A Matter of Marriage (33 page)

Kareem straightened and patted the mobile in his other pocket. “This one's for you, Princess.”

He glanced at his wrist before remembering and cursing Gibran again, then pulled out a mobile to check the time. After he got up, he would speak to Auntie and Uncle, tell them about the divorce before they heard it from someone in the old country. Then he'd call Shunduri and tell her he'd sorted Simon and that he'd never bother her affa again. He smoothed his lapels and smiled at the thought of her sullen, needy gratitude: only
mardy
on the outside, that was his princess.

She should be with her family now, so that they would be comfortable with an approach by the Guris. Perhaps he could drive her down to her family this weekend. He'd tell her to stay with her parents for a bit, take the week off work, so her family wouldn't be wondering what the two of them were up to in London in the meanwhile. He knew how these people thought. He wouldn't drive her up on Saturday, his best business day of the week, but Sunday. Yeah, he could pick up some gifts Sunday morning, then take Princess home, which would give him another chance to get the Rover on the motorway and show its style.

On Monday or Tuesday, he would talk to Auntie and Uncle about marrying again, so that when they were ready they could. No rush, but he felt comfortable with it all now. He was doing well: it was time for him to settle down, live like the successful businessman he was. As for the events of this night, maybe it was time he went more legit: the mobile-phone business was taking more of his energy and making more money for him than the dealing now. He'd proven himself. It was time to move on.

The girl in Bangladesh came into his mind's eye. Even in heels, she had only come up to his shoulder. While sitting in the palanquin in all her finery for her
haldi-mendhi mela
, someone had spoken of England, and she had covered her eyes with schoolgirl-bitten nails and sobbed with her mouth open like a child. He would send her family something to ease the pain and make sure that she was provided for and was found a good husband. Someone from another village perhaps. None of this was her fault.

He shook the image away. He was a man with responsibilities now: here and in the old country, and he was doing well enough to carry them and more. Everything was working out fine. But as he jogged to the alley's only entrance, then looked back at the shadows where Simon's body lay, his usual sense of purpose was missing.

“Stick to your own kind, pub-man,” he muttered and turned away, toward the street, to check out the crowd. Flickering lights traced the passage of cars moving down the congested street, its pavements packed with the night-time crowd of rich and poor, young and old, Christians, Asians and blacks, all looking for reprieve from sorrow or loneliness or the pressures of family or work. That was it: he was the man for all of them: the fixer-upper. He strode away from the alley toward the Rover, smiling brightly over his unease, wanting the immersion of his usual circuit. The night was still young, and it was time he showed his face elsewhere.

M
RS.
B
EGUM WAS
in the garden on Saturday morning, digging furiously. The compost heap had broken apart down one side, like a volcano that had blown up its own crater, and a sickly scent filled the air. A small wheelbarrow stood nearby, and she was filling it from the heart of the mound.

The best humus, almost completely black with its wealth of organic matter as well as the thing that she would not name, would be trundled to Mrs. Darby, from back garden to back garden, for her herbaceous border and her roses. A true friend she was, unlike the snakes in her own family.

Furu shaitan
, little devil, that her son was, defying her like that, when all she wanted for him was what every mother wants. She turned the spade over and patted smooth the mounded earth in the wheelbarrow. Look at Edward-and-Sophie. Look at Dr. Choudhury and herself. It was possible for everyone to marry: the Qur'an made that clear.

All beings need bodily pleasure and if the natural way is unavailable, then to take another path is understandable and allowed for by Allah, peace be upon Him. But marriage is what makes a man, as motherhood is what fulfils a woman. Marriage is the truest and best path to pleasure and happiness, as well as maturity and security. Tariq must marry: what otherwise to do with this boy? She knew what he needed, despite everything being as it was between himself and Dr. Choudhury.

With men, family only truly tied them when they had a wife, and children. If Tariq, with his father's blessing, did not marry, he would become an old maid of a man in his prime. She thrust the spade into the soil, stood on the edge and jiggled it deeper. And, in time, he would leave them again: she could feel it in her bones. Even more than Rohimun, he was liable to disappear on her if he was not safely betrothed.

She thought of how angry he'd been once he became religious, angry all the time: with Rohimun for her blue-jeans, and Dr. Choudhury for keeping whiskey in the sitting room for guests. That anger was still there, she could feel it, had seen it on his face that night he'd returned two weeks ago, but it was against himself now, for some personal failing. Well, they all knew what that was now. Far better that he married and could direct all this anger against the EU and the French, like Mrs. Darby and everyone else in this village.

But first she must deal with her daughters. She leaned on the spade's handle until the blade bent upward with a fresh load. Dr. Choudhury would be a sadder and lonelier man now without his Oxford, disloyal cockroach that he was, and she must trust that to turn his mind to thoughts of family unity, forgiveness and acceptance. Shunduri was not helping matters by bringing up her sister's failings at every opportunity either, although if she pushed that cart too hard, she could well find her father pulling in the opposite direction. And Tariq, well, Tariq was too busy getting into his own kind of trouble.

She stopped and wiped her brow with a forearm. Even now, digging here tended to bring on her headaches though, as Allah knew, she had enough reasons for headaches already. She looked across her garden, its neat rows of tomatoes and coriander, the English-style mint that Mrs. Darby had given her for cooking with lamb but which went so much better with yoghurt, the shiny white glass covering her cucumbers and radishes. No one ever need go hungry in this land, with a garden. All so ordered, tidy and flourishing. Why couldn't her family all settle nearby and marry and have children, the way nature intended?

She stooped to pull out a rogue weed from the bottom of the compost heap, then realized that it was a freesia. She scooped out the bulb with her fingers and carried it to the little patch of flowers that sat in one corner of the herb garden. She was still not entirely comfortable growing something that could not be eaten, but this little patch was Rohimun's.

Since Munni stopped visiting, she had found herself maintaining it, making sure that it stayed weed-free and had its share of compost. Once Mrs. Darby had brought over some bulbs for her and planted them herself, and had refused to say what they were. “A surprise,” she'd said, and when they had bloomed—tall, stately cup-shaped flowers, red striped with white—she had fetched Mrs. Darby and they stood and looked at them. “Tulips,” Mrs. Darby told her. “From Holland. And growing so fine and strong: better than mine.”

After she had dug some more and filled the barrow and taken it over to Mrs. Darby's garden and heaped it around her roses, Mrs. Begum started to feel a bit better.

It was true that she had feared Tariq being driven away by an ultimatum. Children in UK had too many places to run to, to escape their responsibilities. She hefted the arms of the empty wheelbarrow and started to wheel it home. A son about the house, as a visible presence, was an important sign to possible or actual sons-in-law that her daughters were not without protection. And besides, she still had certain other hopes for his future. She parked the barrow in her shed, changed out of her gardening clogs from the catalogue and back into her sandals. She had lost the battle, but not the war,
Inshallah
.

A tinny trumpeting caught her ear, and she straightened to attention. It was the phone, and if she did not hurry, it could stop and she would never know who it was. She ran for the scullery door, flew down the hall, and snatched up the receiver.

Before she could even speak, her youngest child's voice came on the line. “Amma,
Salaamalaikum
.”

“Baby!”

“How is everybody? I . . . I got a week off, so I'll be home on Sunday, yaah.”

“Tomorrow? Oh, Baby, that is so wonderful. I miss you so-so much, you know. Yes, yes, everybody is fine. Your father, Tariq, they are themselves. Maybe, you could stay two-three weeks?”

There was a surprising pause, as if Shunduri really was considering her mother's routine request for longer, longer.

“Maybe, Amma. I . . . I'm a bit tired, you know? I'll be on the train: the twelve-oh-five is when it gets into Swindon, yaah?”

“Yes, yes. Twelve-oh-five. We will all be there for you. Are you alright, my Baby? Are you well?”

Her daughter's voice faded, then almost broke. “Fine, fine. Amma, I'm sorry, I've got to go now . . . er, studyin'. I can't talk now but I'll see you all on Sunday, yaah?”

“Yes, yes. Sunday, twelve-oh-five.”

“
Salaamalaikum
, Amma. I'll see you soon.”

“
Alaikumsalaam
, my Baby. That is wonderful, wonderful.”

Mrs. Begum hung up with triumph in her heart. If one door shuts, many windows will open, as Mrs. Darby would say. Her daughter was coming home and, after her behavior last week, this visit, this phone call, were as good as an admission that she was ready to marry, ready for her family to make the arrangements, as one would ever get from these modern girls. Obedient, nervous and in need of her mother. Completely ready. As for her bank-job that she loved so much, there were many banks in Swindon. All the banks were there.

And as for that Kareem, she would ensure that he did his duty, or else. She remembered the recently arrived knife set her husband had ordered on shopping-channel, to be given to Mrs. Darby once he had forgotten. She could already think of one good use for them.

—

“
H
ENRY,” SAID
T
HEA.
“I was thinking about a picnic. Where the Park flattens out just near the river, so the children can do some fishing if they get bored with cricket.”

Henry looked at his wife, startled. “For lunch, you mean? You don't want to, ah, go to Florian's again, or . . .”

“No, let's go outside, it's a lovely day. The blankets for the jumble sale are in the back of the garage. If we spread those out, then put my picnic blanket on top, that should do.”

“What picnic blanket? We've never—”

“I bought it this morning. There's a Burberry shop in Bath now.”

“Don't you have a hair appointment?” Henry said weakly.

“Cancelled it,” said Thea, pushing up her sleeves. “It's too nice a day to waste.”

Good Lord. She was wearing jeans too, and flat slip-ons . . .

“Come on then. Don't you want to?”

“Ah, yes, of course, it's a wonderful idea, I'll just change, I'm a bit—”

“You're fine as you are, just wash your hands and I'll call the boys.”

“Rightio, lead on, MacDuff . . . Ah, do you know where my hat is?”

“Packed,” Thea threw over her shoulder as she headed out to the side. “The picnic basket's ready on the kitchen bench and there's a wine cooler next to it. And the boys' cricket and fishing things are there too.”

Henry trailed through the scullery and into the back garden after his wife. “What about Richard?”

“Gone to the pub to catch up with a friend, or so he said. Andrew, Jonathon! Lunchtime!”

Well, whatever was going on, Thea's organizational abilities hadn't changed. Henry headed back to the kitchen, washed and loaded up, then remembered the blankets and put everything down again as the boys came in, went to the sink and started splashing each other.

“Andrew, Jonathon, you know those blankets in the back of the shed?”

“Mum's already told us,” said Jonathon, with a don't-bother-me-now air that reminded Henry of Richard. “One blanket each.” He marched past his father, wiping his wet hands on Andrew's shirt and saying to his brother, “
You
can have the blanket at the bottom, wiv all the
spiders
.”

“Nooo! That's not fair . . .”

“Cockroaches! Giant ones!
Moths!
”

“Daaad!”

Henry shook his head as he loaded up again. “Life never is, little man. Ah, can someone open the door?”

—

T
HE BOYS WHOOPED
and screamed as they rolled down the hill toward the river, and Thea hadn't shouted at them once, about being sick after baguettes and pork pies and halva and cake, or dirtying their clothes. Henry sat cross-legged as he munched his pie and then, with no one to stop him, started on a baguette, covertly watching his surprising wife as she lay on her back on the blanket, seemingly relaxed after her usual birdlike meal of a single mini-quiche and, more surprises, no wine at all.

One arm was across her eyes and she could easily have been asleep. She seemed softer around the edges somehow, as if she'd put on some weight. If so, it suited her, though Henry knew better than to mention it. The slightest of sounds escaped her opened lips, and Henry, his mouth full of cheese and lettuce, grinned at the sight of perfect Thea snoring.

“Daaad! Come and play!”

He finished his mouthful, then rose and dusted off his pants. A clod of earth attached to some long grass hit his hip and he staggered backward and away from the picnic blanket.

“Aaaargh!”

Shrieks and giggles as both children ran and jumped on him, and were then joined by the dogs. “Aaagh! Not fair! Four against one!”

And in between flailing arms and kicking legs and tickled tummies and waving tails and wet excited noses, Henry caught glimpses of Thea, one hand on her stomach now, breathing as deeply and peacefully as if she was at home in the very middle of their queen-sized bed.

—

R
ICHARD HAD HOPED
to see Rohimun that Saturday, not having seen her since Thursday night, and thought he'd try to catch her in between the two daily tiffin-visits she seemed to be receiving. With that in mind he'd wandered to the kitchen at midday to let Thea know that he wouldn't be around for lunch because he was going to walk through the Park, and would then head to the pub for lunch with a friend. His excuse sounded threadbare even to himself, and he half expected to have to put her off coming with him, but Thea, unpacking from a morning's shopping in Bath, had nodded with a preoccupied air and asked him to get the cricket set down from the top of the scullery cupboard. He did so, placing bats and sticks with unnecessary neatness against the kitchen wall next to some fishing gear, and feeling definitely superfluous.

Then, halfway to the Abbey, Richard spotted Tariq, walking quickly uphill toward the Abbey, the tiffin carrier in his hand flashing sunshine. It was too late not to be seen himself, so he sat down under a large oak to wait until Tariq returned. However, when he did, over an hour later, it was not to climb the opposing hill to the cottage, but to sit on the riverbank facing the Abbey with Colin's son and share what looked suspiciously like a joint. And outside the back of Windsor Cottage, Richard could see Mrs. Begum hanging out washing, giving her what was probably a bird's-eye view of everything else. Impossible.

He decided to walk back toward the Lodge and see if he could spot Henry and Thea's picnic on the way, and join in the family cricket, but instead found his brother and his wife canoodling on a picnic blanket. He veered sharply away, then spotted the boys fishing nearby, with an intensity that indicated high expectations: a whale or a shark at least. When he greeted them, he was unceremoniously shooshed, and waved off. He called out a cheery goodbye that they ignored, and headed for the village, swearing grumpily to himself: an old gooseberry, intruding wherever he went. He would have no choice but to do what he'd been pretending to do, and actually go to the pub for a solitary counter lunch with his imaginary friend.

—

W
ASHING
DONE,
M
RS.
Begum boiled and steamed and strained in the kitchen, far too busy this afternoon to think about those two snakes who had gone all the way to Swindon without her yesterday, and ever since they'd returned, looked like two conspirators, full of conspicuous silences and mutual glances.

Not to mention that now Tariq was floating about with his head in the clouds as if he hadn't a care in the world, and Dr. Choudhury seemed to have been lifted from the devastation of Friday morning to his usual self-satisfied comfort in a remarkably short time, even for a man. The worst of it was not that he was keeping something from her, or even that she could not yet discover it, but that he was so pleased about it. Fat cockroach that he was.