Losing Touch (4 page)

‘I know. But Mike and the boys love it. I don't mind, really.'

‘It's so unfair. We do so much for them. And we don't get anything in return. Nothing turns out the way we want. We just have to face it.'

Pavitra asks, ‘Suni? Are you all right?'

Sunila looks down and realizes she has been stirring her tea too vigorously. Some has slopped out into the saucer. ‘Oh, how clumsy of me.' She uses a paper napkin to mop up the mess. ‘I should have been more careful. Such dainty cups. Not like the big, hulking mugs we have at home.'

Pavitra leans across. ‘Any news about, you know, Arjun's tests?'

Sunila breathes in and out. Here it is, out in the open: the trembling reason why she can do no more than whisper the word ‘divorce', why she must swallow the insults, endure the slaps, wait out the humiliation of his flirtations. This man, who looked so healthy, is sick. Even if he plays squash three times a week and goes gallivanting after Haseena. He thinks he is so good at hiding his feelings but she, who learned from an early age to stand back and watch, has seen him holding that traitor leg after it buckled once again. She tries to imagine what it is to feel your leg go numb, go missing. She has not been brought up to run away from hardship.
In sickness and in health.
No one is going to help them out in this green and pleasant land where people send their parents off to retirement homes. No one else will take care of Arjun when he can no longer work, when the rest of his body begins to…

‘He – well, we don't know—'

Pavitra leans closer and Sunila realizes she and her stupid tears are being shielded from the rest of the customers. She quickly wipes her eyes on the napkin. Takes a sip of tea. Sits up a little.

Pavitra squeezes her hand under the table. ‘I keep him in my prayers, Suni. Always.'

‘Thank you.'

The waiter brings their chicken and noodles.

‘We can say a little prayer now, if you like?'

Sunila nods. No one will notice. It will look like they're saying grace.

She and Pavi bow their heads and Pavi speaks. ‘Oh God, our Father, please put Your hand on Arjun. He is a young man, Lord. And he has a family.'

Sunila nods. Even though most people would agree that thirty-nine is definitely middle-aged, in God's eyes Arjun is still a young man.

‘Keep him strong so he can take care of Suni and the children. Nevertheless, not our will but Thine be done.'

And Sunila realizes that, young or old, Arjun will not get better. She's heard these prayers many times and been convinced that God would heal. But Bombay-side Aunt Kitty died suffocating, unable to gasp in enough oxygen. And they had prayed through the night for her. Now Arjun, too, is going to die. What is the point, then, of praying at all? She thinks of Arjun as some high-priority folder she's slipped onto the Holy Blotter. What is God doing up there? Is He listening and laughing at their frail human trust? If He can see the sparrow fall, why isn't He doing something about Arjun?

She pushes the thought away as Pavitra demonstrates how easy it is to cut the noodles with the edge of the spoon. Soon they are talking about the children, their jobs, the funny things the comedians say on the television. After their free dessert of lychees and ice cream, they wander along the high street.

There's a sale on at Debenhams, and Sunila persuades Pavi to try on a new coat. It's a beautiful dark blue wool blend that will keep her warm. The coat is fifteen pounds and Pavi obviously likes it, but she takes it off.

‘Perhaps another time.'

‘Let me buy it for you. Just pay me back when you can.' Sunila doesn't know where this impulse has come from.

‘No, Suni. Mike would be so angry if he knew I'd borrowed money from you.'

‘But we're family. We always help each other out. It's all right. Mike won't mind.'

Pavitra hesitates. ‘But, Suni, I don't get paid for another two weeks. And I have to put aside the housekeeping…'

‘That's all right. I don't need the money right now.' Sunila hugs her. ‘We'll buy the coat. You can say someone gave it to me, but it didn't fit. We'll cut out the labels and put it in an old plastic bag. He won't know. Men don't notice these things.' She looks into her sister-in-law's worried face. ‘He's not going to find out.'

She takes out a ten-pound note and a five-pound note. There's always the chicken in the freezer. She can say that Marks and Spencer had sold out of the black cardigan and skirt she wanted to buy. They were only for work, and her Crimplene skirt and grey wool cardigan are still perfectly fine even though the merino wool jacket would have looked so elegant. Never mind. She can save up and buy them another time.

She watches her sister-in-law put on her new coat, her sweet, delicate face beaming and her long, slender fingers smoothing the fine wool.

‘Pavi, you look like the Queen of Hounslow.'

Pavitra twirls around and laughs.

Arjun grips the steering wheel and clears his throat for the third time. Nothing on the cold, grey A40 helps him out. No incidental-cow-in-field, no hovering lark, no pendulous cranes that young boys are meant to love. Winter colours; faintly frosted fields to left and right fade away into residual mist. The scenery is bald, bland and peculiarly English. If only Sadiq were already here. How is it that a nine-year-old child can get his fifteen-year-old cousin to talk? And Murad doesn't just talk; he becomes energetic, even witty. But there are twenty miles until they meet Haseena, who is dropping Sadiq off for the day's outing to Bekonscot.

Arjun glances at his silent son. He's at what Sunila calls ‘the awkward age'. Murad's been at an awkward age since he was ten, speaking less and less. Now he is silent during dinner and at any other time. He does exchange a few words with Tarani.

Today Tarani is with Sunila.
A nice quiet day at home
. They are reorganizing Tarani's room. Tarani had asked for a floor cushion. Why she wants to sit on the floor is baffling to him.

‘Just for a change, isn't it? Something pretty to look at. For her to sit on.' Sunila had stood directly in front of the front door.

‘She can sit on the bed.'

‘It's something special for her. Can't we—'

‘I don't have fifteen pounds to throw away on floor cushions.'

Tarani's hoarse voice: ‘They're
not
fifteen pounds! They're only a measly—'

Sunila clapped her hands as though she were dusting them off. ‘
Chuput
. Never mind. Come on.' And the two of them went upstairs.

A year ago, Sunila managed to lose fifteen pounds of housekeeping money. It still makes him angry. How could anyone lose fifteen pounds? Of course, she'd had to pay it back out of her wages. It was a good lesson for her.

Arjun turns the radio on and the strains of that irritating Pachelbel's
Canon
prompt him to ask, ‘Can you find something nice for us to listen to?'

Murad tilts his left shoulder as though there's a hidden catch in the request. He looks sideways as a concession to making eye contact and tentatively reaches for the dial. Achingly slow, he turns the once gilt plastic dial. With the careful precision of a Noh play, Pachelbel edges, note by note, into static that is overlaid with someone shouting about milk, eases back into static, slowly steers into high-pitched honking that eventually morphs into a woman's laughter. Murad's left shoulder relaxes.

The woman continues to honk over the phone while the radio-show host chatters inanely in an Irish accent. Now the man is talking about ‘foightin' the flab', some disgusting reference to dieting. The show is obviously for women: house-cleaning entertainment.

Murad is hunched over, trying to close the eighteen-inch distance between himself and the radio. This is rubbish. Can't Murad see that? It's even worse than the other nonsense he and his sister so love, some idiot called Kenny who sings a ‘Hello' song to introduce himself instead of a dignified announcement.

Murad hitches himself closer. As the Irish clod says something else, Murad releases a soft snort. Through the long hair, Arjun can see it: turned down at the corners, no teeth showing, but a real smile. Arjun can't remember the last time he saw his son smile. The radio babble continues and the corners of Murad's mouth twitch. Arjun pushes himself back in the seat, rotates his shoulders and settles himself to endure the station for as long as it takes to reach Bekonscot.

Finally, a song. Louis Armstrong singing ‘Hello Dolly'.

Murad is sitting back, the sullen mask in place.

‘You like Louis Armstrong?'

Murad half-shrugs. ‘He's okay.'

‘This song doesn't do him justice. He's not really a singer. But you should hear him play trumpet. You know “The Five Pennies”, the record we have at home? He plays really well. Some people call him “Pops” or “Satchmo”. Not very respectful in my opinion. Now, Dizzy Gillespie, he started bebop. Improvisation.' Arjun taps a finger on the wheel. ‘Everyone imitated him. And he played with all the big boys. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Earl Hines. Great musicians.'

The Irish voice starts up again and Murad moves slightly forward, just enough to signal that he's no longer listening to Arjun. He probably wasn't listening anyway. Arjun suddenly loathes the Irishman and all these radio voices that can make his son smile, gurgle, snort in ways he no longer can. How easy it was when Murad and Tarani were little. Anything made them laugh. Now they just look at you as though you're speaking Dutch.

He wants to spin the dial, find some Hawkins, Monk, Lionel Hampton; tell Murad, ‘Open your ears
–
this
is music'
.
But Murad is half-smiling again, rocking forward as the Irish voice lilts inanities, chats to admirers on the phone, tell his listeners to get up and dance. Arjun realizes he's never seen Murad dance. Is he slow and stealthy, just a little shoulder movement, maybe one hand held out at waist level, fingers curled, the other in his pocket, shifting from foot to foot? Is he, perhaps, one of those who suddenly become animated all over like an electric eel? The idea of Murad dancing like an eel makes him bite the insides of his cheeks. It wouldn't do to laugh at his son.

However, when he finally composes himself enough to look at Murad, to suggest they change the station, the eel image returns and he has to turn a sudden laugh into a cough. He puts the back of one hand to his face in case Murad is looking. And who is he to laugh, when all he can manage is a tentative foxtrot and a shuffling waltz?

Let Murad perform his eel-like gyrations if he wishes. At least he might be happy, although it is difficult to imagine Murad being happy anywhere. Has he ever asked anyone to dance? An approaching roundabout brings Arjun's attention back to the road. He carefully joins the swirl of oncoming traffic, brakes in time to avoid a pushy black van and continues on the A40.

Should he offer Murad advice on asking a girl to dance? How is he to introduce the subject? ‘Elusive Butterfly' is now playing and Murad is sitting back with something like his usual scowl. The song grates through its jolly melody and Arjun can't help it.

‘Pah.' His usual expression of disgust.

‘Mum likes this. Val Doonican.'

Arjun pauses, unsure what to say about Sunila's tastes in music. ‘She likes Hawaiian music, too.'

Murad snorts. Arjun can't believe it. A laugh? From his son? Suddenly he feels like he's driving a Jaguar.

‘All that twinkly stuff. “Sweet Leilani”.' Murad mimes playing a guitar.

Arjun laughs out loud. Murad snorts, Arjun coughs. They sound like two asthmatic old men.

‘Well, she likes it. That's what's important.' Arjun is still smiling.

‘She says she likes his cardigans.' Murad jerks his chin towards the radio. ‘Val Doonican.'

‘Don't say that. She'll be knitting us one soon if we're not careful.'

‘
I
wouldn't wear it.' A quick head shake to one side to flip the long hair back.

Arjun hugs this small moment of unity with his son, but he doesn't want to appear disloyal to Sunila. ‘So, what music do you like these days?'

‘Nothing much, really.'

‘Come on. I know you listen to the radio, you and your sister.'

‘There's Woodstock.' A half-exhalation as though this is a joke Arjun wouldn't understand. ‘It's a festival. Lots of bands get together.'

‘Ah. And this is in London?'

‘It's in America.
Was
. In August. It was in the newspaper. One of my friends brought it in.'

Arjun turns the concept over. Music festival. It sounds beautiful. A celebration of music. In reality, it was probably all this gyrating loud pop music. Just as well it's in America and in the past tense.

Arjun slows down and pulls off the A40 onto Station Road. He glances down, hoping Murad is wearing warm shoes.

They turn onto the long driveway to Bekonscot Model Village and Railway. The silver birches still have a few leaves, trembling, white-rimed. It's been a long time since he brought the kids here to run through the piles of autumn leaves. Today only Murad has grudgingly agreed to come along and keep Sadiq company.

At least there will be some peace. Of the two, he suspects Tarani is the one who causes the fights. Her adolescence is of the cactus variety. One day Tarani announces she loves the Kinks, and the next she hates the Kinks and loves the Rolling Stones. Tarani flings down her statements like gauntlets, hoping for a shocked reaction. The pop groups mean nothing to Arjun. He has even suppressed his disgust and furtively listened to Radio 2 in an attempt to hear some of the songs, but he can't make out what these disco jockeys say or what the songs are about. He has tried to forbid pop music, but he knows the children will find some other way to listen to it.

He pulls up next to Nawal's little dark blue Triumph in the car park. He and Murad get out. A small vibration of nerves as he sees Haseena. These days he can speak to her without feeling the numbing embarrassment that shut him down after that time in Richmond Park, two years ago, when he stupidly tried… Well. That's all past now. They must get on with the business of being family. He uses his hearty voice.

‘Good morning, good morning, ladies. No, please don't get out. It's much too cold.'

Nawal rolls the window down. ‘Good morning, Arjun, hello Murad.'

Haseena gets out of the car to hug him. He barely touches her; receives her slight embrace. Murad mutters, ‘Hello Aunty.'

Haseena hugs Murad, who actually hugs her back. Where did this affectionate side of Murad spring from?

‘Murad, I thought of you the other day. Have you seen those blue-and-black-striped bell-bottoms? You'd look very nice in those. Wouldn't he?' She turns to Nawal, who wobbles her head ‘yes'.

Murad glances at Arjun and then mutters to his aunt, ‘Yeah. They're good. One of my friends got them, the blue ones, down Kensington Market. They've got them in red, too.'

‘I saw the red ones in Biba, but I didn't have the nerve to buy them!' Haseena laughs, and Murad releases his quick, embarrassed cough-laugh.

‘Maybe you should, Aunty.'

‘Oh, listen to him, Arjun. What a charmer!' She turns to Murad. ‘We should go, eh? Have lunch and buy some striped trousers together.'

Arjun, surprised by his son's sudden demonstration of social skills, has no idea how to contribute to the striped-trousers conversation. He looks around.

‘Where is Sadiq?'

Haseena points to the naked birch trees where Sadiq, in a red bobble hat, is enthusiastically jumping into mouldering piles of leaves. Murad drifts over. Sadiq spots his cousin and joyfully urges him to join in the jumping. Murad stands on a fallen log. Sadiq tries to step up but falls off. Murad lends a stabilizing hand and they walk together along the log. Sadiq shouts with joy as he manages to balance. ‘Mum, look at me! I'm flying to the moon!'

‘The girls,' Haseena lifts her chin toward Nawal, ‘are at a birthday party. So we have a whole morning of freedom. We've been talking about this for days.'

‘Lovely.' Arjun looks over at Sadiq. ‘What time do you want me to bring him home?'

Haseena turns to Nawal. ‘We'll be back at what, one?' Nawal nods.

Arjun nods. ‘Let's say one-thirty, just to be safe. Now, sit in the car and roll that window up.' He smiles at Nawal, includes Haseena in the shared smile. ‘What film are you going to see?'

‘
Butch Somebody and the Breakneck Kid
.' Nawal looks at Haseena.

‘Sundance
Kid
.' Haseena is laughing. ‘Thank you, Arjun. Sadiq adores his big cousin.'

Sadiq briefly runs over to hug his mother and then goes back to the log. Arjun waves goodbye and the car pulls away. He stamps his feet, even though he is wearing two pairs of socks and his thick walking shoes.

Sadiq is bundled up in a padded coat and a red scarf. Murad's hands are in his pockets. Arjun now sees that Murad is in jeans, a pink-and-blue flowery shirt and a thin jacket. The loose-knitted maroon scarf that looked promisingly warm in the car is stretched and flung carelessly over one shoulder instead of being nicely tucked around the neck. Despite that, he looks relaxed. Both boys trail over to Arjun as a long green Daimler crunches expensively into the car park.

A woman steps out in white bell-bottom trousers and a long pale-coloured fur coat, followed by a boy, about Sadiq's age, in a suede coat trimmed with white fur. ‘It's not
open
, Mummy.'

‘It'll be open in a moment, darling.' She turns to the car. ‘Morton? Keep the car running. Pokey, you sit inside for a bit.'

‘I hate this place. It's never open.' The boy gets back in and slams the door after him. He stares out of the window at Sadiq, who stares back and then tugs at Murad's arm. ‘Let's walk on the moon log.' Murad shrugs, and Sadiq runs back to kick through the leaves.

The woman turns to Arjun. ‘Well? Is it going to open or not?'

To Arjun's surprise, Murad speaks up. ‘The sign says it'll open at ten.'

‘I can
see
what the sign says.' She turns her back.

‘So why did you ask?'

Arjun is shocked. How could Murad speak like this? He murmurs, ‘
Murad
.'

She turns and looks Murad up and down. ‘Don't you work here?'

‘Do we look like we work here?'

‘I'm so sorry, madam. We are only waiting for it to open.' Arjun smiles. ‘Like you.'

She stares at Arjun and steps back into the Daimler that sits purring on the gravel. Sadiq has come back and looks from Murad to Arjun.

‘Murad, what are you doing, talking back to the lady?' Arjun keeps his voice low.