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“No! Please Mr Indrani, don’t do this. I can change, I can do better. Please, just give me one last chance and I promise not to screw up this time. I really, really need this job. There’s something important I’m saving up for and I really need the money.”
“I’m sorry,” he says firmly, handing me the envelope. “I’m not a charity and it’s not just what happened today that’s the issue. Your timekeeping is abysmal…”
“My little brother has autism,” I blurt. “Sometimes he has these meltdowns before I leave the house and I have to help my mother calm him down. If I’ve ever been five minutes late, that’s the reason. But I promise I can change. I can make sure that we—”
“It isn’t only that,” he cuts in. “You take ages to lay the cutlery. You take long toilet breaks. You still haven’t memorised the key ingredients of our signature biryani. Laksmi only arrived from Kathmandu a fortnight ago and already his performance is out stripping yours three to one.”
“I can change! Please, I’m begging you, just give me one last chance and I’ll prove it to you.”
Mr Indrani closes his eyes and steeples his fingers. “I’m so sorry Jessica. You’re a lovely, lovely girl. Everyone likes you, and if it wasn’t such a fast-paced environment, I’d love to keep you on. Can I give you a word of advice? I honestly think you’d be better suited to something in fashion or retail. Something with a slower pace. You’re great at talking to customers so try to find something that plays to your strengths. Unfortunately, Spice Palace is not the place for you to shine.”
A lump forms in my throat and I struggle to hold back the tears. It’s no use. From the unyielding expression on his face, I know his mind is made up and there’s nothing I can do to change it.
Taking off my apron, I return to the kitchen to say a tearful goodbye to Raj and the others. None of them can believe I’ve got the sack, and their kind words and indignation at how I’ve been treated help to soften my humiliation. They’re such a great bunch of guys, so sweet and caring. We haven’t known each other long, but for the short time I’ve worked here, I feel like I’ve made some true friends. Eventually I leave the restaurant clutching a complimentary carton of korma and pilau rice, promising Raj to stay in touch and bring my family to Spice Palace for a meal on the house.
When I get outside, a cold, February wind chills me to the bone and I wish I’d worn something warmer than this thin denim jacket. Miserably, I trudge through the dark, treelined paths of Clapham Common, turning left at the bandstand which serves as a short-cut to my housing estate. Inside, I’m kicking myself.
What a fiasco. What a monumental fuck-up. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I try harder to fit in? Why didn’t I do everything in my power to memorise the ingredients of that damn chicken biryani? There were so many things I could have done better but it’s too late now.
I’ve let myself down badly.
Worst of all, I feel like I’ve let Mum down.
Eight years ago, my mother Cynthia was diagnosed with an extremely rare form of cancer, and she spent my early teenage years in and out of hospital undergoing various treatments. It was a difficult time for us all, but I found it especially challenging because she was told her diagnosis soon after giving birth to my younger brother Freddie, who has autism and ADHD.
With his father Darren out of the picture, it meant I had to grow up fast to assist with parenting duties and provide the unwavering support required to help look after a child with special needs. Of course, I love Freddie to bits, so I was more than happy to play surrogate mother when I needed to, but I still look back on it as one of the bleakest periods of my life.
Mum’s cancer eventually went into remission, and we enjoyed a few happy years where her ill health didn’t dominate our lives so much. Then around six months ago, the cancer returned and this time the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for her—on the NHS at least. Our one glimmer of hope is a pioneering medical procedure offered at an esteemed clinic in Germany where a course of treatment costs somewhere in the region of £50,000.
Unfortunately, as we’re poor, we don’t exactly have that kind of money lying around, so I’ve been working night and day to save up as much as I can to put towards her treatment fund. In addition to juggling two jobs, my fundraising activities have included sponsored runs, a raffle at my brother’s primary school and selling off my old clothes and records at a tabletop sale at St Matthew’s Church.
So far, I’ve managed to save £2438, which barely makes a dent in the overall cost, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere, and as my mother Cynthia says, you’ve got to stay positive as you never know when your luck will change.
Sadly, my fundraising attempts have taken a bit of a setback now I’ve lost the gig at Spice Palace. However, at least I’ve still got the job at Sloppy Joe’s and if I scan the classified section ofThe South London Heraldtomorrow morning, I can start getting some interviews lined up for early next week.
At last, I reach my home on the Terrapin Road estate—a small development of low-rise council flats built sometime in the mid-sixties. As far as housing estates go, this is one of the nicer ones. One of my mother’s favourite anecdotes is how when she was pregnant with me and on the council waiting list, she refused the first couple of flats she was offered due to them being ‘complete and utter hellholes.’ She said she knew something decent would come up eventually and she was determined to hold out, even if it meant living in temporary accommodation for just a bit longer.
It turned out she was right. Compared to some of the sink estates around this neck of the woods, the Terrapin Road development is clean and tidy with well-kept front and back gardens and a communal entry hall that doesn’t smell of urine. Mum reckons this is because the majority of our neighbours are elderly pensioners who purchased their homes through the Right to Buy scheme so are house proud and have that classic sense of working-class pride that was endemic in days gone by.
With a sense of relief, I approach the ground floor communal entrance and, rummaging through my bag, fish out my house keys. Once inside the block, I walk through a dimly lit hall and let myself into flat number2. As soon as I enter, I’m hit by the sound of trumpets and drums. My mother is blaring outEl Ritmo Latino, a collection of her favourite Latin American grooves on the record player and the whole place feels like one big carnival. Instantly, I’m infused with a sense of warmth and welcome and I thank God for sweet moments like this. No doubt the noise is winding up the neighbours no end, but I absolutely love it.
Smiling, I push open the door to the living room to find a familiar scene of beautiful, glorious chaos. Used as an all-purpose space, it doubles up as both Mum’s bedroom and a makeshift art studio. Against the wall sits a second-hand futon while canvases, cardboard boxes and tubes of acrylic lie scattered everywhere.
In the middle of the floor, my nine-year-old brother Freddie is lying on the rug playing with his Matchbox toy cars that have been painstakingly laid out in symmetrical colour-coded lines. As I move through the room, I’m careful not to step on them because even the slightest slip could be enough to trigger a mini meltdown.
My mother Cynthia is standing before an easel, putting the finishing touches to her latest painting—a picture of a dark-haired man with a severe side-parting dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing sitting in a warm, gaslit room. The image is stunningly realistic and looks like something Rembrandt might have whipped up. I find her talent mesmerising and never tire of telling people just how proud I am or how amazing she is at art.
Physically, we are like chalk and cheese. Cynthia is short and slim with pale skin, blue eyes and red hair fashioned in a pixie cut. I’m tall, tan, and gangly with long brown hair and dark, almost black eyes. I’m told she is the image of my Irish grandmother Mandy, while I apparently resemble my father Carlos, the sexy and sophisticated art student Mum had a brief fling with at college when she was nineteen (the same age as me). It was the romance of the century until Carlos the Lothario pissed off back to Spain, never to be seen again.
“Darling, you’re back!” Cynthia puts down her brush and wipes her hands on her paint splattered dungarees. “What do you think of my latest creation?”
Craning my neck, I squint at the picture fixed to the easel. “It’s amazing, but who is it supposed to be?”
“It’s a portrait of D.H. Lawrence contemplatingLady Chatterley’s Lover.”
“Cool! I love the colour palette. Blacks and browns make it very…very atmospheric.” I laugh inwardly, amused by her pretentiousness.
“Glad you like it,” she grins. “Oh, guess what? I spoke to a man at Northcote Library today and he says they would be happy to put on an exhibition of my work there. Isn’t that brilliant?”
