A Matter of Marriage (45 page)

On the way out, she almost ran into Mrs. Guri, who smiled and pinched her cheek. “You will be next,” she said, but then hesitated, as if recalling something she'd heard or seen, and started to speak across Rohimun to Mr. Guri, about visits and dates.

Rohimun noticed that Richard was watching her with what looked like pity. Prick. She left the room and took off up the hallway and the stairs, feeling as irrelevant as a servant, or a ghost.

So this was her rehabilitation. Or rather, she was on probation, to be allowed in, but carefully watched, never trusted or really listened to. Others must still be protected from her corrupting influence. She was a burden, a shameful burden that must be carried.

She ran into the tiny room that Mum had made up for Tariq, with its single bed and almost complete absence of possessions, like a monk's cell except for the Man United duvet cover and the
Bismillah
over the head of the bed. Tariq certainly wasn't irrelevant downstairs. He was in the thick of it, happy to see Shunduri married, to let Kareem call him Baiyya, because it took the pressure off him,

And, in time, he would probably join with Mum and Dad in talking about her taking a trip to Bangladesh (
Just a holiday, Munni. You need a holiday!
) because in the old country there would always be somebody who would marry her for the visa, and not be too fussy otherwise.

Her dowry would be residency and citizenship, her wedding portion all the claims to reputation in the community that her marriage would give her, with the added bonus of a likely enforcement of traditional values by a husband from the old country. Cooking and cleaning, beatings and babies.

She leaned out of the dormer window and glimpsed the Abbey. The new slate tiles were silver in the sunshine, and its yew hedge appeared more like a great green gateway than a wall to keep the world out. The Abbey had been a sanctuary, really. And she'd thought at the time that she had glimpsed the beginnings of something there.

The door opened behind her, and she recognized Richard's measured tread, so different to Tariq's light step.

She tried for cold, but came out sulky. “I'll catch it if they find you in here.”

“I thought you'd like to know, Henry and Thea have just arrived. And the Guris are leaving now. Without Kareem. They had some business in Swindon apparently.”

Rohimun leaned back out the window and looked down. For two fat people, they were moving pretty quickly, with no apparent desire to meet Mum and Dad's latest visitors. Perhaps they'd had enough. They weren't the only ones. “I dropped your painting things in the old stables, up at the Abbey, earlier. I was thinking that would be a good place to work. It's very light—”

“I didn't ask you to.”

“I know. I want to help.” He paused, as if thinking. “What you said in the kitchen, about family pressure. I just want you to know, I'm here because I want to be.”

She drew back from the window and stared at him, suspicious. His face was in full sunshine and in his eyes, in the irises, there was a multitude of blues and greens and golds that flared in random streaks and arcs from the dark center like a corona at full eclipse. Without meaning to, she tilted forward.

“We'd better go back downstairs,” he said.

“Yeah.” She went toward the door. “I can handle it, you know. The pressure.”

“Of course,” he said and turned to leave.

“Yeah,” she said again. But for how long? And what were they to each other, really?

M
RS.
B
EGUM FAREWELLED
the Guris with an energetic wave that simultaneously welcomed Henry and Thea, who were climbing out of Thea's car, looking tired and dishevelled and not entirely ready for company. As she walked back up the garden path, she passed Kareem who was watching the Guris depart in his car as if he'd never see it again.

Andrew and Jonathon, hearing their parents' voices, ran around to the front garden, covered in dirt and rabbit fluff, to greet them. At the door, Dr. Choudhury, teary once more, embraced Henry and Thea, telling them how important family was and how welcome they were as he blocked up the hallway, preventing anyone from entering further.

She pushed past her husband and urged them all to come in, blessing her own foresight in having cooked three curries earlier and wondering if there was enough rice. She glimpsed Thea and Baby in the hallway, hugging and kissing each other's cheeks as if they were old friends, before finding herself swept up into the sitting room by the force of everyone else's progress to the kitchen. There was more noise at the front door, and she ran back to find Mrs. Darby there.

“
Salaam
, come in, come in!” Mrs. Begum ushered her neighbor into the sitting room. Overwhelmed by events and the high of plans come to fruition all at once, weddings to arrange, crying husband, she forgot herself so much as to pull her friend into a small, elbow-gripping embrace, and spun her around in the middle of the sitting room.

“Oh!” both ladies cried, then laughed, and when Mrs. Begum released her they both sat down and caught their breath.

Mrs. Darby, still smiling, patted her décolletage with a be-ringed hand. “Syeda, my dear, I am so sorry to disturb you right now, but I could not wait. My daughter, my Patricia, is pregnant at last. Three months today!”

Mrs. Begum gasped and threw up her hands. “Your very first grandchild: after so many years of eye-vee-ef!”

“So long,” said Mrs. Darby. “So many cycles. And now. After all this time.”

“Aah,” said Mrs. Begum. “She is blessed, truly blessed,
Inshallah
. You will be a daddu, a grandmother, now. At last.”

She watched her neighbor dab her eyes, with only the tiniest flicker of her own betraying the fact that a small part of her was keeping an ear on hallway and kitchen doings. Such wonderful news for her friend that even the great events of her own day she would not mention.

She clasped Mrs. Darby's hands. “You will be wanting to be with her.”

Mrs. Darby nodded, her tears rising again. “I saw the travel agent this morning and I have booked a ticket. I am going . . . to Australia. For a year. Maybe more.”

“Wah! You are emigrating! What will we all do without you? And so far away!” Mrs. Begum looked at her friend with pity and alarm. How was Mrs. Darby going to manage this great thing on her own? She had never been abroad, didn't even like going into Swindon for shopping and hadn't been to London since her husband had died, five years ago. She herself, Syeda Begum, had done this great thing, this emigration, but she was much younger then than Mrs. Darby now.

She thought of that terrifying train ride to Dhaka so many years ago, and later the amazement and confusion of her arrival in Heathrow, and clasped Mrs. Darby's hand anew. “You will be happy there. Tariq will drive you to Heathrow and carry your bags. And I will come. And your daughter and son-in-law will be there when you arrive in that place. I will look after your garden . . .”

“Oh, the flight doesn't really worry me.”

“Nah, nah, you will be very comfortable. They feed you and are very friendly. You will be fine,
Inshallah
.”

Mrs. Darby glanced toward the noise of the kitchen and rose to her feet. “I must go.”

“Nah, stay and eat with us. I have chicken korma.”

“No, my dear, not this time. You have a full house and”—she paused significantly—“maybe you have some news for me?”

Mrs. Begum smiled, shaking her head as well. “Stay, stay.”

“No, I will go. I just had one more thing to say.” Mrs. Darby drew herself up to her full height, her neatly separated grey curls trembling a little around her powdered face.

Mrs. Begum looked up at her, conscious now of further news of great import.

“In the light of these events, I will be resigning my presidency of the Lydiard-and-Stowe District Women's Institute.”

“But—”

“No, no, Syeda. One cannot manage such things from a distance. Look what happened to Rhodesia when the royal family cancelled their visit. Rioting, and then a dictatorship.”

She waited to hear more, but it seemed as if Mrs. Darby herself was still absorbing what she had just said.

At last her neighbor spoke again. “I want you to take my place.”

“Nah, nah!” Mrs. Begum gasped, then covered her mouth, staring at her friend.

“I
insist
. You have been a tower of strength, particularly when dealing with that Upwey woman. I could not have managed without you over the last twelve months. For example, the fruit-cake incident. And when Marge went over my head. But I'm losing track. I want you to take over the presidency. There is a meeting of the executive tonight and I want to nominate you, my dearest friend. Eileen and Ailsa will support me on this, and I think I can count on the two Julies and that funny woman from the post office. And you don't need to worry about the paperwork—Ailsa is an excellent secretary and will do all that side of things. She just needs direction.”

Mrs. Begum could not speak. There was more noise from the kitchen, and Mrs. Darby patted her hand, then moved toward the hallway door.

“I know I can rely on you, Syeda. You know how things should be done and it will be one in the eye for Audrey Upwey and her nuddy-calendar fund-raising ideas. I'll report back tomorrow. Come over to my house in the morning and we'll have a cup of tea, and you can tell me your news then too.”

Mrs. Begum, reeling with the events of the day (she had not even asked Allah for the presidency), saw her neighbor out and bustled to the kitchen, slightly delayed by the two boys who shot into the hallway and pulled at her skirts, asking about
ladhu
balls. What more, what more could happen on this blessed day,
Inshallah
?

—

A
S
R
ICHARD FOLLOWED
Rohimun downstairs, they passed Tariq, who glared at his sister, pointedly ignored Richard, and said it was too late for the memory card now, they were done with photos. There was a clamor from the kitchen, and Richard decided, in the light of Tariq's reaction, to delay his entrance a little, hanging back in the hallway so there was a respectable gap between his arrival and Rohimun's.

When he felt it was seemly to go in, there was barely space to do so. Thea and Henry, Kareem and Shunduri, Dr. Choudhury and Mrs. Begum, were all talking at once, and the boys were running in and out. Mrs. Begum was telling Rohimun, who was at the counter pouring milk into cups, to be quick, quick.

“Tea for everyone, then?” he said as he approached her.

“Yeah.” She turned back to her task, smiling, and as he watched her, it occurred to him that perhaps it was being the center of attention she'd hated outside on the steps, not what he'd said. There was a muttered apology behind him, as Tariq squeezed past Richard and then Rohimun, pulling on her plait as he did so.

Kareem was fussing Shunduri into a kitchen chair in a way that oddly mirrored Henry's actions with Thea, who, for once, didn't seem to mind. Mrs. Begum smiled at Henry and Thea, and beckoned Rohimun toward them.

“My other daughter, Rohimun, she is home now. She has come back.”

Rohimun stood there awkwardly while Mrs. Begum beamed and tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. “You are a
good
girl.”

Richard edged down the kitchen counter, keeping out of the way as Andrew and Jonathan hopped around the table, then crawled underneath it, making rabbit sounds. Henry was standing behind Thea, his hand on his wife's shoulder and her hand resting in his. He bent to whisper to her, and she looked up at him and squeezed his hand.

Henry straightened and caught Richard's eye. “We've got some news. Just been for the scan . . .”

Shunduri gave a loud gasp, her eyes theatrically wide and one hand, fingernails tipped with pink, over her mouth. Thea, of all people, went distinctly pink as well.

“We're, ah, pregnant. Twelve weeks today. Couldn't quite believe it till we saw the scan.”

“Henry, Thea, congratulations. You've caught me completely by surprise.” Richard maneuvered around the table to embrace his brother and kiss Thea on the cheek. “I had no idea.”

“Well, neither did we actually. Thee's had a dodgy tummy for a while, been, you know, a bit teary, dropping things, but we never thought . . .”

“Ohhh!” cried Shunduri, as if it was a surprise that Henry and Thea had put on especially for her. “I can't believe it. I can't
believe
it!”

Thea was more relaxed than Richard had seen her in ages as she leaned back against her husband, saying something to Kareem about paradise gardens. Richard watched them, feeling again the outsider. He had never even suspected. How long—and how much work—does it take to get to that level of unspoken, happy companionship, that perfect trust? He felt as if he should be apologizing for having so underestimated the solid reality of their marriage.

He caught Thea's eye. “You feeling well?”

“Oh, yes, now that I know.”

Shunduri was sitting breathlessly forward, as if trying to absorb every detail. “Do you know what it will be?”

Henry shook his head. “Not till the twenty-week scan, the obstetrician says. I don't mind, just healthy is all I ask.”

Thea smiled. “A girl. I'm sure it's a girl. And we're going Greek this time—we're going to call her Aphrodite.”

“Does old Theo Kiriakis know yet?” Richard asked his brother.

“We're telling him tonight. Must say, good timing and all that. We told him about the mihrab last night and he was pretty upset about it, having had bad memories of the Turks, you know. Refused point-blank to fund further excavations until Dr. Choudhury said that Saudi money was likely available for this sort of thing, then he came through. Good old Theo.” Henry chuckled. “The first Bourne girl in three generations, you realize. Our great-aunt was the last one. Richard, remember Great-aunt Caroline with the nose, whose fiancé was killed in the war? Never could figure out which one.”

Dr. Choudhury, who had been sitting quietly, still wiping his eyes, chimed in. “Yes, those Saudis are very wealthy and have fingers in all sorts of pies.”

Rohimun placed a half-full cup of tea in front of her father and moved toward Richard. She slid a full cup onto the countertop next to his elbow, without looking at him. He thanked her, trying to catch her eye, but she had already turned away.

Tariq reached for a cup his sister was handing him, and his mother swung a playful hand at his cheek. He flinched.

“
You!
What am I going to do with
you
!”

He grinned but kept his hands protectively around his ears. “Don't hit me, Amma.”

Rohimun, ignoring Tariq's dramatic pose, passed his tea, poured cups for Henry and her mother, and set up the paan tray while everyone talked babies, and the two boys did circuits of the table before stopping to talk to Kareem, who seemed to be the new favorite, about their ghost trap for the Abbey.

Richard could see the differences between the two sisters more clearly now, brought out by Shunduri's high-pitched drawl and expansive gestures, and her acquisitive air, even seeming to covet Thea's impending motherhood. When Shunduri wasn't staring at Thea, she was throwing Kareem pointed looks, and he eventually said, as if continuing an argument, “Look, I'll miss you too, yeah, but it's only a few weeks. Big picture, Princess, big picture.” Shunduri tossed her hair at this, hair styled as short and shiny as Deirdre's, and as different as anyone's hair could be from Rohimun's.

Shunduri was as tall and lean as her brother, but there the similarity ended. Rohimun, and indeed Tariq, had a gravitas that loud and needy Shunduri seemed to be without: life experience perhaps. His eyes rested on Rohimun again, and he wondered about what life had brought her, and how he would get to know her better.

—

M
RS.
B
EGUM WAS
glowing inside and out. Ahh, the ways of Allah, Peace be upon Him, were truly beyond all understanding, all planning and thinking. Everyone was sitting down and talking, laughing and crying as they should, except for Munni and that Richard, as quiet and awkward as if it was the day of a funeral, not a day of miracles. She tried to make Richard sit at the table, but he would stand, so she talk-talked to him about small things and he answered her, as slow and considered as always.

Rohimun could be married from Windsor Cottage and, if Richard insisted, Tregoze Church as well: perhaps, first, with just his family, before the mullah arrived. And she would make sure that they used an older mullah, perhaps visiting from Bangladesh, who would not ask any awkward questions. She was no Bora Khalo, no Prince Philip, determined to obstruct things rather than accept that this generation had different rules, different needs.

They would suit each other very well,
Inshallah
, both being university-clever. Far better than one clever but with no schooling, and the other merely learned, but a fool in the world. That was a far harder balancing act than between Christian and Muslim.

She looked at her husband sitting at the kitchen table, wiping his eyes and smiling—at her, at his children, at everybody—and thought of their own perpetual swinging triangulation of love, frustration and dependence, all conjoined. She and Babru Choudhury had grown into each other until they were one being and no more able to separate from each other than a yolk from its white in an omelette. How had all this sprung from Syeda Begum's fifteen-year-old pity and sometime contempt for the lonely skinny boy in her uncle's shop?