Jubilee (33 page)

The woman moves away from the wall towards the toddler, and towards Satish. As she looks at him her face opens in recognition, her mouth already framing a question. He nods at her and turns away.

The table is loaded with goodies. At the age of twelve, he’d have been hovering over them, assessing them, doing a recce in preparation for the party. Now he swipes a pretzel for old times’ sake. That’s what they’ve used, in place of his mum’s chakli. There’s also a beige pile of something damp to stand in for the coronation chicken. But Mrs Hobbes’ cakes have been reconstructed in glorious Technicolor (he remembers them, half-iced, on her kitchen counter), and not much has changed about the jugs of squash. The remarkable thing is the proliferation of Union Jacks: on the tablecloth, the cups and plates. Plastic Union Jacks on wooden sticks – just the same kind as Colette was holding in the original photograph – have been put next to some of the place settings along the table. Where did he find those, wonders Satish – eBay? Twenty years ago this would have been unacceptably nationalistic. Ten years ago it would have been ironic. And now? Well, now it’s probably retro, or something like that.

At the end of the table there’s a tripod, a man crouching down to adjust its height. Andrew Ford, surely? The wildness has gone from his hair; it’s salt-and-pepper now, curly still but cropped close to his head. With that assertive nose of his there’s something oddly Roman about him. When he sees Satish, he smiles.

‘I don’t need to ask. It’s Satish, right?’ He holds out his hand.

His assistant Georgia is stage-managing this, he explains, and he indicates the young woman who rearranged the cupcakes so fastidiously.

‘Georgia knows pretty well how I work,’ he tells Satish. ‘She’ll be sorting out the stuff that goes under my radar.’ He waves his hand vaguely in her direction. ‘Gives me time to focus on the important things. Like you, and the other veterans of
Glorious
. Looking forward to it?’

‘Umm … yes. Happy to do it.’

‘Great, great. Now, I’ll be wanting you to recapture exactly what you were doing when that first photograph was taken – same seat, same body language, the lot. OK?’

‘All right.’

‘Pretty familiar with the original? I bet you are. I can’t go anywhere without hearing about it. Haunts me!’ He laughs and shakes his head.

‘Yes, I know the feeling.’

‘Well, another fifteen minutes of fame, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great. Be ready in a bit. See you then.’

Colette is perching on the wall in front of Miss Walsh’s old place. She’s fiddling with one of the beads on her skirt, catching it under her fingernail, releasing it and catching it again. Satish watches her, unsure whether this is the right time to fix things. But just as he thinks: yes, it’s time, someone else gets to her first, a man in a leather jacket, and she looks up at him with such open pleasure that Satish retreats. It’s Oscar, of course; she grabs a fistful of his jacket and pulls him close, burying her face in the leather. She’s good at getting what she wants. There’s something she wants more, though. When she sees the old man appear at the end of the road, she’s off.

He’s shorter; not just because Satish has grown up, but because the other man has somehow grown down. He’s become compressed, he stoops. Colette walks at his side, solicitous, leaning into him slightly, looking up at his face. As Peter approaches, Satish draws himself up higher. He’s young and strong, and this time being younger has its advantages.

‘Dad, you remember Satish,’ Colette declares, stagily. The two men clasp hands. Peter’s is a fleshy paw; Satish cannot recall ever having touched him before.

‘Of course,’ says Peter, his voice diminished too. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Excellently.’ He lets the word hang for a moment. ‘And you?’

‘I’m …’ He looks round him, across at his old house, then shakes his head suddenly. ‘I’m fine! Never better! I’m working in London, so I get to see Colette from time to time. And Cai, of course.’

Like Satish, Peter has chosen a suit for the photograph. His is a little shiny, and there’s a worn patch on his left shoulder, the sort you’d get from a bag strap. Satish wonders what Peter takes to work with him in that bag. The suit is dated, even Satish knows that, and his shoes have been deformed by bunions over the years. All this Satish sees, and he’s aware that it should engage his sympathies.

‘So,’ says Peter. ‘Colette tells me you’re doing very well, Doctor!’

‘Yes. And I’m working in London, too.’

‘And we meet right here, after all these years. Strange thing, eh?’

‘I heard about your situation,’ Satish tells him, feeling the swell of a nasty joy. ‘I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet soon.’

Satish sees the T-shirt before he recognises its wearer. It’s a vivid yellow – a punch of colour at the end of the road. There’s rough black lettering across the top and a pink strip over the middle, pushed into a curve by the man’s paunch.

Colette runs by him into the stranger’s arms. The man is stout and bald and for the first moments Satish stares at him as if this new face were not a face at all, but a room in which he is searching for someone. Then he can make out a mouth, unchanged, and eyes which, isolated from the skin around them, are still the eyes which look at you from the photograph. Yes, he thinks, this is Cai. This is what Cai would look like if he had grown up.

Cai – the new Cai – breaks away from Colette and comes towards him. ‘Satish,’ he says. ‘Hello, stranger.’ He holds out his hand. Satish hesitates, then takes it. It’s muscular, scratchy with hardened skin. Satish thought it might set off some kind of reaction in him, this touch, but they’re just two middle-aged men shaking hands. He doesn’t know what to say.

‘Let’s get this out of the way,’ says Cai. ‘I was a horrible little tosser and I’m sorry.’ He waits, and when Satish says nothing, he adds, ‘A late apology, I grant you.’

‘Well …’ Satish begins.

‘I would have said sorry a couple of weeks back, but …’

‘Yes,’ says Satish, remembering the last-minute funk which sent him home that day. ‘Sorry about that. Like I said in the email, I wasn’t very well.’

‘Yeah?’ says Cai. ‘Well, whatever. We’re here now, right?’

‘Yes,’ he agrees, ‘we’re here now.’

And then there’s nothing more to say. All the other things – remonstrances, epiphanies, absolutions – they are surplus to requirement. The two men stand opposite each other, waiting for the next thing to happen. Satish searches his bank of small talk for some currency. He points at Cai’s T-shirt.

‘
Never Mind the Bollocks
?’

Cai nods, laughs. ‘Yeah – out and proud! Couldn’t resist it. Souvenir T-shirt. Maybe not quite part of the Punk ethic, yeah?’ Looking up, he seems to check himself, then suddenly moves away from Satish, back the way he’s come, round the end of the table and down the other side.

‘I’ll just tell them I’m here,’ he says. ‘Andrew Ford …’

Behind him, Satish hears a click of annoyance: Colette has reappeared, and beside her is her dad. Peter stares at his retreating son, then spots someone else seated at the table a few places down, unlit cigarette in her hand, rifling through her handbag.

‘Mandy? Is that you?’ He moves towards her and she rises to greet him. He takes her hand and squeezes it between both of his.

She pulls back slightly. ‘Mr Brecon?’

‘Peter.’

‘Yes, of course. Well …’ There’s a brief silence as Mandy looks from Peter to Colette. When nobody says anything she continues. ‘Funny circumstances to meet in, after all these years. How are you keeping?’

Peter pulls Mandy towards him. ‘Come here,’ he says, wrapping his arms around her. She angles the cigarette away as he closes the space between them. Colette starts forward.

‘Dad?’ she says.

Mandy stiffens, and after a moment Peter releases her.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Peter tugs his jacket down. ‘Just … being back, you know.’

Mandy folds her arms across her chest. ‘How are you keeping?’ she repeats.

‘I’m keeping well. Back in Britain for a while, like you.’

‘Yes,’ she says warily. ‘Mother country …’

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a young woman moving purposefully towards them, a toolbox in her hand, a toolbelt round her waist. When she reaches them she points at each of them in turn.

‘Satish, yes? Peter? Colette? Mandy? Great. Four for the price of one. Don’t go anywhere.’ She grabs a nearby chair and then plonks her toolbox on it. When she opens it up, Colette lets out a little, ‘Oooh.’

‘Make up!’ says Mandy, and Satish sees that the box is filled with tubes and pots and palettes. There’s a pack of baby wipes and a clump of cotton wool.

‘I’m Saffron,’ she says. ‘Andrew’s asked me to pop on a little make-up, OK? We’ll start with you, Mandy.’

Wordlessly, Mandy pushes back her fringe and closes her eyes. Saffron snaps open the pack of wipes and passes one over Mandy’s face.

‘Nice job,’ she says. ‘I bet it took you ages to do this, and here’s me taking it all off again.’ When she’s finished she dips a sponge in a pot of something flesh-coloured and starts dabbing it on.

‘Is this necessary?’ asks Peter. ‘For all of us? For the men as well?’

‘Don’t worry, boys,’ Saffron tells them. ‘Everyone thinks they’ll end up looking like something out of the
Rocky Horror Show
. I’m just improving on nature, that’s all.’ She reaches down to her belt, which, Satish now sees, contains brushes rather than tools. ‘Hold still.’

She strokes powder over Mandy’s nose, her cheeks and chin and eyelids. Then there’s something pink. The rest of them watch, silenced.

‘Copy me,’ she instructs, and Mandy does, opening her mouth slightly, pulling it a fraction wider. There’s a thing with a pencil, and then a brush, and Mandy’s lips are done. She looks as if she’s on television, and someone’s turned the colour up.

‘You look beautiful,’ says Peter. ‘More beautiful.’

Mandy frowns and dives into her bag. ‘Anyone mind?’ she asks, producing her lighter. She’s lit up before anyone can answer.

‘Watch the lipstick!’ Saffron warns her. She turns to Peter.

‘I don’t want it to show,’ he says, and she tuts at him.

Mandy sighs and looks back up the street. Satish follows her gaze and sees Cai leaning back in a chair, feet on table.

‘I’m off,’ she announces.

‘Wait!’ It’s Peter. Saffron’s hand is clamped on the top of his head, so he can’t turn to her, but he says it loudly enough. ‘Hang on, Mandy. Before you go …’

‘Stay still,’ Saffron tells him.

‘Mandy, wait. It’s been so long. I just want to know. Are you happy?’

She stops mid-stride. She looks at him, puzzled, and Satish can see her trying to fit it all together, to work out Peter’s strangeness. She opens her mouth to speak, cuts her gaze away from him, then closes it again. The silence becomes painful and Satish is just starting to feel awkward when Mandy finally answers.

‘You know, that’s a very strange question. And I don’t know why you’d care. But for what it’s worth, I think I am happy. I’m living in a city I love, and I’m doing what I love. I’ve had my ups and downs, but who hasn’t, by this age?’

‘Thirty’s rough,’ puts in Colette, and Mandy smiles.

‘Yeah, thirty – evidently. But we’re here, aren’t we? We’re still here. I know what they say, the pessimists, but to tell the truth, I’m not one of them. What’s that expression? The triumph of hope over experience. Well, I actually believe in it. I would uphold that every time. So yes, I suppose I’m happy.’

Peter ducks under Saffron’s restraining hand, evades the brush she’s reaching out to him, and grabs Mandy by the shoulders. He squashes her against his chest.

‘Well said, my girl. Well said.’

And Satish doesn’t want to see it any more, the way this situation might unfold, the surfacing and suppression of family secrets, so he walks away.

Sarah’s looking better than she did the last time they met. Satish encounters her as he loiters near her parents’ house, and she comes too close for him to pretend he hasn’t seen her. She’s recovered her poise, dressed in sharp little boots and the kind of wrap top he sees on the wealthy matrons of his town. She must have been on holiday; her skin is a couple of shades browner than it was under the fluorescent hospital lighting. The two of them look at each other. She opens her mouth and he shakes his head – no – but she’s already moving towards him.

‘Satish, I …’ And she stretches out to touch him. He desperately doesn’t want her to but he can’t pull away because he’s English after all and that would be a Scene. Her hand comes to rest lightly on his arm.

‘Louis’s great,’ she says, removing it. ‘He’s doing really well. It was a glitch. They say he’ll be fine.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

‘And I’m sure you understand, about what I said. I was under a great deal of pressure that night. Every parent … You just try to do what’s right …’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s very tough. You have no idea. But you – you fixed him.’

‘Actually it’s my job. The Hippocratic oath? I’d never have done anything else.’

She looks at him for a second.

‘I’m glad he’s doing well,’ says Satish.

‘I told my mum,’ she continues, gesturing to a woman sitting halfway down the table. The woman looks at Satish and her face resolves into Mrs Miller’s. She raises her hand and smiles. ‘She’s very grateful. I think she’d endow Central Children’s with the rest of her pension if I let her.’

‘I have to go,’ he says, and gestures out towards the rest of the street, to nothing in particular.

‘All right,’ says Sarah. ‘Thanks.’

He tries to look busy as she leaves, setting off purposefully. A moment later he glances back and realises he needn’t have bothered. Her attention’s not with him, but with Mandy, who she’s bumped into on her way down to Andrew Ford.
Bumped into
isn’t right, though; quite the opposite. The two women pass back-to-back, ignoring each other with scrupulous care.

And now it really is time to fix things with Colette. She’s back on Miss Walsh’s wall and just for a short while there is no new lover claiming her attention, no needy father or recalcitrant brother. The currents and eddies of this strange reunion are calm for the moment. She’s nicked a cake from the far end of the table and is nibbling it.