A Matter of Marriage (27 page)

Tomorrow was Friday. He still hadn't said anything to Henry or Thea. Henry would follow his lead, let the girl stay for now. Something would be possible. But Thea would be the difficult one over this: she would hate having a stranger squatting in her Abbey, amongst her antique furniture. Well, fuck it, he thought, with a sudden wave of irritation. The Abbey was his home too, and it was time she realized that.

Could he spirit her to London, to some women's shelter? Would she wither and die without her community? Prefer to return to whatever awful situation she had left, rather than be alone? Visions of her in his flat intruded—digging her toes into his new rug. Sitting on his balcony, the sunshine on her hair.

This was ridiculous: he was getting way ahead of himself, and time was running out. She deserved help to get away in any event, to have a safe place to stay, whatever did or didn't happen between them. God forbid that she could love that old man. Or was it the son?

And Mrs. Begum knew something, he was just not sure what. Presumably she would never accept Dr. Choudhury having an affair. But perhaps Richard was wrong there too. He stretched, took in the view, and with a further effort of will turned his mind from cigarettes to dinner with the Choudhurys. There were too many variables, too much that he just didn't know. Anything might happen. He went back inside.

His sitting room was lit up by the afternoon sun: the rug glowing blue and gold and green. The chimney breast seemed bare now. He had always preferred it like that, had always made a point of asserting the fact, to avoid the risk of something being foisted on him by one of Deirdre's designer friends. But now the room was different: it did need something.

He walked over his beautiful rug to the mantelpiece, surveyed the pale space above it and the cavity below which housed the gas fire. Wasn't the hearth supposed to be the heart of the home? Where the Romans housed their
Lares
, hunters mounted their trophies, Deirdre and Thea propped their most prestigious invitations. He looked again at the roses on the rug, the chimney breast. The painting of the rose and the girl with the wild and waving hair would fit well here now.

Perhaps that was the solution. He could offer to buy Choudhury's painting to gain his cooperation, then fund her out of her situation. Although it would never be that simple, at least this was something he could put to her: something to talk about, without having to launch into more personal things like her history, her relationship with Choudhury. Make it evident that he wasn't her enemy.

So was that what was happening? Was he trying to make a home out of this flat, this sensible investment property, neutrally furnished, that he'd always intended to sell when he took silk? He paced the room, suddenly restless, the craving for nicotine making itself known again. His priorities seemed clearer now. He would let someone else in Chambers have first choice of new briefs from the clerks for the next few weeks, to give himself a bit more breathing space in case she needed his legal help. Perhaps even spend a bit more time in Wiltshire. God knows how the whole thing was going to work out. Dinner with the Choudhurys tonight, and perhaps the answers to a few questions, then tomorrow morning he could check that the girl was still there, was alright. Not scared away by last week. Or spirited away somewhere else by Choudhury, or the son.

He settled himself on the couch with a new brief, but, distracted, only read it intermittently. At three-thirty p.m. he realized that he'd forgotten all about Deirdre: she'd be expecting him tomorrow for their usual Friday. He called to let her know that he couldn't make it. The implication was obvious, they knew each other well enough for that. He'd expected calm acceptance, but the way she said, “Anyone I know?” threw him. Then she laughed and said, “She
must
be special,” and smoothly segued into, “Oh, don't worry about it, darling: you're still on my party list . . .” And, knowing Deirdre, he really was, and would still be invited to her perpetual rounds of drinks, parties and openings.

After he'd hung up, he had a strange sense of shame. His relationship with Deirdre, so dependent upon a concurrence of geography and working hours and a shared lack of interest in commitment, had ended in a way that was disturbingly bloodless.

—

H
E SHOULD SET
off. It would be so much easier to forget the whole thing, just stay in London and keep working at his flat, rather than head to Wiltshire, but there was no point thinking that now. He left a message on Henry and Thea's phone to say that he wouldn't be arriving until late, after dinner with the Choudhurys, would use his key, and that he planned to go out early Friday—to the Abbey, though he didn't say as much—and so would see them whenever. Running down the steps to his car, he felt tired and strung out. Jesus, why had he committed to these things?

As soon as Richard hit the M4, despite beating the rush hour, it was virtual gridlock. The traffic travelled at a crawl for about three miles then stopped completely. He felt edgy and headachey. When the driver in front of him lit up a cigarette and rolled down his window, Richard reflexively patted the central console where his lighter and smokes used to be, tried the pockets of the jacket hanging behind him, then stared grimly ahead. He could taste it. This trip was turning into a penance, and for what?

Looking for distraction from the driver ahead, who was positively luxuriating in his cigarette, he watched a bee brush against the outside of the car's windscreen, not quite landing, then slowly continue, flying parallel to the glass in wobbly zigzags, like a miniature helicopter on reconnaissance.

Perhaps traces of pollen were there from last weekend's visit, from other places too. Like a history of his movements around England, if one had the ability to read it: journeys measured not in clock-time, destinations and deadlines, but in the countryside he moved through, the nature of the weather, where he stopped on impulse for coffee. The importance of the journey itself. Like the old idea of a pilgrimage, where it was the commitment to travel, and the act of travelling itself, moment by moment of it, that changed everything. Not the end point, the arrival.

T
HE FRONT DOOR
of Windsor Cottage was open, propped wide by a monstrous cast-iron doorstop. Down one side of the hallway, archive boxes were stacked three high. When Richard pressed the doorbell, Mrs. Begum's head appeared out of a doorway at the far end of the hall.

She walked toward him, her hands held out. “
Salaam
, dear Richard, come in, come in.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Begum. Doing some packing?”

“No. They are from the college.”

“Is Dr. Choudhury here?”

“No, no, not yet. He is still on his healthy-walk. Come with me, Richard. I am cooking.”

He followed her into an airy kitchen painted in brilliant yellow and blue, its open window crowded with herbs in pots. Above them was a cafe curtain in a sheer fabric, almost completely covered by pieces of paper that were flapping in the breeze. Richard walked over to get a closer look.

Attached to the curtain with colored pins were newspaper and magazine cuttings of various members of the royal family, a glossy brochure with a white stretch limousine on the cover, a cruise ship advertisement showing a tropical island, and some brightly colored cards with gold writing in Arabic and English:
Eid Mubarak
.

Mrs. Begum, filling a kettle, nodded at the cards. “They are last year's Eid—my favorites. Happy Eid cards, Richard. Like your Christmas.” She smiled. “But no Santa.”

“You don't believe in Santa?”

She laughed. “No, we don't believe. I make you a cup-of-tea. Sit down.”

He pulled out a chair and did as he was told. The smell of curry was pervasive, and a wok and two pots were on the stove bubbling away. His stomach growled. Ages since he'd had a curry. On the chopping board were neat piles of ginger, garlic, green onions, and some fine-cut coriander. On a shelf above the counter were two large tomes, in faded reddish binding with embossed lettering.
Home County Recipes
.
Traditional Cotswold Cooking
. His heart sank. Surely not. Growing up with Audrey's cooking, having to wade through it again whenever he stayed at the Lodge, was bad enough.

“Are they your books?”

“No, no. They are Mrs. Darby's, next-door. We look at the pictures, talk about recipes, ingredients.” Mrs. Begum tapped a wooden spoon on the edge of the biggest pot, then lifted the spoon up and gave it a little twirl. “My friend.”

Mrs. Begum carried a mug of tea to the table, white with milk.
World's Greatest Dad
, it read, in red lettering on blue. She placed it on the tabletop in front of him and, with a corner of the tea towel that was tucked into the waist of her sari, removed a drop of milk that balanced on its rim.

He wondered for a second if she was going to wipe the tea towel across his face as well, ruffle his hair, ask him if he'd washed his hands. How would he have turned out, with a mother like this? Perhaps he'd never have left home. Until he married.

His usual sense of containment, of knowing where he ended and other people began, had gone missing. He felt frayed at the edges, weakened by the cosiness, Mrs. Begum's matter-of-fact care. He patted his pockets for smokes and lighter before he remembered, yet again, that he was giving up. What had possessed him to try to do that? He sipped his tea, and its extreme sweetness brought tears to his eyes: she must have put in about six spoonfuls of sugar.

On the table was a scattering of photographs. The young man in a blue tunic was clearly Tariq, the V&A action man, and there was another of him in a master's bonnet and graduation robes, with Oxford spires in the background.

“What did Tariq get his degree in?”

“History-of-Art. Paintings,” Mrs. Begum said, with an undertone of incredulity in her voice. “For learning about paintings.”

“He must have been only a few years behind me. At Oxford.”

“Yes.” She pointed her spoon at him, her arm at full stretch. He froze. The spoon dripped onto the table. “But why did he need to go to South Africa?
Plenty
of jobs here.
Plenty
of study here.” Before he could think of a reply, she turned away and brought the spoon down hard on the edge of the wok. Bang, rattle. “My pride is as high as the
sky
”—another bang, rattle—“that my son has to go so far away to work. To study.”

He relaxed, sipped his tea.

“But now Tariq is home.” She stuck her spoon into the other pot and stirred vigorously, did the same to the third impartially. “Home now.”

Richard wondered how long that would last. The other night Tariq had looked as if he had well and truly outgrown home life with his parents. But in thinking this, was he just falling into the trap the solicitor had warned him about: mistaking city clothes, urbane manners, for Western views? Whatever they were. And besides, this looked like a pretty pleasant family life: very different to what his own had been.

Under Tariq's photos there were some others, and as he fanned them out over the tabletop, he saw the girl. Jesus Christ. A few years ago perhaps, less voluptuous and wearing full traditional dress: something pink, with lots of spangles, for a studio shot. It didn't suit her, and she seemed to know it, with those full lips pressed together, and the suggestion of a frown.

Her hair was down and had been flattened into even waves that caught the light, unlike the wild curls he had seen, but there was no mistaking her. There were long chain-like pieces of jewelry hooked into it and linked to her earrings. A diamante glittered between her brows: a bindi, he'd looked it up. Her forearms were hidden under pink and gold bracelets. She looked faintly ridiculous, as if in fancy dress that she had not chosen.

His hands trembled with the effort of not picking it up, not exclaiming. He considered ducking out the back for a smoke, wondered if he'd been mistaken and there was still an emergency pack in the glovebox. He hadn't checked that.

Mrs. Begum spoke from just behind him, making him jump. “Ah. My eldest daughter. My Rohimun.”

He did not trust himself to speak. He grasped for his mug like a man in the desert. Mrs. Begum reached over his shoulder and flicked the photo to one side, revealing an old black-and-white photo of three children in school uniform. The boy in the middle was Tariq, probably about nine or ten, his shirt hanging out, flanked by two girls. One was clearly Rohimun: she and Tariq were grinning straight at the camera, hair awry and arms akimbo, as if they had just been up to some mischief. The other girl, more neatly dressed, held on to the railing that ran behind them, her other hand tugging on Tariq's shirt.

Richard thought of how he and Henry used to be at that age, when they were outdoors, away from family dramas. Building forts in the woodpile, rolling chickens down hills in milk churns to watch them climb out and stagger in drunken circles, sword fighting with the broad-bean stakes. All for one, and one for all.

Mrs. Begum's index finger, her nail stained with a dark reddish substance, tapped on the terrible two. “Tariq. Rohimun.” Then she drew the tip of her finger gently down the image of the sulky girl. “Shunduri, Baby.”

Mrs. Begum showed him a full-blown studio shot of Shunduri in a tight, pale blue sari, frosted lips pushed out, blue eyelids drooping, breasts cantilevered upward.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Ah,” said Richard. Fifteen going on thirty-five more like. Something about her reminded him of Deirdre. And Thea, though Thea would never have posed like that. It was more the sense of a manufactured image. What was it in him that attracted such women? And why was it only now that he realized what poor measure his own feelings had been? He took a long swallow of tea and felt surreptitiously for the non-existent cigarette pack that might somehow have materialized in his jacket pocket. God.

He picked up the studio shot of Rohimun, careful of his tone. “So?”

Mrs. Begum edged around the table and sat down opposite him. She took a sip from her cup of tea, grimaced and added two more spoonfuls of sugar from a little cream-colored china beehive with a replica bee on its side. Then she clasped her hands and met his eyes.

“So,” she said. “You have seen her. My daughter.”

He nodded slowly, bracing himself for he knew not what. He felt responsible for the mess somehow, whatever it was, but also like a supplicant, waiting on her decision, her judgement.

“She has had trouble,” Mrs. Begum said quietly. “We cannot have her here. My husband . . .”

Richard nodded again, his teeth on edge from the sugar and the need for a smoke.

Mrs. Begum stood to give a quick stir to the various pots, which all seemed to be doing very well without her. She banged the edge of the wok once, with decision, then turned down its flame and dropped in a handful of coriander. Its aroma filled the room.

“She is a good girl,” said Mrs. Begum, with her back to him.

“A
good
girl. She paints pictures.”

“She's a painter.” Of course she was. The painting was hers. Why hadn't he realized that before?

“Yes, yes. Always the painting, from when she was small. And then, everyone wanted her paintings, in London. Always in London, never home. And then . . .” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the end of her sari.

“She can't be at home?”

“No . . . her father . . .” Mrs. Begum turned toward him, her voice high and strained, the steaming pots behind her rumbling away in counterpoint. “It was in a magazine, that she had a boyfriend. They say she is not a good girl, but she is. She
is
.”

Mrs. Begum was crying properly now, her hands over her face, and Richard stood, wondered if he could touch her shoulder, then pulled out his handkerchief and brushed it on her hands. She took it and sat down, still crying, but slower now. He leaned back against the countertop, folded his arms and thought. Rohimun. Rohimun's mother. And Dr. Choudhury was her father, Tariq her brother. It
had
been her at the exhibition. And was that other man her boyfriend? He felt some of the tension leaving his shoulders and reflexively patted his jacket pocket.

“Ah, the rice.”

“Allow me.” He turned off the gas, found a handtowel, picked up the biggest saucepan and shook its contents into a colander standing in the sink. The scent and sight of the steaming rice started his stomach growling again.

Mrs. Begum bustled over, seemingly recovered, and took the empty saucepan out of his hands.

Perhaps now he could duck out, check the glovebox. He was really beginning to feel it. His skin crawling and clammy, his vision starting to blur, the beginnings of a headache. Day four: the doctor had warned him. His symptoms would peak, then subside. He just had to soldier on. Why hadn't he filled the script for nicotine patches? He felt like eating one. Why hadn't he considered the gum at least, kept some as backup?

Footsteps sounded in the hall, along with Dr. Choudhury's voice, raised and plaintive. “Tea, tea now.”

Mrs. Begum took hold of Richard's upper arm and pushed him out the kitchen door into the hallway. “All done, all ready now,” she said. “Go to Dr. Choudhury. I will bring the tray.”

He hesitated, looking at the front door. Perhaps he could quickly duck out to the car, just on the off chance. But halfway down the hall, Dr. Choudhury's head had poked out of the sitting-room doorway in an odd echo of his wife's earlier.

“Ah, Richard Bourne. Hail fellow, well met. Come in, come in, sit down. Yes, there. No, I won't hear of it, sit down. I will pour you a drink. As you know, I do not, but I can manage a whiskey for my friend Richard.”

After giving him his drink, Dr. Choudhury started to waffle on about some university politics, which Richard, headachey and distracted, could only partially follow, but felt obliged to try, given what he'd been assuming about the man until only minutes before. There was a certain subdued quality in his manner tonight, but what the Saudis had to do with Oxford, Richard could not say, so larded had the story been with complicated self-justifications and assertions of some kind of conspiracy to remove him. Apparently because he was a symbol of all that was civilized and moderate within the department's staff. And why would they bother with him anyway? Historical Architecture was hardly their beef. So to speak.

At least Tariq was nowhere to be seen, Richard thought, which took some of the pressure off having to socialize.

When they sat down to eat, it was a no-nonsense meal in the kitchen, as if he were family. He watched Mrs. Begum's quick but gentle placement of the various saucepans straight onto cork mats on the scrubbed pine. He could recall Audrey with the silver chafing dishes his mother insisted on, banging them down on the table so hard that their contents sometimes erupted onto the tablecloth.

Mrs. Begum served her husband first, then him, with a generous mound of rice and curry, just as he'd hoped. Once he began to eat he discovered that it helped with the cravings, and the headache. So he kept on eating, and Mrs. Begum, pleased, kept on serving him, until, looking at his plate which was as full as when he'd started, he felt as if he were going to slip into a coma.

When she saw that he had stopped, finally defeated by the never-ending food mountain before him, she sent him back to the sitting room along with her husband, flapping a dismissive hand at his token attempts to help clear the table.

Richard's head was pounding, and his stomach was uncomfortably full. Dr. Choudhury, who did in fact look older than he'd ever seen him, was now expanding upon his poor health and the stresses of fatherhood.

Mrs. Begum joined them, and though her hands were constantly occupied with the contents of her large silver tray and its leaves and powders, she chatted away, persuading him to try some paan. He refused the sweetened packages that she was making for her husband but did accept a few fragments of betel nut and chewed them diligently. They were almost tasteless, and hard work initially, but less than a minute later, he felt a pleasant buzz in his limbs and, for a blessed half-hour after, a measure of relief from his headache. Good stuff, although having seen Mrs. Begum's reddish teeth and maroon gums, he had refused a second helping. About the only thing he had refused, though.