There was a lamp-post, equidistant from the Jones house and Glenard Oak Comprehensive, that had begun to appear in Irie's dreams. Not the lamp-post exactly, but a small, handmade advert1 which was sellotaped round its girth at eye level. It said:
LOSE WEIGHT TO EARN MONEY081 555 6752Now, Irie Jones, aged2 fifteen, was big. The European proportions of Clara's figure had skipped a generation, and she was landed instead with Hortense's substantial Jamaican frame, loaded with pineapples, mangoes and guavas; the girl had weight; big tits, big butt3, big hips4, big thighs5, big teeth. She was thirteen stone and had thirteen pounds in her savings6 account. She knew she was the target audience (if ever there was one), she knew full well, as she trudged7 school wards8 mouth full of doughnut, hugging her spare tyres, that the advert was speaking to her. It was speaking to her. lose weight (it was saying) to earn money. You, you, you, Miss Jones, with your strategically placed arms and cardigan, tied around the arse (the endless mystery: how to diminish that swollenenormity, the Jamaican posterior?), with your belly-reducing knickers and breast-reducing bra, with your meticulous9 lycra corseting the much lauded10 nineties answer to whalebone with yourelasticated waists. She knew the advertwas talking to her. But she didn't know quite what it was saying. What were we talking about here? Sponsored slim? The earning capacity of thin people? Or something altogether moreJacobean, the brain-child of some sordid11 Willesden Shylock, a pound of flesh for a pound of gold: meat for money'?
Rapid. Eye. Movement. Sometimes she'd be walking through school in a bikini with thelamp-post enigma13 written in chalk over her brown bulges14, over her various ledges15 (shelf space for books, cups of tea, baskets or, more to the point, children, bags of fruit, buckets of water), ledges genetically17 designed with another country in mind, another climate. Other times, the sponsored slim dream: knocking on door after door, butt-naked with a clipboard, drenched19 in sunlight, trying to encourage old men to pinch-an-inch and pledge-a-pound. Worst times? Tearing off loose,white-flecked flesh and packing it into those old curvaceous Coke bottles; she is carrying them to the corner shop passing them over a counter; and Millat is the bindi-wearing, V-necked cornershopkeeper he is adding them up, grudgingly20 opening the till with blood-stained paws, handing over the cash. A little Caribbean flesh for a little English change.^Me Jones was obsessed21. Occasionally her worried mother cornered her in the hallway before she slunk out of the door, picked at her elaborate corsetry, asked, "What's up with you? What in the Lord's name are you wearing? How can you breathe? Me, my love, you're fine you're just built like an honest-to-God Bowden don't you know you're fine?"But Me didn't know she was fine. There was England, a gigantic mirror, and there was Me, without reflection. A stranger in a stranger land.
Nightmares and daydreams22, on the bus, in the bath, in class. Before. After. Before. After. Before. After. The mantra of the make-over junkie, sucking it in, letting it out; unwilling23 to settle for genetic18 fate; waiting instead for her transformation24 from Jamaican hourglass heavy with the sands that gather round Dunn11The Miseducation of Irie Jones -1River Falls, to English Rose oh, you know her she's a slender, delicate thing not made for the hot suns, a surfboard rippled25 by the wave:
Before: After:
Mrs. Olive Roody, English teacher and expert doodle-spotter at distances of up to twenty yards, reached over her desk to Irie's exercise book and tore out the piece of paper in question. Looked dubiously26 at it. Then inquired with melodious28 Scottish emphasis, "Before and after what?
"Er .. . what?""Before and after what?""Oh. Nothing, Miss.""Nothing? Oh, come now, Ms Jones. No need for modesty29. It is obviously more interesting than Sonnet30 12.7.""Nothing. It's nothing.""Absolutely certain? You don't wish to delay the class any more? Because .. . some of the class need to listen to nae, are even a wee bit interested in what I have to say. So if you could spare some time from your doooodling '
No one but no one said 'doodling' like Olive Roody.
'and join the rest of us, we'll continue. Well?""Well what?""Can you? Spare the time?""Yes, Mrs. Roody.""Oh, good. That's cheered me up. Sonnet 127, please.""In the old age black was not counted fair," continued Francis Stone in the catatonic drone with which students read Elizabethan verse. "Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name."Me put her right hand on her stomach, sucked in and tried to catch Millat's eye. But Millat was busy showing pretty Nikki Tyler how he could manipulate his tongue into a narrow roll, a flute31.
Nikki Tyler was showing him how the lobes32 of her ears were attached to the side of her head rather than loose. Flirtatious33 remnants of this morning's science lesson: Inherited characteristics. Part One (a). Loose. Attached. Rolled. Flat. Blue eye. Brown eye. Before. After.
"Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven34 black, her brows so suited, and they mourners seem .. .
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun Puberty, real full-blown puberty (not the slight mound35 of a breast, or the shadowy emergence36 of fuzz), had separated these old friends, Me Jones and Millat Iqbal. Different sides of the school fence. Me believed she had been dealt the dodgy cards: mountainous curves, buck16 teeth and thick metal retainer, impossible Afro hair, and to top it off mole-ish eyesight which in turn required bottle-top spectacles in a light shade of pink. (Even those blue eyes the eyes Archie had been so excited about lasted two weeks only. She had been born with them, yes, but one day Clara looked again and there were brown eyes staring up at her, like the transition between a closed bud and an open flower, the exact moment of which the naked, waiting eye can never detect.) And this belief in her ugliness, in her wrongness, had subdued37 her; she kept her smart-ass comments to herself these days, she kept her right hand on her stomach. She was all wrong.
Whereas Millat was like youth remembered in the nostalgiceyeglass of old age, beauty parodying39 itself: broken Roman nose, tall, thin; lightly veined, smoothly40 muscled; chocolate eyes with a reflective green sheen like moonlight bouncing off a dark sea; irresistible41 smile, big white teeth. In Glenard Oak Comprehensive, black, Pakistani, Greek, Irish these were races. But those with sex appeal lapped the other runners. They were a species all of their own.
"If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her headShe loved him, of course. But he used to say to her: "Thing is, people rely on me. They need me to be Millat. Good old Millat. Wicked Millat. Safe, sweet-as, Millat. They need me to be cool. It's practically a responsibility."And it practically was. Ringo Starr once said of the Beatles that they were never bigger than they were in Liverpool, late 1962. They just got more countries. And that's how it was for Millat.
He was so big in Cricklewood, in Willesden, in West Hampstead, the summer of 1990, that nothing he did later in his life could top it. From his first Raggastani crowd, he had expanded and developed tribes throughout the school, throughout North London. He was simply too big to remain merelythe object of Irie's affection, leader of the Raggastanis, or the son of Samad and Alsana Iqbal. He had to please all of the people all of the time. To the cockney wide-boys in the white jeans and the coloured shirts, he was the joker, the risk-taker, respected lady killer42. To the black kids he was fellow weed-smoker and valued customer. To the Asian kids, hero and spokesman. Socialchameleon. And underneath43 it all, there remained an ever present anger and hurt, the feeling of belonging nowhere that comes to people who belong everywhere. It was this soft underbelly that made him most beloved, most adored by Irie and the nice oboe-playing, long-skirted middle-class girls, most treasured by these hair-flicking and fugue-singing females; he was their dark prince, occasional lover or impossible crush, the subject of sweaty fantasy and ardent46 dreams .. .
And he was also their project: what was to be done about Millat? He simply must stop smoking weed. We have to try and stop him walking out of class. They worried about his 'attitude' at sleep overs, discussed his education hypothetically with their parents (Just say there was this Indian boy, yeah, who was always getting into .. .), even wrote poems on the subject. Girls either wanted him or wanted to improve him, but most often a combination of the two. They wanted to improve himuntil he justified48 the amount they wanted him. Everybody's bit of rough, Millat Iqbal.
"But you're different," Millat Iqbal would say to the martyr49 Irie Jones, 'you're different. We go way back. We've got history. You're a real friend. They don't really mean anything to me."Irie liked to believe that. That they had history, that she was different in a good way.
"Thy black is fairest in my judgement's placeMrs. Roody silenced Francis with a raised finger. "Now, what is he saying there? Annalese?"Annalese Hersh, who had spent the lesson so far plaiting red and yellow thread into her hair, looked up in blank confusion.
"Anything, Annalese, dear. Any little idea. No matter how small. No matter how paltry50."Annalese bit her lip. Looked at the book. Looked at Mrs. Roody. Looked at the book.
"Black?... Is?... Good?""Yes .. . well, I suppose we can add that to last week's contribution: Hamlet?... Is?... Mad?
Anybody else? What about this? For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul51 with art's false borrow'dface. What might that mean I wonder?"Joshua Chalfen, the only kid in class who volunteered opinions, put his hand up.
"Yes, Joshua?""Makeup52.""Yes," said Mrs. Roody, looking close to orgasm. "Yes, Joshua, that's it. What about it?" "She's got a dark complexion53 which she's trying to lighten by means of make-up, artifice54. The Elizabethans were very keen on a pale skin."They would've loved you, then," sneered55 Millat, for Joshua was pasty, practically anaemic, curly-haired and chubby56, 'you would have been Tom bloody57 Cruise."Laughter. Not because it was funny, but because it was Millat putting a nerd where a nerd should be. In his place.
"One more word from you Mr. Ick-Ball and you are out!""Shakespeare. Sweaty. Bollocks. That's three. Don't worry, I'll let myself out."This was the kind of thing Millat did so expertly. The door slammed. The nice girls looked at each other in that way. (He's just so out of control, so crazy ... he really needs some help, some close one-to-one personal help from a good friend .. .) The boys belly-laughed. The teacherwondered if this was the beginning of a mutiny. Irie covered her stomach with her right hand.
"Marvellous. Very adult. I suppose Millat Iqbal is some kind of hero." Mrs. Roody, looking round the gormless faces of 5F, saw for the first time and with dismal58 clarity that this was exactly what he was.
"Does anyone else have anything to say about these sonnets59? Ms Jones! Will you stop looking mournfully at the door! He's gone, all right? Unless you'd like to join him?""No, Mrs. Roody.""All right, then. Have you anything to say about the sonnets?""Yes.""What?""Is she black?""Is who black?""The dark lady.""No, dear, she's dark. She's not black in the modern sense. There weren't any .. . well, Afro-Carri-bee-yans in England at that time, dear. That's more a modern phenomenon, as I'm sure you know. But this was the i6oos. I mean I can't be sure, but it does seem terribly unlikely, unless she was a slave of some kind, and he's unlikely to have written a series of sonnets to a lord and then a slave, is he?"Irie reddened. She had thought, just then, that she had seen something like a reflection, but it was receding60; so she said, "Don't know, Miss.""Besides, he says very clearly, In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds .. . No, dear, she just has a dark complexion, you see, as dark as mine, probably."Irie looked at Mrs. Roody. She was the colour of strawberry mousse.
"You see, Joshua is quite right: the preference was for women to be excessively pale in those days. The sonnet is about the debate between her natural colouring and the make-up that was the fashion of the time.""I just thought .. . like when he says, here: Then will I swear, beauty herself is black , .. And the curly hair thing, black wires'
Irie gave up in the face of giggling61 and shrugged62.
"No, dear, you're reading it with a modern ear. Never read what is old with a modern ear. In fact, that will serve as today's principle can you all write that down please."5F wrote that down. And the reflection that Irie had glimpsed slunk back into the familiar darkness. On the way out of class, Irie was passed a note by Annalese Hersh, who shrugged to signify that she was not the author but merely one of many handlers. It said: "By WilliamShakespeare: ODE TO LETITIAAND ALL MY KINKY-HAIRED BIG-ASS BIT CHEZThe cryptically63 named P. K."s Afro Hair: Design and Management sat between FairweatherFuneral Parlour and Raakshan Dentists, the convenient proximity64 meaning it was not at alluncommon for a cadaver65 of African origin to pass through all three establishments on his or her final journey to an open casket. So when you phoned for a hair appointment, and Andrea or Denise or Jackie told you three thirty Jamaican time, naturally it meant come late, but there was also a chance it meant that some stone-cold church-going lady was determined66 to go to her grave with long fake nails and a weave-on. Strange as it sounds, there are plenty of people who refuse to meet the Lord with an Afro.
Irie, ignorant of all this, turned up for her appointment three thirty on the dot, intent upon transformation, intent upon fighting her genes67, a headscarf disguising the bird's nest of her hair, her right hand carefully placed upon her stomach.
"You wan47' some ting, pickney?"Straight hair. Straight straight long black sleek68 flick45 able toss able shakeable touchable finger-through-able wind-blow able hair. With a fringe.
Three thirty," was all Irie managed to convey of this, 'with Andrea.""Andrea's next door," replied the woman, pulling at a piece of elongated69 gum and nodding in the direction of Fairweather's, 'having fun with the dearly departed. You better come sit down and wait and don' bodder me. Don' know how long she'll be."Irie looked lost, standing70 in the middle of the shop, clutching her chub. The woman took pity, swallowed her gum and looked Irie up and down; she felt more sympathetic as she noted71 Irie'scocoa complexion, the light eyes.
"Jackie.""Irie.""Pale, sir! Freckles72 an' every ting. You Mexican?""No.""Arab?""Half Jamaican. Half English.""Half-caste," Jackie explained patiently. "Your mum white?""Dad."Jackie wrinkled her nose. "Usually de udder way roun'. Howcurly is it? Lemme se what's under dere -' She made a grab for Irie's headscarf. Me, horrified73 at the possibility of being laid bare in a room full of people, got there before her and held on tight.
Jackie sucked her teeth. "What d'you 'spec us to do wid it if we ky ant see it?"Me shrugged. Jackie shook her head, amused.
"You ain't been in before?""No, never.""What is it you want?""Straight," said Me firmly, thinking of Nikki Tyler. "Straight and dark red.""Is dat a fact! You wash your hair recent?" "Yesterday," said Me, offended. Jackie slapped her up-side her head.
"Don' wash it! If you wan' it straight, don' wash it! You ever have ammonia on your head? It's like the devil's having a party on your scalp. You crazy? Don' wash it for two weeks an' den12 come back."But Me didn't have two weeks. She had it all planned; she was going to go round to Millat's this very evening with her new mane, all tied up in a bun, and she was going to take off her glasses and shake down her hair and he was going to say why Miss Jones, I never would have supposed .. . why Miss Jones, you're "I have to do it today. My sister's getting married.""Well, when Andrea get back she going to burn seven shades of shit out of your hair an' you'll be lucky if you don' walk out of here with a balled. But den it your funeral. Ear," she said thrusting a pile full of magazines into Irie's hands. "Dere," she said, pointing to a chair.
P. K."s was split into two halves, male and female. In the male section, as relentless74 Ragga came unevenly75 over a battered77 stereo, young boys had logos cut into the back of their heads at the hands of slightly older boys, skilful78 wielders of the electric trimmers. ADIDAS. BADMUTHA.
MARTIN. The male section wasall laughter, all talk, all play; there was an easiness that sprang from no male haircut ever costing over six pounds or taking more than fifteen minutes. It was a simple enough exchange and there was joy in it: the buzz of the revolving79 blade by your ear, a rough brush-down with a warm hand, mirrors front and back to admire the transformation. You came in with a picky head, uneven76 and coarse, disguised underneath a baseball cap, and you left swiftly afterwards a new man,smelling sweetly of coconut80 oil and with a cut as sharp and clean as a swear word.
In comparison, the female section of P. K."s was a deathly thing. Here, the impossible desire for straightness and 'movement' fought daily with the stubborn determination of the curved African follicle; here ammonia, hot combs, clips, pins and simple fire had all been enlisted81 in the war and were doing their damnedest to beat each curly hair into submission82.
"Is it straight?" was the only question you heard as the towels came off and the heads emerged from the drier pulsating83 with pain. "Is it straight, Denise? Tell me is it straight, Jackie?"To which Jackie or Denise, having none of the obligations of white hairdressers, no need to make tea or kiss arse, flatter or make conversation (for these were not customers they were dealing84 with but desperate wretched patients), would give a sceptical snort and whip off the puke-green gown. "It as straight as it ever going to be!"Four women sat in front of Irie now, biting their lips, staring intently into a long, dirty mirror, waiting for their straighter selves to materialize. While Irie flicked85 nervously86 through American black hair magazines, the four women sat grimacing87 in pain. Occasionally one said to another,"How long?" To which the proud reply came, "Fifteen minutes. How long for you?" "Twenty two. This shit's been on my head twenty-two minutes. It better be straight."It was a competition in agony. Like rich women in posh restaurants ordering ever smaller salads.
Finally there would come a scream, or a "That's it! Shit, I can't take it!" and the head in questionwas rushed to the sink, where the washing could never be quick enough (you cannot get ammoniaout of your hair quick enough) and the quiet weeping began. It was at this point that animosity arose; some people's hair was 'kinkier' than others', some Afros fought harder, some survived. And the animosity spread from fellow customer to hairdresser, to inflicter88 of this pain, for it was naturalenough to suspect Jackie or Denise of something like sadism: their fingers were too slow as they worked the stuff out, the water seemed to trickle89 instead of gush90, and meanwhile the devil had a high old time burning the crap out of your hairline.
"Is it straight? Jackie, is it straight?"The boys arched their heads round the partition wall, Me looked up from her magazine. There was little to say. They all came out straight or straight enough. But they also came out dead. Dry.
Splintered. Stiff. All the spring gone. Like the hair of a cadaver as the moisture seeps91 away.
Jackie or Denise, knowing full well that the curved African follicle will, in the end, follow itsgenetic instructions, put a philosophic92 slant93 on the bad news. "It as straight as it ever going to be. Tree weeks if you lucky."Despite the obvious failure of the project, each woman along the line felt that it would be different for her, that when their own unveiling came, straight straight flick able wind-blow able locks would be theirs. Me, as full of confidence as the rest, returned to her magazine.
Malika, vibrant94 young star of the smash hit sitcom95 Malika's Life, explains how she achieves her loose and flowing look: "I hot wrap it each evening, ensuring that the ends are lightly waxed in African Queen Afro Sheen(tm), then, in the morning, I put a comb on the stove for approximately '
The return of Andrea. The magazine was snatched from her hands, her headscarfunceremoniously removed before she could stop it, and five long and eloquent96 fingernails began to work their way through her scalp.
"Ooooh," murmured Andrea.
This sign of approval was a rare-enough occurrence for the rest of the shop to come round the partition to have a look.
"Oooooh," said Denise, adding her fingers to Andrea's. "So loose."An older lady, wincing97 with pain underneath a drier, nodded admiringly.
"Such a loose curl," cooed Jackie, ignoring her own scalded patient to reach into Trie's wool.
"That's half-caste hair for you. I wish mine were like that. That'll relax beautiful."Irie screwed up her face. "I hate it.""She hates it!" said Denise to the crowd. "It's light brown in places!""I been dealing with a corpse98 all morning. Be nice to get my hands into somefing sof'," said Andrea, emerging from her reverie. "You gonna relax it, darling'?""Yes. Straight. Straight and red."Andrea tied a green gown round Irie's neck and lowered her into a swivelling chair. "Don't know about red, baby. Can't dye and relax on the same day. Kill the hair dead. But I can do the relax for you, no problem. Should come out beautiful, darling'."The communication between hairdressers in P. K."s being poor, no one told Andrea that Irie had washed her hair. Two minutes after having the thick white ammonia gloop spread on to her head, she felt the initial cold sensation change to a terrific fire. There was no dirt there to protect the scalp, and Irie started screaming.
"I jus' put it on! You want it straight, don' you? Stop making that noise!""But it hurts!""Life hurts said Andrea scornfully, 'beauty hurts."Me bit her tongue for another thirty seconds until blood appeared above her right ear. Then the poor girl blacked out.
She came to with her head over the sink, watching her hair, which was coming out in clumps99, shimmy down the plug hole"You should have told me," Andrea was grumbling100. "You should have told me that you washed it. It's got to be dirty first. Now look."Now look. Hair that had once come down to her mid44 vertebrae was only a few inches from her head.
"See what you've done," continued Andrea, as Me wept openly. "I'd like to know what Mr. Paul King is going to say about this. I better phone him and see if we can fix this up for you for free."Mr. Paul King, the P. K. in question, owned the place. He was a big white guy, in his mid fifties, who had been an entrepreneur in the building trade until Black Wednesday and his wife's credit card excesses took away everything but some bricks and mortar101. Looking for a new idea, he read in the lifestyle section of his breakfast paper that black women spend five times as much as white women on beauty products and nine times as much on their hair. Taking his wife Sheila as an archetypal white woman, Paul King began to salivate. A little more research in his local library uncovered a multi-million pound industry. Paul King then bought a disused butcher's on Willesden High Road, head hunted Andrea from a Harlesden salon102, and gave black hairdressing a shot. It was an instant success. He was amazed to discover that women on low income were indeed prepared to spend hundreds of pounds per month on their hair and yet more on nails and accessories. He was vaguely103 amused when Andrea first explained to him that physical pain was also part of the process. And the best part of it was there was no question of suing they expected the burns. Perfect business.
"Go on, Andrea, love, give her a freebie," said Paul King, shouting on a brick-shaped mobile over the construction noise of his new salon, opening in Wembley. "But don't make a habit of it."Andrea returned to Irie with the good tidings. "Sail right, darling'. This one's on us.""But what' Irie stared at her Hiroshima reflection. "What can you '
"Put your scarf back on, turn left out of here and go down the high road until you get to a shop called Roshi's Haircare. Take this card and tell them P. K."s sent you. Get eight packets of no. 5 type black hair with a red glow and come back here quick style.""Hair?" repeated Irie through snot and tears. "Fake hair?""Stupid girl. It's not fake. It's real. And when it's on your head it'll be your real hair. Go!"Blubbing like a baby, Irie shuffled104 out of P. K."s and down the high road, trying to avoid her reflection in the shop windows. Reaching Roshi's, she did her best to pull herself together, put her right hand over her stomach and pushed through the doors.
It was dark in Roshi's and smelt105 strongly of the same scent106 as P. K."s: ammonia and coconut oil, pain mixed with pleasure. From the dim glow given off by a flickering107 strip light, Irie could see there were no shelves to speak of but instead hair products piled like mountains from the floor up, while accessories (combs, bands, nail varnish) were stapled108 to the walls with the price written in felt-tip alongside. The only display of any recognizable kind was placed just below the ceiling in a loop around the room, taking pride of place like a collection of sacrificial scalps or hunting trophies109.
Hair. Long tresses stapled a few inches apart. Underneath each a large cardboard sign explaining its pedigree:
1 Metres. Natural Thai. Straight. Chestnut110.
2 Metre. Natural Pakistani. Straight with a wave. Black. 5 Metres. Natural Chinese. Straight. Black.
3 Metres. Synthetic111 hair. Corkscrew curl. Pink.
Me approached the counter. A hugely fat woman in a said was waddling112 to the cash till and back again to hand over twenty-five pounds to an Indian girl whose hair had been shornhaphazardly close to the scalp.
"And please don't be looking at me in that manner. Twenty-five is very reasonable price. I tell you I can't do any more with all these split ends."The girl objected in another language, picked up the bag of hair in question from the counter and made as if to leave with it, but the elder woman snatched it away.
"Please, don't embarrass yourself further. We both have seen the ends. Twenty-five is all I can give you for it. You won't get more some other place. Please now," she said, looking over the girl's shoulder to Me, 'other customers I have."Me saw hot tears, not unlike her own, spring to the girl's eyes. She seemed to freeze for a moment, vibrating ever so slightly with anger; then she slammed her hand down on the counter, swept up her twenty-five pounds and headed for the door.
The fat lady shook her chins in contempt after the disappearing girl. "Ungrateful, she is."Then she unpeeled a sticky label from its brown paper backing and slapped it on the bag of hair.
It said: '6 Metres. Indian. Straight. Black/red.""Yes, dear. What is it I can do?"Me repeated Andrea's instruction and handed over the card.
"Eight packets? That is about six metres, no?""I don't know.""Yes, yes, it is. You want it straight or with a wave?""Straight. Dead straight."The fat lady did a silent calculation and then picked up the bag of hair that the girl had just left.
"This is what you're looking for. I haven't been able to package it, you understand. But it is absolutely clean. You want?"Me looked dubious27.
"Don't worry about what I said. No split ends. Just silly girl trying to get more than she deserves.
Some people got no understanding of simple economics ... It hurts her to cut off her hair so a million pounds she expects or something crazy. Beautiful hair, she has. When I was young, oh, mine was beautiful too, eh?" The fat lady erupted into high-pitched laughter, her busy upper lip making her moustache quiver. The laugh subsided113.
"Tell Andrea that will be thirty-seven fifty. We Indian women have the beautiful hair, hey?
Everybody wants it!"A black woman with children in a twin buggy was waiting behind Irie with a packet of hairpins114.
She sucked her teeth. "You people think you're all Mr. Bigstuff," she muttered, half to herself.
"Some of us are happy with our African hair, thank you very much. I don't want to buy some poor Indian girl's hair. And I wish to God I could buy black hair products from black people for once.
How we going to make it in this country if we don't make our own business?"The skin around the fat lady's mouth became very tight. She began talking twelve to the dozen, putting Irie's hair in a bag and writing her out a receipt, addressing all her comments to the woman via Irie, while doing the best to ignore the other woman's interjections: "You don't like shopping here, then please don't be shopping here is forcing you anybody? No, is anybody? It's amazing: people, the rudeness, I am not a racist115, but I can't understand it, I'm just providing a service, a service. I don't need abuse, just leave your money on the counter, if I am getting abuse, I'm not serving.""No one's givin' you abuse. Jesus Christ!""Is it my fault if they want the hair that is straight and paler skin sometimes, like Michael Jackson, my fault he is too? They tell me not to sell the Dr. Peacock Whitener local paper, my God, what a fuss! and then they buy it take that receipt to Andrea, will you, my dear, please? I'm just trying to make a livingin this country like the rest of everybody. There you are, dear, there's your hair."The woman reached around Irie and delivered the right change to the counter with an angry smash. "For fuck's sake!""I can't help it if that's what they want supply, demand. And bad language, I won't tolerate! Simple economics mind your step on the way out, dear and you, no, don't come back, please, I will call the police, I won't be threatened, the police, I will call them.""Yeah, yeah, yeah."Irie held the door open for the double buggy, and took one side to help carry it over the front step. Outside the woman put her hairpins in her pocket. She looked exhausted116.
"I hate that place," she said. "But I need hairpins.""I need hair," said Irie.
The woman shook her head. "You've got hair," she said.
Five and a half hours later, thanks to an arduous117 operation that involved plaiting somebody else's hair in small sections to Irie's own two inches and sealing it with glue, Irie Jones had a full head of long, straight, reddish-black hair.
"Is it straight?" she asked, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.
"Straight as hell," said Andrea, admiring her handiwork. "But honey, you're going to have to plait it properly if you want it to stay in. Why won't you let me plait it? It won't stay in if it's loose like that.""It will," said Irie, bewitched by her own reflection. "It's got to." He Millat need only see it once, after all, just once. To ensure she reached him in pristine118 state, she walked all the way to the Iqbal house with her hands on her hair, terrified that the wind would displace it.
Alsana answered the door. "Oh, hello. No, he's not here. Out.
Don't ask me where, he doesn't tell me a thing. I know where Magid is more of the time."Irie walked into the hallway and caught a sneaky glance of herself in the mirror. Still there and all in the right place.
"Can I wait in here?""Of course. You look different, dearie. Lost weight?"Irie glowed. "New haircut.""Oh yes .. . you look like a news reader Very nice. Now in the living room, please.
Niece-of-Shame and her nasty friend are in there, but try not to let that bother you. I'm working in the kitchen and Samad is weeding, so keep the noise down."Irie walked into the lounge. "Bloody hell!" screeched119 Neena at the approaching vision. "What the fuck do you look like!"She looked beautiful. She looked straight, un-kinky. Beautiful. "You look like a freak! Fuck me! Maxine, man, check this out. Jesus Christ, Irie. What exactlywere you aiming for?"Wasn't it obvious? Straight. Straightness. Flickability.
"I mean, what was the grand plan? The Negro Meryl Streep?" Neena folded over like a duvet and laughed herself silly.
"Niece-of-Shame!" came Alsana's voice from the kitchen. "Sewing requires concentration. Shut it up, Miss Big-Mouth, please!"Neena's 'nasty friend', otherwise known as Neena's girlfriend, a sexy and slender girl called Maxine with a beautiful porcelain120 face, dark eyes and a lot of curly brown hair, gave a pull to Irie'speculiar bangs. "What have you done? You had beautiful hair, man. All curly and wild. It was gorgeous."Irie couldn't say anything for a moment. She had not considered the possibility that she looked anything less than terrific.
"I just had a haircut. What's the big deal?""But that's not your hair, for fuck's sake, that's some poor oppressed Pakistani woman who needs the cash for her kids," said Neena, giving it a tug121 and being rewarded with a handful of it.
"OH SHIT!"Neena and Maxine had a hysteria relapse.
"Just get off it, OK?" Irie retreated to an armchair and tucked her knees up under her chin.
Trying to sound offhand122, she asked, "So .. . umm .. . where's Millat?""Is that what all this is in aid of?" asked Neena, astonished. "My shit-for-brains cousin-gee?""No. Fuck off"Well, he's not here. He's got some new bird. Eastern-bloc gymnast with a stomach like a washboard. Not unattractive, spectacular tits, but tight-assed as hell. Name .. . name?""Stasia," said Maxine, looking up briefly123 from Top of the Pops. "Or some such bollocks."Irie sank deeper into the ruined springs of Samad's favourite chair.
The, will you take some advice? Ever since I've known you, you've been following that boy around like a lost dog. And in that time he's snogged everyone, everyone apart from you. He's even snogged me, and I'm his first cousin, for fuck's sake.""And me," said Maxine, 'and I'm not that way inclined.""Haven't you ever wondered why he hasn't snogged you?""Because I'm ugly. And fat. With an Afro.""No, fuck face because you're all he's got. He needs you. You two have history. You really know him. Look how confused he is. One day he's Allah this, Allah that. Next minute it's big busty blondes, Russian gymnasts and a smoke of the sinsemilla. He doesn't know his arse from his elbow.
Just like his father. He doesn't know who he is. But you know him, at least a little, you've known all the sides of him.
And he needs that. You're different."Irie rolled her eyes. Sometimes you want to be different. And sometimes you'd give the hair on your head to be the same as everybody else.
"Look: you're a smart cookie, Irie. But you've been taught all kinds of shit. You've got to re-educate yourself. Realize yourvalue, stop the slavish devotion, and get a life, Me. Get a girl, get a guy, but get a life." "You're a very sexy girl, Me," said Maxine sweetly.
"Yeah. Right.""Trust her, she's a raving124 dyke," said Neena, ruffling125 Maxine's hair affectionately and giving her a kiss. "But the truth is the Barbra Streisand cut you've got there ain't doing shit for you. The Afro was cool, man. It was wicked. It was yours."Suddenly Alsana appeared at the doorway126 with an enormous plate of biscuits and a look of intense suspicion. Maxine blew her a kiss.
"Biscuits, Irie? Come and have some biscuits. With me. In the kitchen."Neena groaned127. "Don't panic, Auntie. We're not enlisting128 her into the cult129 of Sappho.""I don't care what you're doing. I don't know what you're doing. I don't want to know such things.""We're watching television."It was Madonna on the TV screen, working her hands around two conically shaped breasts.
"Very nice, I'm sure," sniped Alsana, glaring at Maxine. "Biscuits, Me?""I'd like some biscuits murmured Maxine with a flutter of her extravagant130 eyelashes.
"I am certain," said Alsana slowly and pointedly131, translating code, "I don't have the kind you like."Neena and Maxine fell about all over again.
The?" said Alsana, indicating the kitchen with a grimace132. Irie followed her out.
"I'm as liberal as the next person," complained Alsana, once they were alone. "But why do they always have to be laughing and making a song-and-dance about everything? I cannot believe homosexuality is that much fun. Heterosexuality certainly is not.""I don't think I want to hear that word in this house again,"said Samad deadpan133, stepping in from the garden and laying his weeding gloves on the table.
"Which one?""Either. I am trying my level best to run a godly house."Samad spotted134 a figure at his kitchen table, frowned, decided135 it was indeed Me Jones and began on the little routine the two of them had going. "Hello, Miss Jones. And how is your father?"Me shrugged on cue. "You see him more than we do. How's God?""Perfectly136 fine, thank you. Have you seen my good-for-nothing son recently?""Not recently.""What about my good son?""Not for years.""Will you tell the good-for-nothing he's a good-for-nothing when you find him?"Till do my best, Mr. Iqbal.""God bless you.""Gesundheit.""Now, if you will excuse me." Samad reached for his prayer mat from the top of the fridge and left the room.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Me, noticing that Samad had delivered his lines with less than enthusiasm. "He seems, I don't know, sad."Alsana sighed. "He is sad. He feels like he has screwed everything up. Of course, he has screwed everything up, but then again, who will cast the first stone, et cetera. He prays and prays. But he will not look straight at the facts: Millat hanging around with God knows what kind of people, always with the white girls, and Magid .. ."Me remembered her first sweetheart encircled by a fuzzy halo of perfection, an illusion born of the disappointments Millat had afforded her over the years.
"Why, what's wrong with Magid?"Alsana frowned and reached up to the top kitchen shelf, where she collected a thin airmail envelope and passed it to Irie. Irie removed the letter and the photograph inside.
The photo was of Magid, now a tall, distinguished-looking young man. His hair was the deep black of his brother's but it was not brushed forward on his face. It was parted on the left side, slicked down and drawn137 behind the right ear. He was dressed in a tweed suit and what lookedthough one couldn't be sure, the photo was not good like a cravat138. He held a large sun hat in one hand. In the other he clasped the hand of the eminent139 Indian writer Sir R. V. Saraswati. Saraswati was dressed all in white, with his broad-rimmed hat on his head and an ostentatious cane140 in his free hand. The two of them were posed in a somewhat self-congratulatory manner, smiling broadly and looking for all the world as if they were about to pat each other roundly on the back or had just done so. The midday sun was out and bouncing off Dhaka University's front steps, where the whole scene had been captured.
Alsana inched a smear141 off the photo with her index finger. "You know Saraswati?"Irie nodded. Compulsory142 GCSE text: A Stitch in Time by R. V. Saraswati. A bitter-sweet tale of the last days of Empire.
"Samad hates Saraswati, you understand. Calls him colonial throwback, Englishlicker-of-behinds."Irie picked a paragraph at random143 from the letter and read aloud.
As you can see, I was lucky enough to meet India's very finest writer one bright day in March. After winning an essay competition (my title: "Bangladesh To Whom May She Turn?"), I travelled to Dhaka to collect my prize (a certificate and a small cash reward) from the great man himself in a ceremony at the university. I am honoured to say he took a liking144 to me and we spent a most pkasant afternoon together; a long, intimate tea followed by a stroll through Dhaka's more appealing prospects145. During our lengthy146 conversations Sir Saraswati commended my mind, and even went so far as to say (and I quote) that I was 'a first-rate young man' - a comment I shall treasure! He suggested my future might lie in the law, the university, or even his own profession of the creative pen! I told him the first-mentioned vocation147 was closest to my heart and that it had long been my intention to make the Asian countries sensible places, where order prevailed." disaster-was prepared for, and a young boy was in no danger from a falling vase (I) New laws, new stipulations, are required (I told him) to deal with our unlucky fate, the natural disaster. But then he corrected me: "Not fate," he said. "Too often we Indians, we Bengalis, we Pakistanis, throw up our hands and cry "Fate!" in the face of history. But many of us are uneducated, many of us do not understand the world. We must be more like the English. The English fight fate to the death. They do not listen to history unless it is telling them what they wish to hear. We say "It had to be!" It does not have to be.
Nothing does." In one afternoon I learnt more from this great man than "He learns nothing!"Samad marched back into the kitchen in a fury and threw the kettle on the stove. "He learns nothing from a man who knows nothing! Where is his beard? Where is his khamise? Where is his humility148? If Allah says there will be storm, there will be storm. If he says earthquake, it will be earthquake. Of course it has to be! That is the very reason I sent the child there to understand that essentially149 we are weak, that we are not in control. What does Islam mean? What does the word, the very word, mean? I surrender. I surrender to God. I surrender to him. This is not my life, this is his life. This life I call mine is his to do with what he will. Indeed, I shall be tossed and turned on the wave, and there shall be nothing to be done. Nothing! Nature itself is Muslim, because it obeys the laws the creator has ingrained in it.""Don't you preach in this house, Samad Miah! There are places for that sort of thing. Go to mosque150, but don't do it in the kitchen, people have to be eating in here '
"But we, we do not automatically obey. We are tricky151, we are the tricky bastards152, we humans.
We have the evil inside us, the free will. We must learn to obey. That is what I sent the child Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal to discover. Tell me, did I send him to have his mind poisoned by a Rule-Britannia worshipping Hindu old Queen?""Maybe, Samad Miah, maybe not.""Don't, Alsi, I warn you '
"Oh, go on, you old pot-boiler!" Alsana gathered her spare tyres around her like a sumo wrestler153.
"You say we have no control, yet you always try to control everything! Let go, Samad Miah. Let the boy go. He is second generation he was born here naturally he will do things differently. You can't plan everything. After all, what is so awful so he's not training to be an alim, but he's educated, he's clean!""And is that all you ask of your son? That he be clean?""Maybe, Samad Miah, maybe '
"And don't speak to me of second generation! One generation! Indivisible! Eternal!"Somewhere in the midst of this argument, Me slipped out of the kitchen and headed for the front door. She caught an unfortunate glimpse of herself in the scratch and stain of the hall mirror. She looked like the love child of Diana Ross and Engelbert Humperdinck.
"You have to let them make their own mistakes .. ." came Alsana's voice from the heat of battle, travelling through the cheap wood of the kitchen door and into the hallway, where Me stood, facing her own reflection, busy tearing out somebody else's hair with her bare hands.
Like any school, Glenard Oak had a complex geography. Not that it was particularlylabyrinthine in design. It had been built in two simple stages, first in 1886 as a workhouse (result: large red monstrosity, Victorian asylum) and then added to in 1963 when it became a school (result: grey monolith, Brave New Council Estate). The two monstrosities were then linked in 1974 by an enormous perspex tubular footbridge. But a bridge was not enough to make the two places one, or to slow down the student body's determination to splinter and factionalize. The school had learnt to its cost that you cannot unite a thousand children under one Latin tag (school code: Laborare est Orare, To Labour is to Pray); kids are like pissing cats or burrowing154 moles155, marking off land within land, each section with its own rules, beliefs, laws of engagement. Despite every attempt to suppress it, the school contained and sustained patches, hang-outs, disputed territories, satellite states, states of emergency, ghettos, enclaves, islands. There were no maps, but common sense told you, for example, not to fuck with the area between the refuse bins156 and the craft department. There had been casualties there (notably some poor sod called Keith who had his head placed in a vice), and the scrawny, sinewy157 kids who patrolled this area were not to be messed with they were the thin sons of the fat men with vicious tabloids158 primed in their back pockets like handguns, the fat men who believe in rough justice a life for a life, hanging's too good for them. Across from there: the Benches, three of them in a line. These were for the surreptitious dealing of tiny tiny amounts of drugs. Things like 2 pounds 50 pence of marijuana resin159, so small it was likely to be lost in your pencil case and confused with a shredded160 piece of eraser. Or a quarter of an E, the greatest use of which was soothing161 particularly persistent162 period pains. The gullible163 could also purchase a variety of household goods -jasmine tea, garden grass, aspirin164, liquorice, flour all masquerading as Class A intoxicants to be smoked or swallowed round the back, in the hollow behind the drama department. This concave section of wall, depending where you stood, provided low teacher-visibility for smokers165 too young to smoke in the smoker's garden (a concrete garden for those who had reached sixteen and were allowed to smoke themselves silly are there any schools like this any more?). The drama hollow was to be avoided. These were hard little bastards, twelve, thirteen-year-old chain-smokers; they didn't give a shit. They really didn't give a shit your health, their health, teachers, parents, police whatever. Smoking was their answer to the universe, their 42, their raison d'etre. They were passionate166 about fags. Not connoisseurs167, not fussy168 about brand, just fags, any fags. They pulled at them like babies at teats, and when they were finally finished they ground them into the mud with wet eyes. They fucking loved it. Fags, fags, fags.
Their only interest outside fags was politics, or more precisely169, this fucker, the chancellor170, who kept on putting up the price of fags. Because there was never enough money and there were neverenough fags. You had to become an expert in bumming171, cadging172, begging, stealing fags. A popular ploy173 was to blow a week's pocket money on twenty, give them out to all and sundry174, and spend the next month reminding those with fags about that time when you gave them a fag. But this was a high-risk policy. Better to have an utterly175 forgettable face, better to be able to cadge176 a fag and come back five minutes after for another without being remembered. Better to cultivate a cipher-like persona, be a little featureless squib called Mart, Jules, Ian. Otherwise you had to rely on charity and fag sharing. One fag could be split in a myriad177 of ways. It worked like this: someone (whoever had actually bought a pack of fags) lights up. Someone shouts 'halves'. At the halfway178 point the fag is passed over. As soon as it reaches the second person we hear 'thirds', then 'saves' (which is half a third) then 'butt!" then, if the day is cold and the need for a fag overwhelming, 'last toke!" But last toke is only for the desperate; it is beyond the perforation, beyond the brand name of thecigarette, beyond what could reasonably be described as the butt. Last toke is the yellowing fabric179 of the roach, containing the stuff that is less than tobacco, the stuff that collects in the lungs like a time-bomb, destroys the immune system and brings permanent, sniffling, nasal flu. The stuff that turns white teeth yellow.
Everyone at Glenard Oak was at work; they were Babelians of every conceivable class and colour speaking in tongues, each in their own industrious180 corner, their busy censer mouths sending the votive offering of tobacco smoke to the many gods above them (Brent Schools Report 1990:
different faiths, 123 different languages).
Laborare est Orare:
Nerds by the pond, checking out frog sex,Posh girls in the music department singing French rounds, speaking pig Latin, going on grape diets, suppressing lesbian instincts,Fat boys in the P E corridor, wan kingHigh-strung girls outside the language block, reading murder casebooks,Indian kids playing cricket with tennis rackets on the football ground, Irie Jones looking for Millat Iqbal,Scott Breeze and Lisa Rainbow in the toilets, fucking,Joshua Chalfen, a goblin, an elder and a dwarf181, behind the science block playing Goblins and Gorgons,And everybody, everybody smoking fags, fags, fags, working hard at the begging of them, the lighting182 of them and the inhaling183 of them, the collecting of butts184 and the remaking of them, celebrating their power to bring people together across cultures and faiths, but mostly just smoking them -gis a fag, spare us a fag chuffing on them like little chimneys till the smoke grows so thick that those who had stoked the chimneys here back in 1886,back in the days of the workhouse, would not have felt out of place.
And through the fog, Irie was looking for Millat. She had tried the basketball court, the smoking garden, the music department, the cafeteria, the toilets of both sexes and the graveyard185 that backed on to the school. She had to warn him. There was going to be a raid, to catch all illicit186 smokers of weed or tobacco, a combined effort from the staff and the local constabulary. The seismic187 rumblings had come from Archie, angel of revelation; she had overheard his telephone conversation and the holy secrets of the Parent-Teacher Association; now Irie was landed with a burden far heavier than the seismologist, landed, rather, with the burden of the prophet, for she knew the day and time of the quake (today, two thirty), she knew its power (possible expulsion), and she knew who was likely to fall victim to its fault line. She had to save him. Clutching her vibrating chub and sweating through three inches of Afro hair, she dashed through the grounds, calling his name, inquiring of others, looking in all the usual places, but he was not with the cockney barrow-boys, the posh girls, the Indian posse or the black kids. She trudged finally to the science block, part of the old workhouse and a much loved blind-spot of the school, its far wall and Eastern corner affording thirty precious yards of grass, where a pupil indulging in illicit acts was entirely188 hidden from the common view. It was a fine, crisp autumn day, the place was full; Irie had to walk through the popular tonsil-tennis groping championships, step over Joshua Chalfen'sGoblins and Gorgons game ("Hey, watch your feet! Mind the Cavern189 of the Dead!") and furrowthrough a tight phalanx of fag smokers before she reached Millat at the epic190 entre of it all, pulling laconically191 on a cone-shaped joint192, listening to a tall guy with a mighty193 beard.
"Mill!""Not right now, Jones.""But Mill!""Please, Jones. This is Hifan. Old friend. I'm trying to listen to him."The tall guy, Hifan, had not paused in his speech. He had a deep, soft voice like running water, inevitable194 and constant, requiring a force stronger than the sudden appearance of Me, stronger maybe, than gravity, to stop it. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, a white shirt and a green bow-tie. His breast pocket was embroidered195 with a small emblem196, two hands cupping a flame, and something underneath it, too small to see. Though no older than Millat, his hair-growing capacity was striking, and his beard aged him considerably197.
'.. . and so marijuana weakens one's abilities, one's power, and takes our best men away from us in this country: men like you, Millat, who have natural leadership skills, who possess within them the ability to take a people by the hand and lift them up. There is an hadith from the Bukhari, part five, page two: The best people of my community are my contemporaries and supporters. You are my contemporary, Millat, I pray you will also become my supporter; there is a war going on, Millat, a war."He continued like this, one word flowing from another, with no punctuation198 or breath and with the same chocolatey delivery one could almost climb into his sentences, one could almost fall asleep in them.
"Mill. Mill. "Simportant."Millat looked drowsy199, whether from the hash or Hifan wasn't clear. Shaking Me off his sleeve, he attempted an introduction. The , Hifan. Him and me used to go about together. Hifan -'
Hifan stepped forward, looming200 over Me like a bell tower. "Good to meet you, sister. I am Hifan.""Great. Millat."The, man, shit. Could you just chill for one minute?" He passed' her the smoke. "I'm trying to listen to the guy, yeah? Hifan is the don. Look at the suit .. . gangster201 sty lee Millat ran a finger down Hifan's lapel, and Hifan, against his better instinct, beamed with pleasure.
"Seriously, Hifan, man, you look wicked. Crisp.""Yeah?""Better than that stuff you used to go around in back when we used to hang, eh? Back in them Kilburn days. "Member when we went to Bradford and'
Hifan remembered himself. Reassumed his previous face of pious202 determination. "I am afraid I don't remember the Kilburn days, brother. I did things in ignorance then. That was a different person.""Yeah," said Millat sheepishly. "Course."Millat gave Hifan a joshing punch on the shoulder, in response to which Hifan stood still as a gate post.
"So: there's a fucking spiritual war going on that's fucking crazy! About time we need to make our mark in this bloody country. What was the name, again, of your lot?""I am from the Kilburn branch of the Keepers of the Eternal and Victorious203 Islamic Nation," said Hifan proudly.
"Keepers of the Eternal and Victorious Islamic Nation," repeated Millat, impressed. "That's a wicked name. It's got a wicked kung-fu kick-arse sound to it."Irie frowned. "KEVIN?""We are aware," said Hifan solemnly, pointing to the spot underneath the cupped flame where the initials were minutely embroidered, 'that we have an acronym205 problem.""Just a bit.""But the name is Allah's and it cannot be changed .. . but to continue with what I was saying: Millat, my friend, you could be the head of the Cricklewood branch '
"Mill.""You could have what I have, instead of this terrible confusion you are in, instead of this reliance on a drug specifically importedby governments to subdue38 the black and Asian community, to lessen206 our powers"Yeah," said Millat sadly, in mid-roll of a new spliff. "I don't really look at it like that. I guess I should look at it like that." "Mill.""Jones, give it a rest. I'm having a fucking debate. Hifan, what school you at now, mate?"Hifan shook his head with a smile. "I left the English education system some time ago. But my education is far from over. If I can quote to you from the TabrizI, hadith number 220: The person who goes in search of knowledge is on active service for God until he returns and the ' "Mill," whispered trie, beneath Hifan's flow of mellifluous207 sound. "Mill.""For fuck's sake. What? Sorry, Hifan, mate, one minute."Irie pulled deeply on her joint and relayed her news. Millat sighed. The, they come in one side and we go out the other. No biggie. It's a regular deal. All right? Now why don't you go and play with the kiddies? Serious business here.""It was good to meet you, Me," said Hifan? reaching out his hand and looking her up and down.
"If I might say so, it is refreshing208 to see a woman who dresses demurely209, wearing her hair short. KEVIN believes a woman should not feel the need to pander210 to the erotic fantasies of Westernsexuality.""Er, ye-ah. Thanks."Feeling sorry for herself and more than a bit stoned, Irie made her way back through the wall of smoke and stepped through Joshua Chalfen's Goblins and Gorgons game once more.
"Hey, we're trying to play here!"Irie whipped round, full of swallowed fury. "AND?"Joshua's friends a fat kid, a spotty kid and a kid with an abnormally large head shrank back in fear. But Joshua stood his ground. He played oboe behind Irie's second viola in the excuse for a school orchestra, and he had often observed herThe MisediicdRdn oj utejt;:^strange hair and broad shoulders and thought he might have half a chance there. She was clever and not entirely un-pretty, and there was something in her that had a strongly nerdy flavour about it, despite that boy she spent her time with. The Indian one. She hung around him, but she wasn't like him. Joshua Chalfen strongly suspected her of being one of his own. There was something innate211 inher that he felt he could bring out. She was a nerd-immigrant who had fled the land of the fat, facially challenged and disarmingly clever. She had scaled the mountains of Caldor, swum the River Leviathrax, and braved the chasm212 Duilwen, in the mad dash away from her true countrymento another land.
"I'm just saying. You seem pretty keen to step into the land of Golthon. Do you want to play with us?""No, I don't want to play with you, you fucking prick213. I don't even know you.""Joshua Chalfen. I was in Manor214 Primary. And we're in English together. And we're in orchestra together.""No, we're not. I'm in orchestra. You're in orchestra. In no sense are we there together."The goblin, the elder and the dwarf, who appreciated a good play on words, had a snivelly giggle215 at that one. But insults meant nothing to Joshua. Joshua was the Cyrano de Bergerac of taking insults. He'd taken insults (from the affectionate end, Chalfen the Chubster, Posh Josh, Josh-with-the-Jewfro; from the other, That Hippy Fuck, Curly-haired Cocksucker, Shit-eater), he'd taken never-ending insults all his damn life, and survived, coming out the other side to smug. An insult was but a pebble216 in his path, only proving the intellectual inferiority of she who threw it. He continued regardless.
"I like what you've done with your hair.""Are you taking the piss?""No, I like short hair on girls. I like that androgyny thing. Seriously.""What is your fucking problem?"Joshua shrugged. "Nothing. The vaguest acquaintance with basic Freudian theory wouldsuggest you are the one with the problem. Where does all that aggression217 come from? I thoughtsmoking was meant to chill you out. Can I have some?"Irie had forgotten the burning joint in her hand. "Oh, yeah, right. Regular puff-head, are we?""I dabble218."The dwarf, elder and goblin emitted some snorts and liquid noises.
"Oh, sure," sighed Irie reaching down to pass it to him. "Whatever."TheI'
It was Millat. He had forgotten to take his joint off Irie and was now running over to retrieve219 it.
Irie, about to hand it over to Joshua, turning around in mid-action, at one and the same time spotted Millat coming towards her and felt a rumble220 in the ground, a tremor221 that shook Joshua's tiny cast-iron goblin army to their knees and then swept them off the board.
"What the' said Millat.
It was the raid committee. Taking the suggestion of Parent Governor Archibald Jones, an ex-army man who claimed expertise222 in the field of ambush223, they had resolved to come from both sides (never before tested), their hundred-strong party utilizing224 the element of surprise, giving no pre-warning bar the sound of their approaching feet; simply boxing the little bastards in, thus cutting off any escape route for the enemy and catching225 the likes of Millat Iqbal, Irie Jones and Joshua Chalfen in the very act of marijuana consumption.
The headmaster of Glenard Oak was in a continual state of implosion226. His hairline had gone out and stayed out like a determined tide, his eye sockets227 were deep, his lips had been sucked backwards228 into his mouth, he had no body to speak of, or rather he folded what he had into a small, twisted package, sealing it with a pair of crossed arms and crossed legs. As if to counter this personal, internal collapse229, the headmaster had the seating arranged in a large circle, an expansive gesture he hoped would help everybody speak to and see each other, allowing everybody to express their point and make themselves heard so together they could work towards problemsolving rather than behaviour chastisement230. Some parents worried the headmaster was ableeding-heart liberal. If you asked Tina, his secretary (not that no one ever did ask Tina a bloody thing, oh no, no fear, only questions like So, what are these three scallywags up for, then?), it was more like a haemorrhage.
"So," said the headmaster to Tina with a doleful smile, 'what are these three scallywags up for, then?"Wearily, Tina read out the three counts of mari jew-ana' possession. Irie put her hand up to object, but the headmaster silenced her with a gentle smile.
"I see. That'll be all, Tina. If you could just leave the door ajar on your way out, yes, that's it, bit more .. . fine don't want anyone to feel boxed in, as it were. OK. Now. I think the most civilized231 way to do this," said the headmaster laying his hands palm up and flat on his knees to demonstrate he was packing no weapons, 'so we don't have everybody talking over each other, is if I say my bit, you each then say your bit, starting with you, Millat, and ending with Joshua, and then once we've taken on board all that's been said, I get to say my final bit and that's it. Relatively232 painless. All right? All right.""I need a fag," said Millat.
The headmaster rearranged himself. He uncrossed his right leg and slung233 his skinny left leg over instead, he brought his two forefingers234 up to his lips in the shape of a church spire235, he retracted236 his head like a turtle.
"Millat, pkase.""Have you got a fag-tray?""No, now, Millat come on .. ."Till just go an' have one at the gates, then."In this manner, the whole school held the headmaster to ransom237. He couldn't have a thousand kids lining238 the Crickle wood streets, smoking fags, bringing down the tone of the school. This was the age of the league table. Of picky parents nosing their way through The Times EducationalSupplement, summing up schools in letters and numbers and inspectors239' reports. The headmaster was forced to switch off the fire alarms for terms at a time, hiding his thousand smokers within the school's confines.
"Oh .. . look, just move your chair closer to the window. Come on, come on, don't make a song and dance about it. That's it. All right?"A Lambert & Butler hung from Millat's lips. "Light?"The headmaster rifled about in his own shirt pocket, where a packet of German rolling tobacco and a lighter240 were buried amidst a lot of tissue paper and biros.
"There you go." Millat lit up, blowing smoke in the headmaster's direction. The headmaster coughed like an old woman. "OK, Millat, you first. Because I expect this of you, at least. Spill the legumes."Millat said, "I was round there, the back of the science block, on a matter of spiritual growth."The headmaster leant forward and tapped the church spire against his lips a few times. "You're going to have to give me a little more to work on, Millat. If there's some religious connection here, it can only work
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| vi.注意，留意，言及；n.广告 | |
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2
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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3
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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4
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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5
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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6
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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7
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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9
meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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10
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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12
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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13
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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14
bulges
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| 膨胀( bulge的名词复数 )； 鼓起； （身体的）肥胖部位； 暂时的激增 | |
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15
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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16
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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17
genetically
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| adv.遗传上 | |
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18
genetic
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| adj.遗传的，遗传学的 | |
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19
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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20
grudgingly
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21
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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22
daydreams
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| n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非，空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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24
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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25
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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27
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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28
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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29
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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30
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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31
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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32
lobes
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| n.耳垂( lobe的名词复数 )；（器官的）叶；肺叶；脑叶 | |
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33
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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34
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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35
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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36
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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37
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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38
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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39
parodying
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| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的现在分词 ) | |
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40
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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41
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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42
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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43
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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44
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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45
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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46
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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47
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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48
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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49
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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50
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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51
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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52
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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53
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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54
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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55
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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57
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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58
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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59
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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60
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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61
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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62
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
cryptically
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64
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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65
cadaver
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| n.尸体 | |
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66
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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67
genes
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| n.基因( gene的名词复数 ) | |
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68
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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69
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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71
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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72
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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73
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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74
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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75
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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76
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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77
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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78
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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79
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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80
coconut
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| n.椰子 | |
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81
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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82
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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83
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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84
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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85
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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86
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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87
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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88
inflicter
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| 加害者，惩罚者 | |
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89
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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90
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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91
seeps
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| n.（液体）渗( seep的名词复数 )；渗透；渗出；漏出v.（液体）渗( seep的第三人称单数 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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92
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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93
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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94
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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95
sitcom
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| n.情景喜剧，（广播、电视的）系列幽默剧 | |
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96
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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97
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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98
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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99
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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100
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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101
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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102
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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103
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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104
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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105
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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106
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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107
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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108
stapled
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| v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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110
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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111
synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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112
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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113
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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114
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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115
racist
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| n.种族主义者，种族主义分子 | |
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116
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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117
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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118
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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119
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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120
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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121
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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122
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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123
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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124
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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125
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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126
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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127
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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128
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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129
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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130
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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131
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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132
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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133
deadpan
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| n. 无表情的 | |
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134
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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135
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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136
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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137
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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138
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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139
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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140
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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141
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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142
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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143
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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144
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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145
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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146
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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147
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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148
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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149
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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150
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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151
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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152
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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153
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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154
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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155
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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156
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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158
tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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159
resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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160
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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161
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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162
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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163
gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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164
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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165
smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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166
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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167
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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168
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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169
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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170
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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171
bumming
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| 发哼（声），蜂鸣声 | |
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172
cadging
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| v.乞讨，乞得，索取( cadge的现在分词 ) | |
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173
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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174
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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175
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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176
cadge
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| v.乞讨 | |
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177
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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178
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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179
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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180
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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181
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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182
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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183
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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184
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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185
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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186
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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187
seismic
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| a.地震的，地震强度的 | |
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188
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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189
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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190
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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191
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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192
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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193
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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194
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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195
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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196
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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197
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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198
punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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199
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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200
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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201
gangster
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| n.匪徒，歹徒，暴徒 | |
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202
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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203
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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204
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
acronym
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| n.首字母简略词，简称 | |
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206
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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207
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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208
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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209
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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210
pander
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| v.迎合；n.拉皮条者，勾引者；帮人做坏事的人 | |
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211
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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212
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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213
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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214
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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215
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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216
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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217
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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218
dabble
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| v.涉足，浅赏 | |
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219
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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220
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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221
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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222
expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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223
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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224
utilizing
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的现在分词 ) | |
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225
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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226
implosion
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| n.向内破裂，内爆 | |
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227
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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228
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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229
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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230
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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231
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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232
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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233
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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234
forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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235
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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236
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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237
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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238
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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239
inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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240
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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