A Matter of Marriage (39 page)

M
RS.
B
EGUM CLENCHED
her right hand into a fist and used it to hit herself over the left breast. “Why, why do you tell me such things, Tariq, if not to stab me in the heart all over again? Just when I fix this family . . .”

Tariq flinched, as well he should. “Amma, please.”

Good, she thought, you have not forgotten what you did to your own mother, and your father, just this past Friday. Though
he
seems to have recovered quickly enough. She could not believe what Tariq was telling her. How Dr. Choudhury, that old fool, stupid cockroach, number-one idiot could have thought that taking Kareem to Mecca was a good idea was completely beyond her. Was the deadline on their betrothal and marriage not tight enough already, without Kareem packing his bags the moment
Dhu al-Hijjah
began? And that cowardly snake had just sat here and eaten the meal she had prepared with her own hands, and not said a word.

“Amma, I'm sorry. I'm not that keen on that dirty dog coming along either. But you know Abba.”

“Ohh!” She sat down at the kitchen table, then picked up a betel leaf from the pile she had washed that morning. Her husband seemed completely oblivious to the consequences of his actions, as usual, and while Mrs. Begum's fingers began to race, creating a multitude of paan packages in record time, she carried evil thoughts in her heart of lacing his share with poison. Or perhaps with some of those chocolate-covered laxatives that Mrs. Darby always said she could not do without. Only
goras
could talk of such things. Death, or perhaps never leaving the toilet, were surely the only impediments to her husband's ability to make such stupid decisions as this.

“What if he does not come back? What then?”

“Kareem? From Haj, you mean?”

“It happens, it happens. From there, he could go anywhere.”

“Well, who cares. Baby could do better than that barrow-boy anytime.”

She pressed her lips together and bent over her work. Tariq could not, must not, know her worst fears, the great importance of moving quickly, quickly, to secure this man, and this marriage.

“It'll be alright, Amma. You'll see. Abba might not even go in the end.” Tariq checked his watch. “I've got to head off for a couple of hours. Do you want anything from the shops?”

She shook her head, looking at him until he flushed and turned away. She knew where he was going, and he should know that she knew,
furu shaitan
that he was.

The paan tray heaped high, she tucked a package in her mouth, squatted on the floor with her
dhaa
, sliced mangoes like a woman possessed, then stood, kicking the
dhaa
recklessly under the kitchen table.

No time, no time. If she could hold her breath until the two
nikkahs
were over, she would, but as this was not possible she would have to do her very best to keep the waters smooth and good feelings growing nicely. She arranged mango segments, paan and a small pile of dates on her middle-sized silver tray.

What was of even more importance was that things had to be very clear to Kareem. He must not be allowed to think that he could just run off out of this country without doing what was necessary and right for Shunduri and for all of them. With that thought in her mind, she gave one last nudge to the silver tray and went in search of her son-in-law-to-be. No one would eat anything until this was sorted out.

Mrs. Begum found Kareem in the sitting room fiddling with an earring as Dr. Choudhury questioned Baby about her studies. She needed to get Shunduri out of the room, and Shunduri, good girl, turned toward her with something that looked like relief.

“Amma, do you want help wiv somefin' in the kitchen?”

Mrs. Begum beamed. Shunduri had never willingly helped before. “Baby, I need salt, the soft salt, not the rocks. And tea, from the corner shop.” This village was good for little else, and if she asked for anything more, Swindon would be needed, and there would be the problem of who would drive her.

As she hustled her daughter out the door, she could hear that number-one fool of a husband start to hold forth on the different aspects of Haj
.
Mrs. Begum could restrain herself no longer and moved to stand by Dr. Choudhury. “What is it you are doing down here, Kareem? Why have you come all this way to visit us and now you are deciding to go away on Haj?”

He goggled, glanced at the images of royalty on the mantel wall and fell to his knees.

But she gave him no opportunity to speak. “Your elders, Mr. and Mrs. Guri, who stand in the place of your parents in this country, have not called us, or visited, and Dr. Choudhury would like an answer to these questions.”

Dr. Choudhury, who looked dangerously close to goggling as well, recovered himself sufficiently to say, “Yes, yes. We would like an answer to these things, boy.”

With a convincing air of spontaneous confession, Kareem spread his hands wide. “I'm so sorry, Khalo, Khalama. Please forgive me. I saw your youngest daughter from afar . . . at a Brick Lane wedding, er, a month ago, and the sight of her struck my heart like a bolt of lightning.”

He paused and let his eyes fill with tears. “I have come here because I am a man
in love
.” He brought his hands in and placed them, one over the other on the left side of his chest, and spoke quietly. “I hoped and I still hope to prove myself to you as worthy of being a suitor for your daughter. I know, I know that I have done the wrong thing by not speaking first with Mr. and Mrs. Guri, but I had hoped that by rendering some small services to your family that, when you were approached in the proper way, you would be more willing to consider me for the honor of becoming your son-in-law.”

Mrs. Begum saw that Kareem's shoulders were bowed, his eyes were overflowing and that his hands had fallen palms upward onto the carpet, so that he was the very picture of abject misery. Most appropriate.

Well pleased with this but careful not to show it, she kept her voice high and angry. “What are you, a boy with no family, no money, no visa! You think you are good enough for a daughter from this family, a good girl, from a respectable family within the community and without?”

Kareem clasped his hands together, begging. “Nah, nah, nah, I am a British citizen now, I have a good job and plenty of money, plenty to support a family. The Guris have been like family to me, and I have been like a son to them. They will stand for my parents in this. I beg you.”

“And who,” said Dr. Choudhury, getting into the spirit of things now, “who will pay for this big wedding? Who will pay the bride's portion and for the betrothal and the
walima
? Who will support you both after you are married? Are you telling me the Guris will pay for a boy who was not born to them?”

Kareem, still on his knees, wrung his hands again. “No, no, I will pay. I will pay for everything! Please, I am begging you! I am on my knees!”

“And how will we do this?” said Mrs. Begum. “With you disappearing off on Haj and maybe not even coming back?”

“I swear, I will come back. I will do
nikkah
and registry office before I go, I vow.”

“Oh, you vow now,” she said, leaning forward from the waist, fists clenched. “Let us see you book the registry office and speak to the mullah and tell the Guris of this!”

“I will. I swear that I will. I vow on my mother's grave.”

She sniffed in a
well, prove it then k
ind of way, and her husband, clearly feeling at this point that he should be more involved, took her cue.

“When, boy?”

“This week, I swear.”

“Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow, Monday morning. When the registry office opens, you will be there.”

“I will, Uncle, I will.”

“Then, boy, straight to London to bring the Guris to visit us.”

For the first time, Kareem seemed almost to hesitate. “Of course, of course. I will speak to my brother-in-law.”

Suspicions rose in Mrs. Begum's breast. Why was he talking of his brother-in-law? Why wasn't he himself going back to London and driving Mr. and Mrs. Guri to visit them? She opened her mouth to frame the question, but Dr. Choudhury was already, with an almost royal flick of his wrist, dismissing Kareem from his sight and warning him to keep clear of Shunduri in the meantime.

—

K
AREEM WALKED OUT
of the house with his legs trembling, fighting a strong urge to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt which, in a man as unfailingly sharply dressed as he, spoke volumes. He didn't want to think too much about what had just happened, given the Choudhurys' sudden transformation from smiling hosts to hostile and disapproving elders, but had a sneaking feeling that he had only just avoided a full family scandal and that disapproving baisahib of Shunduri's throwing him out of the house.

He glanced at his wrist where his watch should be and swore as he remembered again. Blipping the door of the Rover open, he climbed in and closed the door, suddenly desperate for that new-car smell. When he had calmed a little, he accelerated away from the verge and drove until he found the first lay-by. Once parked up, he felt under the driver's seat for his stash and took a generous fingernail full, straight up his nose and a little onto the gums. Jesus Christ, he needed that. He sucked the last grains from under his nail, and took a deep breath, trying not to think about one of those sitting-room chairs being broken over his head in a
funchait
to do with his princess. They wanted things to move fast, did they? He could do fast.

He pulled out the mob he used for family, called Auntie and Uncle and asked them to come up to Swindon, to meet a girl and her family. Mrs. Guri, triumphant and talkative after a matchmaking conference earlier that day with an anxious Desi family, was surprisingly mellow when he told her of his need to marry again.

“I love her,” he said. “The other marriage, that has ended. My life is here, hers is there, in the old country, and Juri, she will never get the visa.”

Mrs. Guri was silent, but the extension crackled, and Uncle's voice came on the line. “Who is this other girl,” he asked. “Is she Desi? A good Muslim girl?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Who is she?” Auntie repeated. “Who is her family?”

“Nah, nah, Auntie, I want you to see her for herself. It's a good family, a wealthy family, I promise you—”

Uncle interrupted. “What business is it that they have made, then?”

Kareem had to stop this questioning. Too much detail and they wouldn't be curious enough to come up on such short notice. “Please, Uncle, Auntie. I want your advice, your blessing on this, not some Brick Lane gossip's. You're like parents to me, you know that. I can't do this without you.”

“Why now? Why so quick-quick, hurry-hurry? You were in no hurry before,” said Mrs. Guri.

“Tomorrow is a very auspicious date, Auntie, the seventh, and their house is, er, number 86, so 786: the number of the prophets, the lucky number. Lucky number, Auntie. Look, I'll tell you everything in the car, but I've got to go right now, business. Sorry, sorry, Uncle, Auntie, business.”

He disconnected with relief. As he had hoped, they were irritated but intrigued and willing to make the journey, if only to spread Mrs. Guri's fame as a matchmaker even further afield. Tomorrow, they would come.

Another dip into his stash and then a shorter call, to brother-in-law Ahmed, calling that village idiot Baiyya and telling him that he was in love, man, but he couldn't possibly make a decision about this girl without Baiyya's advice and moral support. And on top of everything else, he was having car trouble, yeah, couldn't trust it on the motorway right now, so he was staying nearby and Uncle and Auntie needed Ahmed to drive them to Swindon tomorrow, and he would meet them there. Sorted.

There was no way he was going back to London, not with all the official attention he'd been receiving lately. It was too risky, with the police asking after him at all his regular clubs and kebab shops. Kareem would meet them in Swindon, then have the drive to Windsor Cottage to make sure that they were in the right frame of mind to welcome the match. And he wasn't mentioning, wasn't breathing a word, of his other plans.

As soon as the
nikkah
was done and he was back from Haj, they were out of there: there was no way he was putting his princess under Auntie's thumb. His council flat was a nice little earner on the side, and would keep them going until he'd set himself up somewhere out of London. Swindon maybe. He climbed out of the car and lit a cigarette. Man, this was all happening fast, even for a Desi boy. But what a Princess she was, so high and mighty with his friends and the classiest, best-dressed
lalmunni
of anybody's. And with her family on his side, even the police would have trouble touching him. He reached into the car and flicked the silver and blue
Bismillah
talisman hanging from his rear-view mirror, so that it glittered and spun.
Inshallah
.

His cigarette finished, Kareem relaxed a little, then climbed back into the driver's seat and did a quick search on his BlackBerry for Haj travel agents in Swindon. If he got a move on tomorrow, he could book a tour, pick up tickets for everyone, and be back at Windsor Cottage with Auntie and Uncle in the early afternoon. As for tonight, he would be at the local pub. He pulled a face as he floored the accelerator and sped out of the lay-by: did it have to be called The Saracen's Head?

H
ENRY STRAIGHTENED UP
from his near-sighted crouch over the study fax machine.

“Richard, here's something for you. Looks like work, I'm afraid. Just goes to show, you take Mondays off at your peril. You're lucky—or perhaps not—I was just about to unplug it.” Standing in his socks on one of Thea's good chairs at the other end of the room, Richard paused with a bust of Thomas Carlyle in his hands. “Bloody hell this is heavy. Letter or court document?”

“Oh, ah . . . here's a second page, and a third. The first one is a cover sheet from your Chambers. Letter, I think. Wait, I need my glasses. A letter, two letters from Greengrasses. One's to the Court Registry, stamped as a copy and respectfully requesting that a date be vacated. It's headed
in re Application by the Trustees of the Reid Family Trust
.”

“What's the other one?”

“And the other one, that's addressed to you, also with the Greengrasses letterhead. It's, ah, got the same re, and it's signed Felicity something.”

“Read it out,” he said, and grunted as he stepped down from the chair with his arms full. Macaulay weighed even more than Carlyle.

“
Dear Richard, I refer to previous correspondence and discussions of . . .
ah, I see, it's copying the court letter to you and advising that Simon Reid, the beneficiary of the material Trust, has voluntarily agreed to admit himself to the Priory. Ohh. That's for rock stars, isn't it?
And on this basis our clients have instructed us to withdraw our application for directions.
So is that good?”

“Is that all it says?”

“
Many thanks, Greengrasses
per Felicity something. Enc. And a smiley face.”

Richard moved the chair along and climbed back up. Typical Felicity: she never could text him without an emoticon either. He hoped for her sake, and Greengrasses', that she hadn't done it on the letter to the court.

“Yes, good news for me and for them. And I might be able to stay around a few more days to help out with the move.”

“Oh, that is good news.” Henry raised his voice and directed it out the door. “Did you hear that, Thee?”

“What?”

“Richard's staying on a bit longer. Some court case has collapsed.”

There was the sound of something striking the flagstones in the hallway and not remaining intact. “
Christos!
Jonathan and Andrew, now look what you've done! Out of this hallway, upstairs, both of you!”

Sounds of complaint and resistance ensued, and the crash of something else hitting the floor and more swearing from Thea. Richard got down from the chair, Gibbon and Cicero this time, and lowered them onto the top of the study desk.

Henry walked to the doorway and peered out. “Would you like a hand out there, Thee?”

“
No!
”

Richard looked back up at the bookshelves, where Plutarch and Sir Walter Scott still eyed him smugly, as well as two busty maidens. Muses, perhaps.

“How about I take the boys to McDonald's for an early lunch. There's one on the way to Swindon, isn't there? It's eleven now, that'll get them out of your hair for a couple of hours, let you pack up your papers. I'll finish off the bookshelves tonight. Or you could take the boys?” he said to Henry.

“Oh, if you could. I think Thee's a bit tired, you know. She wants to get all this done, then we, ah, she's got an appointment in Swindon. And tonight she wants to head up to the Abbey for a bit of a look-see upstairs. That's phase two, you know, the upstairs. She's meeting with the decorator tomorrow to plan that next.”

“Oh.” Richard slowly brushed some dust off his shirt. “Tonight?”

“Yes. We're setting up in the main rooms downstairs first, but we won't be sleeping there until something's been done with the upstairs bathrooms and, ah, I think hanging space or something. It's all been brought forward a bit because Thea wants to start entertaining there, even if we'll still be sleeping here for the time being. Not enough space for big dos at the Lodge, and Thee says she needs a change. Anyway, she knows what needs to be done and good old Theo Kiriakis has stumped up with the cash for the plumbing now, so full steam ahead. Come to think of it, Thee told me that Mrs. Choudhury's taking the boys later this afternoon, so you could probably drop them straight there after McDonald's.”

“Fine with me.”

“Mrs. Choudhury's been a godsend these last few months, you know, what with last-minute babysitting and helping hold the fort.” Henry returned to the study doorway. “Thee, Richard's—”

“I
know
.”

“Perhaps Richard might like a cup of tea first, before he goes.”

“Well, he knows where everything's kept.”

Henry looked at him apologetically, and Richard grinned to show he wasn't bothered. She'd had a bee in her bonnet ever since the dinner party. But she'd had a lot on her plate, with the move, and this Hunt ball and whatever.

Richard shouted the universally recognized word up the stairs, unleashing yells of joy and a thunder of feet above, before the two boys shot into the hallway, sneakers undone, pushing each other out of the way with cries of, “I'm ready, Uncle Richard,” and, “No, I'm ready first.”

“Right then, into the car.”

—

A
ND THROUGH THE
hurly-burly of the drive and the extended agony of decision-making in front of the lurid menu, the excitement and anxious comparison of the Happy Meal toys and the screaming, sweaty fun of the playground, a sense of purpose filled Richard's mind like a green flag set suddenly in motion. He knew what he had to do, and now was the time.

While he kept a weather eye on Andrew and Jonathon's relentless circling in the play area, he dialled Greengrasses. He was put through to Felicity straight away, who confirmed that he was not needed to appear tomorrow, as the court had been happy to vacate the date and allow notices of discontinuance to be filed within the week, by consent of the parties.

“Always helps if it's a cancellation in good summer weather, Richard.”

“I think you're right there—judges are human after all. What made the son fold? I assume some sort of reconciliation?”

“Oh, sort of. He was bashed outside a nightclub last Friday night: the police think it was a drug deal gone wrong. Anyway he's in the London Clinic now, with a broken nose and cheekbone and some missing teeth, feeling very sorry for himself. The parents have visited, and what with one thing and another, he's apparently agreed to go into the Priory straight from there. I think the idea is he can do his, umm,
withdrawal
in a nice private room at the Clinic, then go straight on to rehab without being exposed to too much temptation in between.”

Richard opened the glass door into the playground area to ascertain that the muted screaming he could hear was wilful rather than involuntary, then shut it again.

“Sorry, Felicity—that's my nephews.”

“I
was
wondering. So, you're out of London today?”

“Yes.”

The boys looked like they could keep going indefinitely. All he could think of was getting back to the Abbey.

Felicity burbled on. “Martin and Louise—the Reids—are thrilled of course, and
very
hopeful for the future.”

He remembered to bite his tongue this time, despite recalling his father's eternal misguided optimism. He had maintained to the end that Mother had died of pneumonia. It wasn't for Richard to disabuse the Reids of their hopes.

“I assume the extra Trust payments will continue then?” he said.

Felicity bridled, as he'd known she would. “I don't think that's
our
concern anymore, is it, Richard?”

“You're right there.” He was pretty sure that they both knew that Felicity was saying this now because she was still kicking herself for not having said it on the last occasion. He stopped himself from adding
till the next time they come to you
, and made noises about signing off, which elicited her usual delaying tactics.

“Well, if you have some capacity now, I've got another couple of briefs to put your way, and we could meet to discuss . . .”

“So long as it's nothing urgent. I'm taking a week off from work. Family time. Perhaps we can talk when I'm back.”

“Oh. I
do
hope everything's alright . . .”

“Thank you again, Felicity.”

“Don't mention it. I—”

He hung up, shoved the phone into his jeans pocket and opened the glass door. “Time to go, you two. Have you got your toys?”

The drive back to the Choudhurys was marginally quieter: a lot quieter once he had given Andrew and Jonathon his phone to play games on.