Losing Touch (10 page)

‘Ah yes. Family history. I'm a bit of a dab hand at that. Now, for instance, my family, the Kembles, go back to the twelfth century, or so I'm told.' A little laugh. ‘The old English is quaint. Cynbel. Isn't that lovely? I'm doing a genealogical chart.'

‘How clever of you.'

‘Everything's verified, of course. So.' Maryweld finally pauses for breath and leans on the edge of the table. ‘I can't believe the Duchess of Windsor's gone, can you?'

It's only a card table and not capable of bearing much weight. Sunila tries to think of something tactful to say. ‘I never really thought of her as royalty.'

‘Me either. Bit of an upstart, really, wasn't she? But beautiful. You can see why he went for her. The prince. I must say, if some prince came along and offered himself—'

A noise like a gunshot and the table shudders, tilts and collapses. The remaining pickles and small bottles of ghee slide sideways, taking a startled-looking Maryweld with them.

To her shame, Sunila's first thought is for the broken bottles and the wasted food. After that, there is the real danger of injury, but Maryweld appears unhurt.

The unmistakably pungent smell of mango pickle and the Hounslow church hall is magically transported to a Bombay market, stall owners hustling mangoes, pineapples,
chaat
, chicken tandoori. The bhel-puri man is grinding up the tamarind and you can almost catch the sweet scents of jaggery and mint.

‘My goodness.
What
a smell.' Maryweld has been helped into a chair.

Pastor Hargreve arrives, followed by someone with a broom. ‘Is everyone all right? Mrs Kulkani, can I trouble you to move a little?'

‘It was the table, you see,' Sunila starts to explain.

‘Don't worry about it, Mrs K. These tables are so ancient I'd expect to find fossils embedded in them.'

‘Well,
I
almost was.' Maryweld is indignant.

‘My dear Maryweld, no one would consider you a fossil.' The pastor is pleased with his joke and Maryweld roars with laughter. Sunila smiles anxiously and moves away. Perhaps she should find a bucket and mop to help clear up. Was it her fault? Should she have been quicker to stop Maryweld from leaning on the table? And what if Maryweld had been cut by the broken glass?

‘Are you okay? What happened?' Tarani, holding two cups of tea. She puts them down on the nearest table.

Sunila can't help the tears pricking. So foolish.

‘Come on, Mum, let's get some fresh air.'

Sunila allows Tarani to lead her out into the foyer where the coats, piled two or three deep, tent the hooks. Beneath is a wooden bench.

‘It's a bit cold outside. We'll stay here.' Tarani sits next to her. ‘Oh, Mum. It's all right,' she says, and hugs Sunila as she cries her stupid tears.

Sunila pulls out a handkerchief and wipes her eyes. ‘I'm sorry, darling. It just happened. She leant on the table and it collapsed.
Buthuk
. Just like that.'

There is a trembling and for a moment Sunila thinks that Tarani is also crying. But she looks up to see her daughter shaking with laughter. ‘It's funny?'

‘Oh, Mum.
Buthuk
. Just like Uncle Jonti used to say.'

Sunila laughs a little, too.

‘It was just an accident. And the old bat wasn't hurt.' Tarani takes the tissue from Sunila and wipes the tears.

‘You shouldn't call her that. She's just, you know—'

‘Boring. Her family this and her lineage that.'

‘She's lonely, Tarani. She has no one at home, poor thing. No children. She hasn't even got a cat or a dog.'

‘She'd bore it to death.' Tarani smiles at her. ‘Okay, I'm just kidding.' She laughs again. ‘Just as well Dad wasn't here. Can you imagine? Him with his leg and Maryweld on top!'

‘Tarani, don't speak about him like that.'

‘He fell downstairs at the weekend. You were at Pavi Aunty's.'

‘Was he hurt?' Why hadn't he told her?

‘He laughed.'

And for a moment it's possible to see it: they are the family with someone who falls down. Then they pick him up and they all laugh about it, lovingly. And they carry on. Everything is normal again.

They sit comfortably, leaning against the coats.

‘What you said about Dad.'

‘I didn't mean it, Mum.'

‘I know. But he really does love you. And he's very proud of you. I know you've had your differences. But all he's ever wanted is for you and Murad to be happy here. He felt it was his responsibility to make that happen.'

‘Come on, Mum, you must remember.'

And Sunila does.
You're just a little Indian girl. No one will take a second look at you. Girls can't do the same things as boys. You have to remember, you're a second-class person.

Her heart jumps against the back of her ribs. ‘You don't know what it was like for him. His own father hated him so much that they used to send the servant to meet him from school to tell him to stay at his grandmother's. Because if he came home, his father would beat him senseless.'

‘What?'

‘Your grandfather used to drink this Indian whisky. Filthy stuff. Then beat your dad and lock him in the chicken coop under the house. They left him there all night. He was only seven. And his mother wasn't much better.'

‘Grandma?'

‘He got dressed up to go to a school dance once and she caught hold of him and stripped him naked for the others to laugh at. Monkey boy, she called him.'

‘
Why?
'

Sunila hesitates. She has a half-theory. Arjun, the unwanted child who arrived four months after the forced wedding. This was a whispered secret from Jonti.
So you can understand why he is sometimes a little impatient. No one showed him any patience.

‘It was just like that.' Sunila sits up. ‘Don't you
ever
say anything about this. Not to anyone.'

Almost every day, she wakes up relieved and grateful to be in England but, even now, after more than nineteen years, she doesn't have that careless ease of her children's British mannerisms and ways of talking. They are so at home here.

Sometimes Murad talks to her, late in the evenings, telling over the story of his S-level chemistry exam. She has no British advice to give, but reminds him gently, ‘God will heal your heart, son.'
Well, this Australia business will soon be over and he still might pass this year and get into Cardiff.

She wonders what Arjun would make of this, she and Tarani sitting together and holding hands. He looks puzzled when he sees his daughter these days. Who is this young woman who once ran after him in her nappies and bossed him about?

Poor Arjun. Once upon a time she loved him and trusted him to bring her to England. A strict father, but he only wanted the best for the kids. And look at them all now: Tarani so bitter and Murad so resentful. And she, Sunila, wondering how it is that she no longer loves her husband. What is love, anyway? Just a song with a pretty tune. No one ever mentions that love comes with a fist to the back, a hand around the throat.

No matter. No matter. She squeezes Tarani's hand. One thing is certain: this is her daughter. This is her child. She can do nothing else but love her.

They have grown into each other like two sun-exhausted creepers; a combination of indistinct markings. An outsider might wonder if these are the original patterns, or if there has been some constant irritation to produce this blurring together of striation.

Once they were young and strong enough to stand with stiff shoulders. They never looked at one another except to grieve that the other was still there.
You,
their eyes said as they snapped themselves apart like press-studs.

Their children have gone into other lives. Tarani, now forty-one, is living in Boston. Sunila is relieved; at least it's not India. Until this year, when Tarani became pregnant, Arjun didn't speak to her much. He knew she disliked him when she was growing up, but she seems to like him now. Maybe the anxiety of a late pregnancy has softened her. Arjun believes that a lot of people dislike him for reasons he will never understand. He lets his small hesitancies drop here and there, like elderly rose petals.

Murad left England for Cairns, Australia, to work as a tourist guide. He is now forty-four.
Just imagine,
Sunila with her palm to her cheek. A grown man, slightly more than middle-aged, even. He owns a kayaking shop, whatever that is. His accent changed: a gradual lengthening of vowels as though he stretched into another culture. It takes some adjustment of the ears to speak to him on the phone when he calls from this other world. They marvel at their once silent child's business acumen suddenly flowering in a strange, hot place where they have Wollemi pines, tea trees, mud crabs and something called a queenfish.

They show their visitors the map of Australia in the
World Atlas
. Cairns is an orange smudge on page seventy-six and the sea next to it is a rich, deep blue. The visitors admire the colour combination and note the Great Barrier Reef. Arjun and Sunila nod proudly as though Murad owns the Great Barrier Reef too.

They feel they ought to be more entertaining, but have lost the energy. They look about as if the energy might be lying under sofa cushions, or snagged on curtain hooks.

They talk about their children much more now that they are gone. It is the way of parents. They argue with barely enough energy to contradict each other. Sunila remembers Tarani's hair was long. Arjun recalls it was short. He knows this is so since it shocked him. He had not thought she would ever get her hair cut so short. He shakes his head wonderingly; it was as though she had suddenly changed sex. When she visits, he marvels at how it's grown long again.

Even now they fight each other with their exhaustion. Arjun wills himself to wake at six, to crumble into clothes as fast as his disobedient hands will let him. He can do very little alone. Soon he will do less and Sunila will be forced to bathe him, take him to the toilet. She will wonder how long she can keep it up, this attendance on every little thing he wants.

The early spring sun shows petulantly behind breaking clouds as they walk slowly to the local shops; Arjun with his walking frame, Sunila with the pull-along bag. His walking frame catches on the smallest pebble, the tiniest crack. A dog ambles by and stops to sniff his shoes. He is delighted with the insult. ‘See this fellow? He has no respect. Get along with you, you old tramp.' His voice is fond over this attention. The dog salutes him with a cocky glance and a half-laugh, coral tongue dragging out of the left side of its mouth. It trots off, its liver and white markings jogging under the deep green of the privet hedges flanking the road.

They have to cross the road to get to the shops. He tries to move quickly to avoid traffic. Sunila waits on the far kerb while Arjun takes too long to stumble across the street to safety. How far it is. Once he would have taken a few strides and confidently stepped up onto the opposite pavement.

There was a time when the mountains were familiar with his quick, tireless stride. There were mountain streams he stepped across. The freezing water slapped against his legs making him gasp as he waded quickly, jumping onto the mud-warm bank.

There was facile movement and no pain. Perhaps this is why so many of the elderly are Christians. A land fairer than day where there is no pain is obviously unreal.

What does she think of, this old woman with the white puffball hair, as she tries to walk slowly so that the husband can keep up? Does she remember how he once moved like a jungle cat across the squash court, the speed and accuracy of his shots, how the crowd gasped when he made a daring snatch at the ball seemingly out of reach? How he used to hold her hand in the cinema in Bombay, how his fingers gently curled around hers? She watches the walker inching along, closer, closer.

As the old man reaches what he now thinks of as the shore, a car turns a nearby corner. He stops to glance at it and the woman bends forward and tugs at him. ‘Get up on the pavement before you kill yourself.' She catches him off balance and he stumbles. She drops the pull-along bag and grabs at him, hoisting him onto the pavement. She steadies him and retrieves the walker. She picks up the pull-along and trundles away into the greengrocer's.

The cold air carries traces of car exhaust, something fried and, just barely, the woody smell of the small trees planted alongside the row of shops. Does he think about going into his garden later? Perhaps he might dig in the earth, his fingers loosening the soil. He won't want to plant seeds. The climate is too cold for cacti. His beloved tiger lily, planted in the spring last year, has yet to flower. A succulent? Something pink and green, perhaps. He will think about his succulent, gently lowering it into the soil, adding the water, tamping down the earth around it. His strands of white hair will form antennae in the breeze and his nose will run.

The old woman comes out and beckons the old man to come into the greengrocer's. She wants to know what fruit he wants.

She waits in line behind a huge dyed-blonde perm. The perm turns around and the old woman smiles brightly, says ‘Good morning.' The perm cracks a reluctant smile as the greengrocer calls a greeting, asks after the husband. Others also nod and call to the old woman and she happily replies, ‘He's doing very well.' The English tolerate immigrants who don't complain.

The old man hears this good news about himself as he inches his way in. They have lived here for forty-four years and have achieved that nodding acquaintance of respectability that has been the woman's life's goal since they arrived in England.

He steadies himself on his walker, smiles his nervous smile, nods quickly at those who greet him, is grateful to those who overlook him. He would rather be in his garden with the new baby succulent. Perhaps he will talk to the plant as he gently sets its delicate pink and green in the earth.

A small cabbage is set beneath a flourish of carrots under a gaudy display of lights. Since this looks a little like a succulent, the old man turns his nervous smile on it. His smile softens and he transforms the bed of ice around it into dark, moist earth, like Christmas cake. The night stars will look after his succulent, will make sure it's comfortable in its bed, that nothing disturbs it.

The old woman has noticed his glance and gives the grocer her order. The old man watches his baby torn up by the roots. His smile freezes. He will have to eat cabbage. The old woman continues her order: carrots, tomatoes, onions, bananas. Someone says something about a pineapple. The greengrocer says something about Tony Blair. There is laughter.

The old woman enjoys the neighbourly chit-chat, delighted with her idea to make cabbage
fougard
and plain white rice. Pilau is nicer, of course, but more time-consuming.

The old man is still staring at the empty indentation where his succulent once was. He tells himself,
it is only a cabbage
. There is a memory of something else torn away, as though he is an old catalogue. The ice patch has a semicircular impression, a half-smile. Ridicule or regret?

Does he remember that first winter after they arrived in England, when he thought he would lose his toes to frostbite? Or the astonishing lavender mist in the woods as the bluebells came in the spring? Does he remember standing at the children's bedroom door, not wanting to enter in case they awoke? Or how he stood, squinting in the dim light, trying to see whether they looked comfortable, whether the covers were pulled up?

Where has it gone, that quick-firing response of brain to muscle that once made him
himself
, made it possible to see and hear and respond faster than an in-breath? Is the self, then, merely a series of sodium–potassium exchanges? Is there nothing more?

How long the way home is, a type of
Through the Looking-Glass
journey. Roads expand like black plastic, widening each time he must cross. The pavement is steeper each time he must step up, step down. The houses are taller, more shuttered; the grass in each front garden needs cutting. The walker, a shaking birdcage, squeaks its protests as he pushes it forward, stopping at each pavement crack, each new sprout of wild grass poking up between the paving stones.

The old woman is careful to walk slowly so that the old man isn't left too far behind. Once, many years ago, before they left India, there was an argument over whether she should walk behind him, like a good Indian wife. She refused to be a good Indian anything, but at least she is still here.

Perhaps the old man has understood that some curry or stew will be placed in front of him for his enjoyment. But he is not a good actor and she will swipe his plate away and angrily clatter the dishes about in the kitchen. She will complain loudly that nothing she ever does pleases him. He will feel guilty, but a little triumphant that this part of him, what he really likes, remains secret.

The pull-along vanishes around the corner and the old man hesitates by the postbox. How would he reconnect with his children? He might make small jokes about tripping, about falling, about his inability to type an email. Young people don't want to hear about old age. They have their own lives.

Above the postbox, the wires loop between electricity poles, the sliver of a plane needles into the salt-white clouds. The air moves up and beyond, lifts long fingers, stretches out beyond other planes, other electricity poles, descends past autoricks, the fat exhausts of buses, the calls of the rickshaw boys, the chai-wallahs, the paan-wallahs, warms itself around the peanut cart, cools itself around the kulfi ice-cream parlour. Blows itself away to the Great Barrier Reef where Murad guides a boatload of tourists out to the reef; scuds away to a coastal city in America where Tarani lies cradled in the La-Z-Boy waiting for her baby to arrive.

The old woman has walked more quickly past the postbox, a reminder of how they haven't heard from Murad in months. Infrequent news from Tarani, whose phone conversations are interrupted by bouts of morning sickness. The old woman wonders at these children of her flesh who have left. This separation of child and parent is so
foreign
. This would never have happened in India. But, of course, that is exactly what happened. There was a ship that left and a young girl, just married, stood on the third-class deck and threw down a streamer to a small figure in a white sari who bent and caught the paper string and held on to it as though it might be possible to keep her attached, even as the young girl's new world drew her away from the dock. The pull-along is set upright. The white head bends and the old woman pulls her scarf around her face in case anyone is watching, quickly pulls a tissue from her pocket and wipes her eyes.

Is it possible to really know who your children are? The old man wonders why he could never just hug them as they walked past, or touch their hair. He raises his hand, the disobedient fingers clawed together, and brushes the side of his wrist against his balding head.

He wonders what they thought as they pressed their ears against the radio, turned down low. What did they think of their one family vacation abroad to Guernsey? They never said anything; perhaps they hated it. And yet there are photos where they are all smiling. Perhaps it was just one moment, like a squash ball snatched off the side-wall, the moment just before or after the camera flash. He hopes that they are happy, even without him.

The old woman waits by the long low privet hedge at the corner of their road. The sky is partly cloudy, but there is enough blue to make a pair of sailor's trousers. Perhaps it will be sunny after all.

The old man longs for his children to be content. He longs for them to be alone rather than trapped with someone who dislikes them, whom they dislike. Halfway round the world in a place called America, there is a new grandson coming who will know nothing of his grandfather.

He reaches a shaky hand out and touches the top of the postbox, as though he is blessing it.