My Daughter, My Mother (18 page)

‘He’ll have to be, won’t he? He made the arrangements.’

Mr Sohal, the young man’s uncle, ran a pharmacy in Leicester. It had suited him to meet in the evening.

Harpreet kicked off her school shoes and curled up on the bed beside Sooky, seeming stricken with anxiety. Priya slid to the floor and started trying on Harpreet’s shoes, her feet like tiny islands inside them.

‘God, Sooky, what d’you think he’ll be like? I mean, that photo they sent was useless – it could be of anyone.’ It was a passport photo, poorly exposed and more like a silhouette. Even so, it hadn’t looked too promising.

Sooky shrugged. Somewhere inside her she had switched off and was not allowing herself to feel anything about it.

‘His name’s Kanvar,’ she said, deadpan. The girls looked at each other, then erupted into giggles. Kanvar meant ‘Young Prince’. They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. Priya giggled at the sight of them, until Harpreet ended up coughing because of the crisps. She scrunched up the bag and threw it into the bin.

‘Oh, I can’t wait to see this,’ she said, wiping her eyes. Then her face changed and her tears were sad ones. ‘You might end up marrying him, Sooky . . . I don’t want you to. He’ll probably be revolting; and I don’t want you to leave me again. It’s no fun here with just the boys – and
her
. Crow-face.’ They were united in their dislike of Roopinder.

Sooky swallowed. She loved her sweet little sister. She didn’t want to leave her either, but how could she just stay on and on here, the shadowy, disgraced one? For a moment she imagined having a little house of her own, for herself, Priya and Harpreet – and maybe Pav, if he wanted.

‘You’re going to come in this time, aren’t you – and Pav?’ Sooky said. ‘I need a second opinion. And a third and fourth.’

‘Yeah, Mom says we’ve got to. What about Raj?’

‘He’s out – some meeting.’ Both of them rolled their eyes. ‘It’s a good job really. He’d start lecturing them about politics.’

Harpreet took Sooky’s hand and lifted it to her cheek. Sooky felt the plump, damp warmth of her sister’s skin against the back of her hand. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Priya climbed up and laid her hand on Sooky’s other cheek, making her want to cry.

‘Come on,’ Sooky said, getting up. ‘What’re you going to wear?’

‘That . . .’ Harpreet pointed at a peach-coloured Punjabi suit that was just visible in the cupboard. ‘Mom says.’

‘That’s pretty. Good choice.’

‘Are you wearing that lovely red-and-green one?’

She nodded. Meena had chosen both their clothes, new for the occasion. Sooky felt a sad, sinking feeling. Mom had a funny way of showing she cared.

The house was immaculate. The first thing you saw walking through the front door, across the grey-and-black carpet, was the picture of Guru Nanak on the far wall. On the table underneath it, between two brass candlesticks, Meena had placed a vase of red-and-yellow chrysanths and another on the coffee table in the front room.

Sooky, dressed in her bright, flattering colours and wearing careful make-up, served drinks and snacks to the visitors while Mrs Sohal, the boy’s aunt, watched her with an intent, but strange expression. As Sooky passed in and out of the room bringing plates of food, she could feel her mother’s stress emanating towards her as she willed her to do everything right. Sooky felt as if she had passed into a weird dream.

They were all positioned round the room on the comfortable fake-leather sofas: Pavan, forced into a suit and looking as if he had a rod up his back; Harpreet, homely in her peach outfit; Mom in a pale blue and gold with a touch of lipstick and her hair up, held back with matching blue plastic combs; and Dad in his best jacket.

Facing them were Mr and Mrs Sohal, who were both rather small, neat-looking people. He was about fifty, wearing a pale-blue turban and suit, and had a gentle expression. His wife, in a deep-green outfit, looked . . . what was it? Sooky puzzled as she handed her a cup of tea and received a nod in acknowledgement. Gradually it dawned on her that the woman was very, very embarrassed.

Seated between them was the Young Prince. Sooky had managed to sneak glances at him while she was waiting on everyone. First impressions had been bad enough, but once she was able to sit down, she could take a good look at him. She had been told that he was twenty-four, but he looked a lot older. He was small, dead-eyed, with a strange knobbly nose, as if some kind of fungus was growing on it, and the worst case of acne scarring she had ever seen. His mouth made her think of toads.

I thought they’d eradicated smallpox
, was her first thought. She told herself not to be so cruel. After all he couldn’t help it. Perhaps he had hidden depths.

In the meantime the families had been chatting in Punjabi about their respective lives and businesses. Then they moved on to their children.

‘Pavan is a very good student,’ Meena told Mrs Sohal. ‘He is studying now for his A-levels in physics, maths and further maths: he is hoping to become an engineer. And our other daughter, Harpreet, she is doing her O-levels.’

‘GCSEs,’ Harpreet pointed out. ‘They’ve just changed it.’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Sohal, uncertainly.

Then they came to Sooky. They knew about her marriage, of course.

‘Sukhdeep was also an excellent student,’ Khushwant told them. Sooky was warmed by the real pride in his voice.

‘And as you see, she is proficient in her domestic duties,’ Meena went on.

Sooky sat, staring mainly down into her lap, partly to look like a good, modest Punjabi girl who had been shamed and chastened. But it was equally because she was afraid that if she met Harpreet’s eye the hysteria that was building inside her would burst out in a fit of crazed cackling. Every so often she glanced up with a slight, modest upturn of her lips, careful to avoid looking anywhere near her sister.

Then it was Kanvar’s turn to be discussed.

‘Does he not speak
any
English?’ Khushwant asked, switching to English himself for a moment.

‘He has not had the opportunity to learn,’ Mr Sohal said.

Mrs Sohal gave a desperate smile. ‘I’m sure he would pick it up very quickly,’ she said. ‘He is quite an intelligent boy really.’ She didn’t sound entirely convinced about this.

Sooky took a quick peek round the room. Poor Pav was sweating uncomfortably in his suit and tapping his hand rhythmically on one knee, perhaps as a way of hypnotising himself into staying sane. Her father was munching snacks, throwing peanutty handfuls into his mouth. Her mother sat demurely. Sooky slid her eyes quickly over Harpreet to examine the Young Prince.

He was dressed in Western clothes: black trousers and a white shirt with a jacket that didn’t quite match. His hair was plentiful, well-oiled and cut in a style faithful to the 1970s, a parting on the right and all flicked back towards the left side. Even though nearly all the conversation was conducted in Punjabi, he sat staring vacantly ahead of him. He did not once meet her eyes. For a moment Sooky found herself imagining that everyone in the room had animal heads on their shoulders. Kanvar would definitely be a toad. She almost heard a croak escape from him. Dad was a dog, one of those big gloomy ones with long ears; Mr Sohal a camel; Mom a nervous gazelle . . . She knew Harpreet would look like a scared rabbit . . . She dragged her gaze back to her lap.

The Sohals were raking around for any praises they could sing of Kanvar. He was hard-working, they were told. He had been his father’s right-hand man on the farm in India, but he was the third brother in the family. There was not enough farm to go round. His ambition was to run a shop in this country. He was very keen to have a family and settle down; he just had to find the right girl . . . Mrs Sohal’s eyes grew wider as she spoke. They reminded Sooky of Pinocchio’s nose getting longer and longer. He was also a good religious boy. He said his devotions every morning and frequented the
gurdwara
.

After this conversation had gone on for what felt like several decades, a silence fell. Khushwant wondered, ‘Perhaps it would be best if we let these two young people speak to each other alone – just for a few minutes?’

Mrs Sohal looked very unconvinced as to the wisdom of this, but suddenly Sooky found her mother prodding her thigh, urging her to get up. Two chairs had been placed in the little side room by the front door for herself and Kanvar, and everyone else retreated. As they walked side by side for a second, she realized how short he was. Sooky was five foot seven and he came up to about her ear.

They sat, and now she was alone with the toad. He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together (even his fingers looked a bit froggy), his head lowered. His smell, a rank combination of hair oil and sweat, made Sooky want to wrinkle her nose.

She waited for him to speak. Eventually he raised his eyes to her with an arrogant, contemptuous expression and, in his roughly spoken Punjabi, brought out the words, ‘So, you left your husband? You are dirty – second-hand goods. And you have a child? A
girl?
’ He almost spat out the word. ‘You’d better be able to have a son next. You should be grateful for anyone even thinking about marrying you. Lucky for you I came along. I want a visa. Anything to get out of India. You’ll do for me to get that. So long as you do everything I say.’

Sooky looked at him expressionlessly, at his ugly, pockmarked face.
Have you no idea just how revolting, how vile and repellent you are?
she wanted to say. Terror seized her. Supposing Mom and Dad thought he was all right – that she should just marry anyone who came along? Honour must be satisfied . . .

He sprawled back in the chair, as if drawing attention to his groin, and stared at her insolently. ‘So, what have you got to say?’

Sooky rose slowly to her feet.

‘Over my dead body,’ she said. In English.

When the Sohals had gone, having been told that they would be hearing from the family, the Baidwans sat down in the front room. There was silence. The room stank of Kanvar’s sweaty armpits.

Khushwant took another dip into the bowl of spicy
chevda
mix and sat munching frantically. Meena was crouched forward on the sofa, her elbows resting on her knees, hands supporting her chin, looking at the floor, her face unreadable. Pav and Harpreet didn’t seem to know where to look.

After a few moments it occurred to Khushwant that he needed to take charge of the situation. He rubbed his hands together, then wiped them on his thighs to shift the salt and spices.

‘Perhaps we could speak to Sukhdeep alone?’ he suggested warily.

‘Dad, you can’t be serious!’ Harpreet burst out, to Sooky’s eternal gratitude. ‘He’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen – he looks like some kind of mutant dwarf! And he reeks! You can’t force Sooky to marry him.’

Sooky heard Pav suppress a chortle on the other side of the room.

‘Harpreet!’ Meena scolded. ‘That is very rude and disrespectful.’ But even she sounded half-hearted.

‘No one is talking about forcing,’ Khushwant said with dignity. ‘Sukhdeep,
beteh
?’

Hearing this term of affection for the first time in as long as she could remember, and seeing his serious but kindly expression, made Sooky’s throat ache, as if a well of tears might pour out of her. It suddenly felt as if she was his little girl again.

‘What do you think of marrying this man?’

‘D’you really need to ask, Dad?’ She spoke gently. ‘I know I’m not a credit to you, that it’s hard for you to find anyone, but please, please – not him. I’d rather stay single. In fact I’d rather die.’

Her tears did begin then, the tension of the evening releasing. She put her hands over her face as the sobs took over, and felt Harpreet’s hand slide onto her lap, offering comfort.

Her father was quiet for a moment, then she heard him say, ‘Very well. I will tell them.’

Tears streaming down her face, Sooky turned to Meena.

‘Mom?’ It came out as a wail. ‘Say something, please. Just
please
talk to me – I can’t bear it.’

As her mother looked up, Sooky saw that there were tears in her eyes too. She shook her head.

‘He was not right for you. He was a rough peasant and very ill-mannered. It was obvious. There are other men.’

Her body shaking with sobs of relief, Sooky said, ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry . . . Thank you . . .’

Twenty-Two

Meena stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair forward over her left shoulder. It hung darkly against her pale nightdress. Head on one side, she studied her reflection: a forty-one-year-old face, thin, with deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her mouth and furrowing her forehead. Once she had looked much like Sukhdeep, though not as pretty. Now her face looked old and a little severe.

‘My hair is so sparse these days,’ she remarked.

In the mirror she could see Khushwant behind her, already lying in bed, arms bent back under his head. His tummy made a mound under the bedclothes.

‘One plait is now so thin. I used to be able to make two like this.’

That had been the fashion among the women when she first came to Smethwick. She had worn two thick, glossy plaits down her back. For a moment she is back inside her younger self, muffled up in a second-hand C&A coat – brown and cream checks – walking down the Oldbury Road to the shops, the cold wind biting through her thin
salwar-
trousers. Now she would be wise enough to put on tights or long-johns underneath. She is holding Raj’s hand, the plaits swinging along her back. Walking beside her is her friend Tavleen, with her poor little handicapped girl in the pushchair . . . Sweet, gentle Tavleen, whom she was unable to save, who threw herself in front of a train two days before her twenty-fourth birthday.

Meena forced the memory from her mind. Speedily fastening her hair into one braid again, she stepped out of her slippers, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in. Khushwant, who by now would usually have been snoring, was wide awake and looking round at her. She met his troubled gaze.

‘You are thinking about that Sohal boy?’