All the Fun of the Fair Page 5

  ‘The meeting, yeah, sounds great…’ She allowed her words to trail off, hoping she sounded suitably casual, experienced.

  ‘Excellent,’ Brandon replied, although he didn’t sound particularly elated. ‘I’ll pick you up then.’

  ‘Okay then, lovely,’ she said since disagreeing with the plan didn’t appear to be an option.

  As Sharada continued to meander towards home she considered the stupidity of the arrangement she’d made, or rather, acquiesced to. The idea of her father’s reaction when she announced I’m going out tonight with a man I met in the street was so awful she could hardly even imagine it.

  While Sharada had an interest and an understanding of politics, she had never considered activism of any kind and the idea of being a member of a group, of belonging, was terribly exciting for a girl who could count her friends with ease using the fingers of one hand. In fact, Sharada considered not for the first time, her life was largely solitary; she was surrounded by people most of the time but usually felt quite alone. Even her father spoke to her only to confirm she was still exceeding at school or when he required her to work a shift in the restaurant.

  She was almost entirely left to her own devices and, where some teenagers may have taken advantage of this freedom by visiting pubs and clubs or committing other perfidious acts with members of the opposite sex, Sharada had no particular interest in such things which was just as well since she’d never had the option. Sporting extrusive, crooked teeth and possessing a somewhat hooked nose, Sharada was not considered an attractive girl, a predicament hindered by her conservative dress and her father’s refusal to allow her to attend any non-familial social functions.

  Upstairs in her room, Sharada thought about what she might wear and realised she’d no clue if tonight was to be a romantic evening or a friendly arrangement, whether she was simply a new recruit to the CHIMP ranks or if the whole thing was an elaborate scheme designed to humiliate her publicly. In the end she was grateful to her wardrobe for its limitations and settled for her most roughed up pair of jeans and a green jumper. Even leaving the house proved easy as, when it came to it, her father, engrossed in the Modhubon accounts, barely acknowledged her lie about going to a friend’s house to study.

  Twenty windy, cold minutes later Brandon’s Viva rolled around the corner. He leaned across, shoved open the passenger door and Sharada climbed in beside him.

  ‘Why’re you waiting out here? It’s freezing tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, erm, just in case you couldn’t find the house or something.’ Sharada knew she sounded stupid. Her house was large and one of only ten on the street but there was no way she could have allowed Brandon to ring the doorbell and risk her fathers involvement. She looked across at Brandon as he drove; he’d combed back his hair, although it was hard to tell if he’d washed it or not and she was quite certain he was wearing the same clothes as the day they’d met.

  The meeting of CHIMP took place in a room to the rear of a pub in town and wasn’t at all what Sharada had expected. There were only about ten members of the group and, after only a few minutes of greetings, discussion about the previous week and some loose suggestions about attending marches in London or a rally in Manchester, everyone set about drinking alcohol and eating packets of crisps.

  Throughout, Brandon barely even acknowledged Sharada’s presence, let alone introduced her to anyone else, meaning that for the majority of the evening she sat at the back of the room, too shy to engage anybody and being ignored in return.

  ‘Pretty good meeting tonight I thought.’ Brandon commented as he drove her home afterwards.

  Sharada looked across to confirm he was serious and merely nodded.

  ‘So you’ll come again then.’ A statement not a question.

  ‘Erm, I suppose…if you’d like me to that is.’

  ‘Can’t hurt can it?’ He slid his hand from the gear stick onto her thigh and Sharada nearly jumped through the roof of the car. Brandon laughed. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ she replied, barely able to keep control of her voice. ‘Why would I be?’

  Sharada noticed that they’d taken a different route and was about to say something when Brandon steered the car into a deserted promenade car park, turned off the engine and leaned across. She allowed him to kiss her and, after a few seconds of simply sitting bolt upright in her seat, not even breathing, Sharada kissed back. She knew then that she’d allow Brandon to go as far as he wished because she’d no clue how far was too far.

  As such, that night Sharada not only experienced her first graceless, uncoordinated kiss but also, with no desire to appear ignorant, ungrateful or frigid, allowed her hand to be stuffed inside her first pair of men’s boxer shorts while an unrestrained Brandon put his hands pretty much where he liked.

  5 Life on the Spectrum

  Kuldeep Bhumbra simply could not comprehend that his relationship with Tania had come to an end. But then Kuldeep was, as his father never tired of reminding anyone who’d listen, a very special boy, who understood things in a different way to the general population.

  Kuldeep’s mother became concerned by her son’s apparent lack of development around the time of his second birthday. Most babies, she argued, were able to say a few words by now, many could talk quite well and were, in return, able to recognize what was being said to them. By the time he turned two Kuldeep, a chubby toddler with wide brown eyes and a mass of black curls, had not uttered a single word.

  Initially Mr Bhumbra dismissed the notion that there could possibly be a problem with his first born son, refusing to be drawn by his wife’s arguments. Mrs Bhumbra, however, was insistent and took her son to the doctor. The GP was, initially, reluctant to accept Mrs Bhumbra’s claims that there was something wrong with her son and thus began a battle of wills which would result in the Bhumbras fighting to get help for their child.

  This, at last, was where Mr Bhumbra became involved. He was used to hardship, adversity and had fought all his life for something more, had been selected by his family to go out into the world and make them proud. Now he had a son who needed him and he would not disappoint.

  After much haranguing the family GP consented to the Bhumbras seeking a second opinion. This doctor was, by chance, a specialist paediatrician and a diagnosis of autistic spectrum disorder was finally made.

  While Mr Bhumbra was perfectly at home when tackling the bureaucratic aspect of their son’s condition, it was his wife who concerned herself solely with the development of their young son. As Kuldeep’s third birthday approached the child was still unable to talk but Mrs Bhumbra noticed that he seemed keen on toy cars and plastic building blocks.

  A plan formed in her mind and, as they walked around the supermarket car park or drove through the streets of Morecambe, she would talk to Kuldeep about the cars they saw and tell him their names when she was sure what they were. It soon became clear, however, that Kuldeep did not care about the cars themselves, only the number of cars he saw.

  When playing on the living room carpet Kuldeep would line up the cars and would know instantly if one or more had been removed or their position altered. Mrs Bhumbra began to count out loud the numbers of cars and then, one day as they drove along Morecambe promenade it happened.

  ‘One car,’ said the boy in a keen, earnest voice which almost caused his mother to crash such was her surprise. Then, a few moments later, ‘two,’ ‘three,’ and from then on Kuldeep did not look back.

  In Mr Bhumbra’s mind it was now clear that his son was special and as such had needs which could not be met by the local primary school. Kuldeep was therefore sent to a school some miles from Morecambe which apparently had experience of managing children such as Kuldeep.

  As had often been the case in Mr Bhumbra’s life, seemingly everyday things became problematic and Kuldeep’s attendance at the school proved to be far from trouble free. The main issue initially was one of time and distance. The school was located twelve miles away which meant a daily round tri
p of some twenty-four miles for the family. This in turn left very little time to spend on the Bhumbra’s fledgling business Modhubon which Mr Bhumbra hoped one day would grow into Morecambe’s premier Indian restaurant.

  However, concerns over distance and time were rendered utterly immaterial less than a week later. Mrs Bhumbra dropped off her son in the classroom and kissed him goodbye. She returned to her car and drove away only realising when she arrived back in Morecambe that Kuldeep’s lunch bag and Cagoule were still on the back seat of the car.

  Being a caring and responsible parent Mrs Bhumbra cursed colourfully before dutifully turning the car around and driving back to the school. Upon arriving at the school for the second time, she walked to the classroom, knocked on the door and found Kuldeep tied to his chair at the back of the room.

  ‘Chude maranir pola!’ Mrs Bhumbra exclaimed loudly in her native Bengali as she rushed to her son’s aid.

  There was a gasp from the children, not because they understood the foul reference Mrs Bhumbra had made about their teacher’s mother, but because a strange lady had burst in and begun shouting and rushing about which, to a group of young children, was terribly exciting.

  ‘Excuse me!’ The teacher called from the front of the class.

  Mrs Bhumbra ignored the man and quickly untied her son who seemed quite unperturbed by his predicament. She hugged Kuldeep tightly and led him from the classroom, quite literally shaking with rage.

  Foolishly, Kuldeep’s teacher followed them out into the corridor and called after them.

  ‘Excuse me, what on earth are you doing? You can’t just…’

  The man stopped when he saw the expression on Mrs Bhumbra’s face, even retreated a step or two.

  ‘What is your name?’ Mrs Bhumbra demanded.

  ‘Mr Shepherd.’ He replied defiantly.

  Mrs Bhumbra smiled and turned away, pulling Kuldeep behind her.

  ‘Where are we going Mum?’ The boy asked, trotting to keep up. ‘It’s not home time yet.’

  ‘Oh but it is my little prince. A school like this is not for a boy like you.’

  And that was the end of Kuldeep’s schooling in the traditional sense, at least for the time being. From then on Mrs Bhumbra set about home schooling her son, buying books and setting exercises, taking him for nature walks, playing ball games with him, while still finding time to cook in Modhubon, the family restaurant.

  By now the Bhumbras had a little money and were able to afford a solicitor. Mr Shepherd, the teacher, was called to the Headmaster’s office one morning to discuss a letter which had been received; an hour later one of the school governors rang the Head to discuss a copy of the letter they too had received. Most damaging of all, the local newspaper contacted the school requesting a statement regarding a letter they had received about pupils being restrained in the classroom. Mr Shepherd was dismissed, the school disgraced and the Local Education Authority made to pay a substantial damage claim to the Bhumbra family.

  Despite the obvious hardships Mrs Bhumbra somehow found time to run the house, cook in the restaurant and educate her son. Eventually, however, Kuldeep was granted a place at a Special Education Centre in Morecambe itself where he spent six happy years. Then, the Education Authority, the same body who years earlier had been forced to make a payment following some unfortunate and extreme teaching methods, decided, against Mrs Bhumbra’s wishes, to place Kuldeep in a mainstream school.

  Kuldeep for his part was not unduly fazed by this shift but it was, for the whole family, a step into the unknown. Mrs Bhumbra particularly was against the idea, still haunted as she was by the sight of her young son bound to a chair at the back of a classroom.

  So it was that Kuldeep, aged thirteen, became a pupil at Morecambe High School. His life to date had been happy, entirely due to the efforts of his parents, especially his mother, who had made it her mission to fight her son’s corner at every opportunity. Modhubon was, by now, Morecambe’s premier Indian restaurant and the Bhumbras second child, their daughter Sharada, attended the local primary school.

  But Morecambe High School was not in any way equipped to deal with Kuldeep’s needs and the teaching staff had little experience of how to deal with children like him. The focus of one early Art lesson was on drawing objects in three dimensions. As part of the lesson the class were asked to draw their houses. Kuldeep, possessing a very literal view of the world, drew his house exactly as it was. The teacher felt the drawing would benefit from a chimney.

  ‘My house doesn’t have a chimney,’ Kuldeep stated.

  But the teacher insisted despite Kuldeep’s protests that the house in the drawing would no longer be his house. Exasperated, the teacher held up Kuldeep’s picture and tore it theatrically in half, drawing several gasps from the watching class. Then, a new sheet of paper was placed in front of Kuldeep with the insistence that a chimney be added to the house. The situation had become a battle of wills, the teacher – a figure of authority – attempting to save face by besting the unruly pupil. Except Kuldeep was not unruly, or badly behaved, he was autistic and his house did not possess a chimney.

  Upset by the teacher’s actions and a little scared by the threatening manner, Kuldeep decided that the best way to solve the problem was simply to leave. So, he left his desk, exited the classroom without a word and wandered off to explore the grounds of his new school.

  Unknown to Kuldeep his mother was summoned to the school, there was much heated discussion and, on Mrs Bhumbra’s part, some fairly mild cursing in her native tongue.

  ‘I was right all along,’ she pronounced as she marched from the school. ‘A mainstream school is not the place for my son.’

  And over the coming years, following a catalogue of incidents, she would be proved correct.

  6 Sharada is forced to share

  Brandon. That had been the sum total of Sharada’s thoughts over the past few weeks. She’d experienced so much, learned so many things from Brandon that her head was spinning. Suddenly everything she’d read in magazines made sense, applied to her and it felt fantastic. Already she was considering the subject of sex, having made up her mind that she would lose her virginity to Brandon. It was, after all, the least she could do; he’d chosen her, included her in his group – CHIMP – and made lots of helpful suggestions about her clothes, her make-up, her kissing technique, where to put her hands and when, all for which Sharada was enormously grateful because now she was beginning to understand what all the other girls were talking about, she finally knew what it meant to have a boyfriend.

  Sharada spoke to Brandon a lot too, on the phone mainly, largely about CHIMP and Brandon’s plans for the group because Brandon, being quite a bit older than Sharada, obviously had absolutely no interest in school or coursework or exams, the programmes she watched on television or what clothes she liked so she quickly learned not to bother wasting his time.

  Keeping her relationship a secret from her family, an obvious necessity if it were to continue, had proved to be no problem whatsoever since Sharada’s parents never challenged her regarding her whereabouts because they’d never had reason to distrust her.

  She’d been to Brandon’s flat – bed-sit would be more accurate - and had felt a mix of disgust at the unkempt, ramshackle interior, and excitement that she was there at all. On her first visit Brandon had swept a heap of CHIMP fliers and old copies of The Independent, The Guardian and Daily Sport off the grubby looking bed onto the floor to allow her to sit down. They’d watched television; a 14 inch colour portable perched on a wooden chair in a corner of the room next to the solitary window with a cracked pane.

  Sharada had felt uncomfortable as she had no idea what she should be saying, or even if she were expected to say anything so, after commenting how nice the flat was they sat in silence until, finally, Brandon offered her a cup of tea. When he returned from the communal kitchen along the corridor, he sat practically on top of her and they’d kissed and groped for some time, Sharada making the most of her new hand
skills until Brandon was spent and rolled away to drink his tea.

  Now, following a rigorous post school fondling session, Sharada could no longer subdue the question that had been nagging at her.

  ‘So,’ she asked during the advert break for A Place in the Sun, slumped on Brandon’s bed. ‘How come you hardly talk to me at the meetings, in front of your mates?’

  Brandon glanced at her, rolled his eyes and looked at the television. ‘I talk to you all the time, the meetings are business, you know that.’

  ‘But you haven’t even introduced me.’

  ‘Course I have, that first time, I told them who you were at the beginning.’

  ‘You just said I was a new member, not your…your…’ Sharada paused, not daring to say the word for fear he might correct her, laugh at her, tell her she’d misunderstood.

  ‘Girlfriend you mean? For God’s sake, does it have to be a big deal? As long as we know the score why advertise?’ He asked grumpily.

  Sharada had read about this sort of thing in the advice pages of several magazines. ‘Is it because you’re ashamed of me, ‘cos I’m not pretty enough, is that it?’

  ‘Eh? No, just leave it can’t you. It’s not like you’re shouting it from the rooftops or anything.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ She asked.

  ‘I haven’t met any of your mates, or been to your house or…’

  ‘You can’t come to my house!’ Sharada blurted. ‘My dad’ll kill me, and you, if he knew I was seeing someone, especially an English bloke and especially someone older than me.’ She sat up straight and stared at Brandon. ‘That’s it!’ She cried triumphantly. ‘It’s the age thing; you don’t want people knowing you’re seeing a school girl.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘But that’s okay; I can understand that being the problem ‘cos that’s a problem at my end too. As long as you’re okay with it…’