doing a difficult geography project. Not the most fun thing in the world, but hey, life goes on. At least they’re out here having a nice game of cricket and a chat with the funny, sunburned people and the girl who can draw.

  ‘Where does Lakshmi live now?’ I ask.

  Sanjay looks surprised. ‘Live?’

  ‘Spend the night. Where is her home?’

  He laughs and points beyond the railway tracks. ‘There are some old train carriages there that are OK, isn’t it? When they find us using them, they will beat us. We’ll find different ones. Five star!’

  A couple of years ago, I might have asked why Lakshmi and Ganesh didn’t try and return to their parents, but then I got to know Crow and now I understand that some things are more complicated than we can guess. Crow couldn’t go back home because her parents’ life was too dangerous. And now she stays because London is her home. Maybe Lakshmi’s parents can’t afford to look after her. Maybe they think she’s living a good life in Mumbai and that’s why they sent her away. Maybe she just doesn’t know where to find them. Her story will be different from Crow’s, but whatever it is, I know I can’t just click my fingers and make everything better. I wish I could, though. I really do.

  The kids are still bubbling with curiosity, keen to find out everything about us. Lakshmi has sidled up to Crow and is examining the seams of her sari-fabric dungarees. Despite everything, she still can’t help being interested in the way beautiful clothes are made.

  I picture her working on the Svetlana dress last autumn – and us having no idea she even existed. Crow looks across and catches my eye. I know what she’s thinking. We have to help them somehow. We have to do what we can.

  We also have to catch our flight.

  I spot Harry looking at his watch and we both realise that if we don’t go soon we’re not going to make the airport in time.

  What do we do now?

  ‘Wait here,’ Harry says. Using Sanjay as our translator, he persuades Ganesh to take him to the building his bosses are currently using to house their slave children. Ganesh is clear. He’ll point it out from a distance, but he won’t let Harry go close. There have been a lot of raids recently. If the bosses think they’re being watched, there will be trouble.

  We watch Harry go, then sit in silence while the children go back to their cricket match. I’m playing with the bangles on Lakshmi’s arms, making her giggle and trying not to think too much about anything. Crow’s sketching a boy leaping gracefully to catch a ball. Edie’s restless and doesn’t know what to do with herself.

  Eventually she says, ‘This is all my fault.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I tell her automatically. I realise I’m shivering, despite the heat, and try not to.

  ‘It’s good,’ Crow says quietly. ‘It was important to know this. But I hope Harry comes back soon.’

  We all agree. Time passes. Someone scores a six.

  And then he’s back. He’s looking very serious, but the main thing is, he’s safe. Now it really is time for us to get out of here.

  Before we go, though, Harry gets his phone out of his pocket. The children cluster round and admire it. I half wonder if he’s going to give it to them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes their pictures. He starts off with Sanjay and Ganesh and Lakshmi, but soon they’re all insisting on posing for him. Then he tells Sanjay the name of our hotel and instructs him to go there in a fortnight.

  ‘There will be an envelope for you. And this picture of you will be attached, so the people will know to give it to you. Inside, we’ll tell you how we’ll help you. Get someone to read it for you. OK? Someone you trust.’

  Who, I wonder. Walt Disney?

  Sanjay looks at us all and shakes his head in the yes-no Indian way. I’m not sure he believes Harry. After all, what can four tourist kids who suddenly show up out of nowhere do? But Sanjay is obviously someone who likes to think that things will turn out well. And someone who likes going to big hotels on important missions.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he agrees. He repeats the instructions. ‘This is very easy job. You can count on me, sir.’

  We leave at last. I can hardly bear to say goodbye to Lakshmi. I hate the thought that I’ll probably never see her again. I wonder what else I can give her. Then I remember I’m wearing a gold chain Mum gave me ages ago. I quickly take it off and hand it over. Maybe she can sell it to buy a decent meal or something. I hug her and she hugs me back. Her arms are so light I can hardly feel her.

  On the way back through the market I hardly notice the alleyways, the noise, the smell, the heat. Crow sticks close to me. I think she knows I need her comforting arm to hold.

  ‘What was your plan, by the way?’ Edie asks Harry.

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘Yes. Your plan for that envelope. The one Sanjay’s going to collect.’

  ‘Oh, that. No idea. What should we do? I was hoping we could have worked it out by then. Maybe your Phil guy can help us think of something.’

  My brother. I love him so much. And now I know my habit of winging it is in the genes. I’m so glad it’s not just me.

  ‘So, how was your trip to Agra? You didn’t call me again! Have you been OK? I want to hear all about it.’

  I’m in the car with Mrs Patil, suddenly wishing we were doing mental maths.

  We’d all forgotten that the Patils would be driving us back to the airport. And we’d certainly forgotten that they’d want a full report about what we’ve been up to. Of course, it’s worse for Harry and Crow, because they’re travelling in the other car with Mr Patil. And we simply don’t know if he knows about the slave children. It seems impossible to imagine that he does, having seen him i
n his shiny factory with all his happy, healthy, grown-up workers and his high-tech machinery, and having met his own cute children, with their amazing maths ability.

  May be it was someone else who decided that the Svetlana dress was too complicated to make cheaply at the factory. Maybe it was some junior manager who spoke to Ganesh’s bosses, arranged the deal and pocketed the profits. Maybe it was someone we’ve never met. Maybe if we tell the Patils what we’ve seen they’ll be horrified and get the bosses put in jail.

  But maybe they won’t. One thing we’re sure of: we don’t know what we’re doing and we don’t know who to trust. It’s better if we say nothing until we get back to London. Then we can use Edie’s network of charity friends to help us out.

  So I spend an hour talking about bangles and DS games and ice cream and sound like the ditziest teenager ever to visit Mumbai. Edie helps out with ten minutes on the fabulousness of the amazing architecture. When we get to the airport we practically fall out of the car in our eagerness to get to passport control, and safety.

  It’s not till we’ve taken off that Harry manages to tell us about his trip with Ganesh.

  ‘You know the worst thing?’

  No, we don’t.

  ‘The building he showed me. . . it was just a normal apartment block. Nothing special at all. There are thousands of them in Mumbai. If you’re looking, where do you start?’

  Harry doesn’t say much more after that. He loses himself in his book. However, I do notice that he gives Edie a funny look, as if he’s finally realised that her saving-the-world obsession is actually more than just a teenage hobby. I’m glad she doesn’t catch him looking at her. She’d be doing that waterfall thing with her hair, if she did, and going an intense shade of pink. Instead of REVISING FOR GEOGRAPHY, which is her chosen activity.

  Why does she bother? What can she possibly have left to learn?

  I’m back in my room, in my Hello Kitty pyjamas, writing a list of Scary Things Happening Soon.

  Two months until Harry’s degree show. His problem, not mine, but nevertheless, scary.

  Forty-two days until geography GCSE. I still don’t know the difference between the Atlantic and the Pacific Ocean. And there won’t be a single question on India. Not one. Sadly, there are no garment factories that I’m aware of in the Arctic Circle. Although with global warming going the way it is, there might be soon.

  Eleven days until Sanjay will show up at our old hotel in Mumbai (assuming he does), to collect the letter telling him how we’re going to help. Still no idea what will be in the envelope. Nor has Harry. Nor has Edie, but she’s checking with Phil and her other save-the-world blogging friends.

  Eight days until Jenny’s first night at the Biggest, Scariest Theatre in the West End.

  Seven days until our next meeting with Andy Elat, when Crow has to magic up a new high-street collection and Edie has to say absolutely and positively that she’s happy with the way Miss Teen clothes are made in India. Which, of course, she isn’t.

  One day until I see Granny, to put Project Jenny into operation. I can only hope that Granny’s been busy over the last couple of days, because if she hasn’t managed to do the thing I’ve asked her, I’m sunk.

  Henry has just called to say he’s picking Crow up from the workroom downstairs, to take her home. I check the clock on my laptop. It’s 10.35 pm. She should have gone home hours ago, but she’s been too busy to notice the time passing. It makes me think. Sure, we’re kids and we work a lot, sometimes. But the difference between us and Lakshmi and Ganesh is that the grown-ups in our lives interrupt us from work to make us go to school and sleep. Not the other way around.

  When I checked on Crow earlier, she was taking all the Parisian feathers and lace and tweed and trimmings off her pinboard and packing them away in a big cardboard box. I asked her what she was going to replace them with. She indicated a pile of stuff on the worktable, but all I could see were cheesy postcards from Agra, some plain A4 paper, a white hanky and a couple of cheap gemstones.

  I was expecting to see all the bags of beads and her treasures of coloured silk and gold thread. Possibly sequinned slippers and jewelled notebooks and keyrings with Indian dolls on – all the things we’ve been collecting on our trip. I thought the pile would be psychedelic by now, but it isn’t. Quite the opposite. Has she lost it entirely?

  I’ve no idea what she’s up to, but I do know that she’s not blocked any more. For months, the creative part of her brain has wanted to make complicated couture and the practical part has been trying to design something simple. And neither part really wanted to do anything while we were worrying about slave children.

  However, something has happened. Her frustrated look has gone. Her fingers are constantly twitching with sketches again, even when she has no paper. She’s back to her old self. Unfortunately, her old self tends to get on with things without talking about them much, so I’ll have to wait to find out what’s changed. And hey, checking my list, we have a whole week for her to get something ready to show Andy Elat, so no pressure. NOT.

  I try not to think about it. Thank goodness I have Jenny and her first night party outfit to worry about instead.

  Granny meets me in the lobby of the Ritz the next day and I’m relieved to see that she’s accompanied by a very large box.

  ‘Guard this with your life, my girl,’ she says. ‘You have absolutely no idea what I had to do to get it.’

  Actually, I do have an idea. I imagine Granny had to suck up to one of her old friends for a solid morning, which is something she would find almost unbearable. I give her a huge hug of gratitude, which crumples her Issey Miyake jacket. It’s designed to be crumpled, though, so she doesn’t mind too much.

  We park the box with the hotel concierge for a while and Granny takes me to the Royal Academy so we can Do Art and I can tell her all about India. It already feels as if we’ve hardly been away.

  Afterwards, I meet up with Jenny and Crow at home for Project Jenny. I feel guilty about this bit. Crow should really be totally concentrating on the Miss Teen collection, but I need her to spare a few hours to help us battle the Queen of Evil. Luckily, when she sees what’s inside the box, she can’t wait to get started.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  We have to wait for a few minutes while she runs her hands delicately over the fabric, like it’s a sacred relic or something.

  Then she looks hard at Jenny and cocks her head to one side. ‘This will be easier than I thought,’ she says.

  I know what she means, and this worries me.

  Crow’s thinking about measurements. She’s mentally redesigning seams and adjusting fabric. What she’s pleased about – from a purely practical perspective – is that there’s a lot less of Jenny than there was a couple of weeks ago, when we last saw her. I admit that this will make Project Jenny simpler to complete, but it also means that my friend has been losing weight at an alarming rate. From a friendship perspective, this is very bad.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine,’ Jenny says, in a strangled voice that means ‘Not fine’ in friend-speak.

  ‘What’s happened? How are the previews going? They haven’t cut your part, have they?’

  She shrugs and shakes her head.

  ‘Oh, it’s not Sigrid, is it? Don’t tell me. She wants Joe Yule to play your father.’

  Jenny shakes her head and giggles.

  ‘She wants you to curtsey whenever she comes on stage?’ Crow asks, getting into the spirit.

  Jenny smiles. But instead of answering, she asks, ‘Can I show you something?’

  I say yes. Crow has loads of work to do, so we leave her to it and Jenny takes me on the tube to Covent Garden. For a moment, I’m worried that we’re heading for the Royal Opera House, home of my ex-not-boyfriend and not somewhere I particularly want to be any time soon. But instead she takes me down a side street and I realise we’re going to the Big, Scary Theatre, where previews started a couple of days ago and huge, electric sig
ns are already spelling out Her Father’s Daughter in lights.

  There’s some sort of last-minute technical session going on. The place is full of people wearing black tee-shirts and headsets, looking busy and making notes and squinting at bits of equipment. They know Jenny, so they don’t mind us standing quietly at the back.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jenny whispers.

  I look down past the rows and rows and rows of seats. This place is vast. It makes the Boat House Theatre look like a ticket office. You could probably get two thousand people in here. If I was standing on that stage, so far away, facing such a massive audience, I’d be scared out of my mind.

  ‘It looks great!’ I say. ‘Totally amazing. You must be so excited.’

  Her face crumples like Granny’s Issey Miyake. She nods. I can tell she’s lying, and she must know that I was.

  ‘It’s like something out of Star Wars,’ I admit. ‘I’ve never seen anything so huge.’

  ‘Oh, Nonie!’ She sits on the nearest seat and I just hold her for a while.

  ‘It’s not Sigrid any more. To be honest, I think she’s as scared as I am. But something’s gone wrong since we started rehearsing here. And last night was terrible. No-one’s really talking about it, but you can see these people having secret conversations. Anthony looks positively ill most of the time.’

  As if on cue, Anthony, the director, appears at the side of the stage and shouts at one of the technicians, who makes more notes. He does indeed look ill. Sunken-cheeked and unshaven. Definitely not the same man as the one who accompanied Sigrid to the Elysée Palace in her DOLCE & GABBANA. An older, more haggard version.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  Jenny’s voice almost disappears. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You?’

  She nods. Tears fall silently. Jenny really must do a part that requires major crying one day.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It’s what I can’t do. I’ve heard the rumours. They’re trying not to tell me, but you always hear them in the end. I just can’t fill this space. With my voice, I mean. I’m trying my best, but I’m only sixteen. I haven’t got the vocal power. That’s what they’re doing now: desperately trying to fix the acoustics so it doesn’t sound so bad. They tried miking us up, but it didn’t work. They’re being nice about it, but it’s so humiliating.’