"Do you ever stop cooking?", laughed Sam Harrop.
Abdul Harbi grimaced slightly, then smiled. Abdul was short and slight, with an Afro hairstyle and wide eyes.
"If I did, the business wouldn't work", he pointed out reasonably.
"Yes but you can take a break, you know", teased Sam. "Let someone else do it."
Abdul wasn't sure how to respond to this. He was proud of his cooking ability, and John Crouch, the manager, had regularly praised him for it. He was also not sure what to make of Sam, who was friendly but also a bit too teasing for his liking. Sam was also, in Abdul's opinion, rather weird, with close cropped hair, always an earring in one ear but not the other, sometimes dressed in jeans, at other times wearing a skirt, and - strangest of all to Abdul - insistent on being addressed as they rather than as he or she. Abdul remembered, on first meeting Sam, how he had asked if they were a man or woman, and Sam had replied "half and half". How anyone could not be just a man or just a woman baffled Abdul, back in Mogadishu no one had had any such ideas, but he supposed it was all part of the chaos of Western society.
"Anyway", said Sam, "work to do, mustn't hang around", and they picked up the plate of steak and kidney pie and left the kitchen.
Abdul allowed himself a moment of reflection, before swiftly and skillfully peeling and chopping some potatoes. The Happy Waiter regularly received glowing reviews for the quality of its food, and Abdul felt very satisfied in the knowledge that his own cooking skills were the reason for this. It was also, he thought, rather ironic, considering how he had learned those skills . . .
The 10-year-old boy gave a yelp of pain: his right hand had accidentally brushed against the pan. He had had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pan, but had lost his balance and fallen forward. He looked at his hand: there was a burn, covering about three-quarters of his palm. He ran straight for the sink.
"What are you doing?", demanded the tall and forbidding woman who had been standing near him.
Abdul held up his right hand, by way of explanation, while turning on the tap with his left hand.
"Stupid boy", she scoffed.
Abdul began running his hand under the tap, but the woman strode across, grabbed him by the wrist and turned the tap off.
"But . . ." Abdul began.
"No time. Yusuf and Fatima aren't going to wait much longer."
Abdul looked pleadingly at her.
"Please, Amina . . ."
"Mrs. Samatar to you", she said, in a tone that made it plain there was to be no arguing.
Abdul shuffled back to the cooker, his hand stinging horribly. The water in the pan was now boiling: it was time to add the pasta. With his right arm hanging uselessly by his side. Abdul awkwardly picked up the rice packet in his left hand. He managed to dump most of the pasta into the pan, but some of it spilled on to the hob or on to the floor.
"Useless", snapped Amina, as Abdul, as best he could, picked up the fallen pieces from the floor and put them in the bin. His right hand was now causing him serious irritation. He began to cry.
"What are you crying for?", Amina asked him, her voice a mix of contempt and curiosity.
"I want to go home", Abdul pleaded, looking up at her.
"This is your home, you ungrateful child", she replied. "But you won't have one if you keep on being lazy."
Abdul hurried over to the kitchen surface: it was time to chop the vegetables. It was a laborious process, only being able to use one hand, and he heard constant sniping from Amina. He felt relieved when he heard Amina call:
"Hassan! Yusuf! Fatima! The meal's ready!"
Abdul served the food onto the four plates, and, one by one, without speaking, placed them on the table. He would have to wait until after the meal before they gave him something to eat, usually a bit of flatbread.
The table was small and round. Directly opposite Abdul sat a tall, bulky man with a square face, narrow eyes and a thick moustache. Amina sat next to him, and, on the other side of the table, in front of Abdul, sat a boy and a girl, barely younger than Abdul himself. Noticing that the family was completely absorbed in the meal, and in chatting to one another, Abdul tiptoed over to the sink to rinse his burnt hand.
He had barely begun when he heard the girl's voice.
"This pasta is horrible, it's way too hard."
Just ignore it, Abdul told himself.
"I know, Fatima darling, he's not very good at it, is he?", cooed Amina
"And these vegetables haven't been spiced enough", complained the boy.
"I'll teach him, Yusuf, don't worry", Amina reassured him.
"Couldn't you have got someone else?", asked the man, in a menacing tone. "A child who can actually do the work?"
"He was the cheapest, Hassan dear", said Amina: there was a note of nervousness in her voice.
"The cheapest is always the worst, that's what I always say", growled Hassan. "Do you hear me, boy?", he added, raising his voice.
Abdul didn't answer.
"I said, 'do you hear me, boy'?, repeated Hassan. Abdul looked up: Hassan was standing up from the table and unbuckling his belt.
Abdul knew what was in store: he ducked down and ran out of the kitchen before Hassan could move. He ran through the living room, up the stairs into the bathroom, where he finally gave his hand the attention it so badly needed. Even so, there was now a very large blister, which he hoped would go away as soon as possible.
"Abdul! Abdul!"
He looked around and saw that John had entered the kitchen: like Hassan, John was tall and bulky, but unlike him had a round face, a five o'clock shadow and a smile.
"So you've finally stopped daydreaming", he remarked, a little sharply.
"Sorry", said Abdul.
"Well, forget it", said John. "I've got some excellent news. Next Wednesday from eight o'clock we're having a party to celebrate 25 years of the business. I assume you would like to come?"
"Of course", said Abdul.
"And", John continued, "we're invited to bring our families. Personally I'm looking forward to meeting your family. Will you bring them?"
Abdul didn't answer.
"Well, Abdul", prompted John.
"OK, then", said Abdul hastily.
"Good", said John, "I've always been fascinated by your family's story. Well, see you later, Abdul."
He left the room. Abdul was now feeling awkward: how would John react when he discovered the truth?
