Jubilee (3 page)

It’s Saturday afternoon and Maya’s in her tracksuit bottoms and vest, bouncing from foot to foot in the hall and breathing out loudly, rhythmically, each time she lands to her right. Her hands are clad in lilac boxing gloves and as she dances and huffs she slams them against each other.

‘Come on! Get on with it!’ she tells Satish. ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’

The second pad is always hardest to get on, his hand immobilised by the first; in the end he traps it under his armpit and slides his fingers in that way. He’s never told Maya how much he hates this ritual, how bemused he is that his wife, this gentle soul, would want to spend her spare time knocking seven bells out of … anything. When she fixes the pad with that focused gaze and lands one on it, he wonders what it’s standing in for. The whole process is unsettling, but it’s dull too, standing there for thirty minutes with his hands in the air. Plus, she looks a bit funny in her lilac boxing gloves and sometimes he has to force himself not to laugh.

‘You look weird, Papa,’ Asha tells him. She’s lounging on the bottom stair, book in hand.

‘Thank you, Asha,’ he says. ‘Do you have homework to do?’

‘At the end of this chapter.’

‘Homework?’

‘Just let me finish this.’ Her skinny legs are encased in black, thin tops layered over her skinny torso. She slaps the book face down on the stair and reaches up to tighten her ponytail.

‘Right,’ says Maya. ‘You done? You ready? You want a piece of me? You want a piece of me?’

‘One chapter,’ says Satish.

‘Sati! Any more of that and you’ll distract me,’ says Maya. ‘I might just hit the wrong thing.’ She’s exaggerating her bounces, bobbing from side to side. She dances up to Satish and bops him gently on the chest, on the nose. Then she puts her guard up and he can’t see her breasts any more. He realises he’s been watching them, the way they sit differently in a vest.

‘I’m going to start with jab, jab, cross. OK?’ She points to his right pad.

‘OK.’

She starts slowly, pulling back into guard position between punches, naming them as she lands them: jab, jab, cross. He concentrates on what he has to do, the pads at her shoulder height, meeting the blows with a little resistance, a little pushback each time. Sometimes she doesn’t land square, and then his hand is knocked askew, but not too often. It’s flowing nicely now, the crosses coming right across her body, from the back foot to the leading hand, and packing a proper wallop. Under her bare feet, as she twists, the hall rug skews.

‘Papa?’

‘Ye-es?’

‘Did you hear about Daksha’s dad? He’s famous.’

Eleven years as a parent have taught Satish the art of half-listening. He can catch the cry of authentic fear, the yell of actual pain, and filter out anything less consequential. He’ll never be able to multi-task, but this comes close.

‘You know
Be My Guest
?’

‘Umm … no.’

‘Papa! God!’

‘Asha! Language, please!’ Maya puffs. ‘Right, Sati. Change.’ She frowns at the pad and swaps foot positions. Leading from the other side she starts again: jab, jab, cross. He’d like a cup of tea, he thinks. He’d like a sit-down with the paper. Mehul’s out with his grandparents buying his school uniform and he’d even rather be doing that. Jab, jab, cross. His shoulders are aching.

‘Satish? Just watch the angle there. You’re a bit out.’ Maya reaches across to adjust the pad.

‘
Be My Guest
. It’s this TV programme. You know, TV, the thing in the corner? Big screen?’

Maya snorts. ‘Asha … has … a … point,’ she says.

‘Daksha’s dad was on it. There’re four people. They do, like, dinner parties for each other.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘It was on last week. Daksha’s dad won. He got a thousand pounds.’

‘Very nice.’

‘He was in the paper. Daksha brought it in yesterday:
Asian Lite
. There was a picture of him in their kitchen.’

‘Good for him.’

The pounding against his hands has stopped. Maya lifts her gloves to her head, pushing them over her ears. She frowns.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m trying to tuck my hair behind my ears. Don’t laugh. I can’t do it with these things on.’

‘Here, let me help.’

‘Anyway,’ he hears Asha say. ‘Daksha’s, like, this celebrity now.’

‘No,’ says Maya. ‘You’re just taking the mick …’ but she lets him reach out to her. Giggling, she dips her head forward and he brackets it with the curve of the pads. There’s her face, her hair, the flush and warmth of her, and he strokes across her cheeks towards her ears. There’s nothing to feel, an inch of leather and stuffing between them, and so he has to remember what it feels like, his fingers against her skin, the architecture of her bones.

‘Hmm. Not sure how to manage this.’ He pushes at her ears ineffectually. They’re both laughing. There’s a Velcro rip and her glove comes off. He leans down to her, but she turns away and searches the hall table for something.

There’s a gentle thumping behind them: Asha making her way lugubriously upstairs. She’ll hunker down on the beanbag they keep on the landing – there’s the shingle sound of her sinking into it. She’ll read her book, keeping an ear open for her parents, and send down waspish comments when she feels like it.

‘Bingo!’ Maya’s found two of Asha’s hairclips and puts them on: sparkling plastic butterflies, one on each side.

‘Good choice,’ Satish says. ‘Didn’t Prince Naseem wear something like that?’

‘Enough! Let’s go!’ But now she’s having problems with the glove; the Velcro strap won’t do up properly.

‘Bugger!’

‘I can hear you, Mum!’

‘It’s different for adults!’ Maya calls up. Then she mutters: ‘I’m sick of this. I’ll just be a sec.’

She goes to the door that links the house to the garage. Satish sees the light flickering.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m looking for duct tape. I just want to … hold on.’ He sees her through the half-open door, peering into the toolbox. He goes to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Asha?’

‘Yeah?’

‘
Yes
. I was serious about that homework.’

‘I’ve done my Maths. My War project’s due in …’ But as she’s talking, his attention leaves her again. He hears the lid of the toolbox shut, Maya sighing. He turns to see what she’s up to; she has his briefcase in her hand.

‘Wait! What are you doing?’ He rushes into the garage and snatches it from her.

‘Ow! What are
you
doing? I told you, I need duct tape—’

‘Well, it’s not in there.’

‘I was just clearing this shelf.’

‘I don’t like my stuff being moved.’

‘There’s all sorts of crap in here. I thought someone might have … hey!’ She reaches across him and emerges, duct tape in hand. She holds it up in front of his face. ‘On your briefcase shelf,’ she says. ‘Behind your briefcase.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be.’

‘Well, if you don’t like it, may I suggest you’re overdue a tidy-up?’

Upstairs, Asha shifts. ‘Chill!’ she advises them. Satish and Maya look at each other. There’s a brief moment of standoff, then she smiles.

‘Yeah, chill,’ she says. ‘Dude.’

‘I just—’

‘Chill,’ she repeats. ‘Or your ass is grass.’

Jab, jab, cross, hook, hook: her hands are coming across at right angles, a side-on impact, and he has to angle the pads down after the first three punches. This takes more concentration, the change in position; it’s easy to miss a beat and mess things up.

‘I talked to Sima about your dad’s birthday.’ She slams into the pads on the stresses. ‘She’s got no idea about his present.’

‘OK. Don’t talk. Concentrate.’

‘I can do both – whoops! It’s good for me. Keeps both sides of my brain working.’

‘I’ll think of something for Papa.’

He sees the angle of her arm, her fierce face behind it, as she hooks across and connects. Upstairs, he can hear Asha shifting in the bean bag. Maya’s finding it harder to talk now; she leaves her words unfinished. Then she stops on a half-hearted cross and leans forward, hands on knees, mouth breathing, reaches out for the water bottle stationed on the windowsill.

‘Hold on … Just a minute.’ She swigs and bends over again. Satish stretches his hands behind him, crunching his shoulder blades together. He rolls his head and closes his eyes. No one requires him; it’s a moment of peace. He hears Maya’s breathing slow down and then, just when he thinks they’re about to start again, she says: ‘Colette rang earlier. She told me about the photo.’

He keeps his eyes closed. What does Maya know? Find out. Carefully.

‘What did she say?’

‘She said Andrew Ford wants to get all of you together again. She said she’d sent you an email. Didn’t you get it?’

Instinctively, his hand has moved to the top of his right arm. He finds he’s standing there hugging himself, only he can’t feel anything because of the stupid pad. He opens his eyes. Maya is looking at him quizzically.

‘Yes. I got it. What else did she say?’ He uncurls and holds the pads up at shoulder height.

‘Put some uppercuts in,’ she instructs. ‘Two, after the hooks. Pads facing down. OK?’

Jab, jab, cross, hook, hook, uppercut, uppercut, the last two coming towards his chin, blocked by the pads. Once she’s in the rhythm he tries again.

‘What did Colette tell you?’

‘Ford wants to take another picture. The papers want to do articles. Publicity and fame! She’s
very
keen.’

Ford
wants
? Satish knows what he wants. He wants to give Colette what for. He wants to shout at Maya. He wants them all to be quiet and leave him alone.

‘Think I’ll duck out.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m too busy. The rotas … it won’t work out.’

She’s hit her stride and she pounds away, hammering her words into the pads. ‘Everyone’s busy. They’ll be flexible about it.’

He has to concentrate on placing his hands: three punches upright, two lateral, two facing down. She’s moving faster and he doesn’t want to make a mistake.

‘It won’t work out, Maya.’

‘It might.’

‘I’m not going to do it!’

‘OK.’ Jab, jab, cross. ‘How about you tell me …’ Hook, hook. ‘… what’s really going on?’

His arms jerk sideways and the uppercut slams into him. There’s a blow, his head judders back, and he’s bitten the side of his tongue. Maya’s trying to touch him, but he’s pushing her away.

‘Oh God, Sati. I’m sorry. Are you OK?’

He nods. His mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. She’s pulling her gloves off. ‘Let me see. Open up …’

He pushes past her into the kitchen, slips off the pads and opens his mouth under the tap. He spits out red, then pink. He wants to bellow. It escapes him as a low hum while the water shifts on his tongue.

‘Sati?’

He turns to her. ‘I’m all right. My fault.’

‘Let’s pack it in.’

‘No.’ He looks at the pads on the floor. ‘My turn.’

He’s not done this before. Maya’s padded up and he’s refused her sweaty, lilac gloves.

‘It’s stupid to do it without gloves. You can break your hand like
that
.’ Maya clicks her fingers.

‘Hold them up, Maya.’

‘Stop being so proud. Lead with the top of the metacarpals. Never tuck your thumb in. Keep it outside, to protect it. Start gently.’

‘Pads up.’

She sighs and holds up her hands. He copies what he’s seen her do, slowly at first. He feels the shock of the blow travel up his arm. Maya’s OK, though. She shudders very slightly each time he lands a punch, but she’s fine, and soon he can concentrate on just hitting. He can land them harder, and faster, and there’s a mantra in his head – jab, jab, cross – which helps him keep time. There’s only the pads, the centre of them, and it’s OK to hit them, to really hammer them, because Maya won’t be hurt and each blow makes him feel better.

This is him, jab, jab, cross, hook, hook, very strong, very powerful. He can look after himself; don’t mess with him. He sees them, sees them in front of him. Cai and Sarah. He sees the Chandler boys, Stephen and Paul. He sees Mrs Miller and Mr Brecon and Mrs Hobbes, the whole lot of them, and he is absolutely, absolutely not afraid of them, so much so that he can …

Cross, cross, cross, cross, cross … Just lay into them. Bam! Bam! Bam! They cannot stop him, and he will not stop. He will hit and hit and hit. He is completely unafraid. He is …

‘Satish? Satish! Stop!’

He is completely unafraid.

‘Satish! Please stop it!’ Maya is shouting at him. She’s stepping back, away from him. He can see Asha behind her, halfway down the stairs, her mouth open.

Satish crouches down and rests his head on his fists. He breathes. He can hear Maya’s voice. ‘Satish?’

It’s OK.

‘Sati, tell me what’s wrong.’

Everything’s OK.

Since the email, Satish’s night-time strategies don’t seem to be working. He can’t do his breathing, or play All The Beds, or roam his house unseen. There’s only one place he can go, and one time, too, that lets him in as easily as you like. Because in those restless nights, 1977 welcomes him. Cherry Gardens invites him in – every door is open, he can just stroll inside.

There’s the dormer window of his childhood house, jutting out at the front, the bay beneath it. He can see his bedroom and the sitting room dimly behind the glass – no nets for his mum. There’s the front porch with its light that looks like an old-fashioned lantern, the brass number 4, the nameplate –
Dawlish
– which was there when they arrived. There’s the green front door. He walks through it, moves up the stairs, up and round, following their backwards twist. He arrives at the door of his room. He’s looking for something, as he always is on these night rambles. He’s searching for an explanation, a chain of cause and effect, something with a beginning, middle and end. In particular, he’s looking for a beginning. He wants to find out where it started.

Maybe it started here: in his own bedroom, on Jubilee morning. He pushes open the door. There he is, twelve years old, standing near the window. And here’s Mandy. She’s come to see him.