The Year of the Runaways (24 page)

‘We bought you something,’ his mother said, moving to reveal it. A suitcase: brown, shiny, expensive-looking leather. A red bow around its middle. She put a hand to his damp back. The fan made her chunni all fluttery over her head. ‘So tall you’ve got these days,’ and then: ‘Let’s pack together.’

The next morning at Delhi International Airport Avtar spotted Lakhpreet in the departures terminal, standing around with her family. Though they spoke every Sunday, and had been on the phone last night for a full two hours, this was the first time he’d seen her since she took him to the lawyer. She seemed anxious, her gaze darting, trying not to look as if she were searching him out. They’d agreed not to meet each other’s eyes today, and definitely not to talk: it was too risky, she’d said.

‘But I talk to unmarried girls all the time,’ he’d replied, joked, though neither of them felt like laughing.

Her brother, Randeep, was dressed much more smartly than him. Shirt, tie, trousers. Even the kid’s suitcase had a fucking bow tie. Avtar adjusted his pen to conceal the fact that his shirt pocket was missing its button, then pointed out to his mother that Aunty was over there.

The two families met, the mothers embracing, commiserating, reassuring one another – and, therefore, themselves – that God willing all would work out well for the two boys. Again – because she had already made several phone calls over the summer – Avtar’s mother pressed her thanks on Mrs Sanghera. It was so very, very kind of them to let Avtar stay with Randeep and his massiji in London.

‘Please, pehnji, you are embarrassing me. And my sister’s London house is very big. It is zero trouble for them.’

Avoiding Lakhpreet, Avtar moved to Randeep and extended his hand. ‘I used to see you sometimes. In the block. Just hanging around looking lost,’ Avtar added, laughing in what he hoped was a friendly way.

Randeep smiled miserably. Everything about his long, skinny frame – shoulders sloping in, feet crossed shyly – suggested an innocent view of the world.

‘Have you been on a plane before?’ Avtar asked.

Mrs Sanghera interjected. ‘We used to fly all the time. With Randeep’s father’s postings. We even went to Colombo once. But Randeep was very small then. You probably don’t remember, do you, beita?’

‘It’s my first time,’ Avtar said. ‘So you can help me, na?’

At this the boy smiled more openly, showing his large, straight teeth.

They checked in their luggage, anxiously showing their visas and passports to the sour-faced man behind the counter. At the security gates the guard advised that it was strictly passengers only beyond this point.

‘Tell Papa not to worry,’ Avtar said, embracing his tearful mother. ‘It’s all going to be fine. I promise.’

He looked across and saw Randeep stroking his sister’s hair. She was crying against his shoulder. ‘I love you, too,’ he said, but still she wasn’t letting go.

‘Don’t be silly, Baby,’ Mrs Sanghera said, pulling her daughter away. ‘This isn’t like you.’

On the plane, whenever he closed his eyes, Avtar kept seeing Lakhpreet’s face, tears rolling down. How helpless he’d felt standing there. He sighed. It was for the best, he reminded himself. Just think how much he’d make. Save. He’d save so much in a year. In fact, he’d have a savings pile, he decided, and add to it every month. Before he knew it, their lives would have turned round. He allowed himself a smile at the thought of Mrs Sanghera’s face as he married her daughter. And Randeep’s. Though Avtar doubted Lakhpreet’s brother would be that bothered. He seemed pretty reserved, not at all like his sister, and it was hard to believe he was the elder, even if only by a year.

‘So. You’re a married man?’ Avtar said.

There was a ripple of confusion down the boy’s face, tiny movements that finished in a slight parting of his mouth. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

‘You don’t sound so sure?’ Avtar smiled.

‘No, no. I am. A married man,’ he repeated, almost to himself. Randeep felt a strange dissonance, how the bald fact of it made him instantly adult, and yet their handling of it all, of his life, was like a regression to childhood. He couldn’t work it out. He felt too young to be married, though. He felt too young to be anything. ‘She’s a kind person.’

‘Yeah. A real gutkawalli,’ Avtar said, repeating Lakhpreet’s description.

‘Hmm? How do you know?’

‘Your mother said. To mine,’ and Avtar turned to the window, telling himself to be more careful next time.

At Heathrow, a short woman with a frazzled look approached them. Her salwaar kameez was a plain cranberry, and her widow-white chunni covered her full grey head.

Randeep took the lady in his arms. ‘Massiji. Sat sri akal.’

‘Welcome, beita.’ She had a soft voice. She held his face and pulled it down to kiss his forehead. ‘You had no trouble?’

‘None. This is Avtar bhaji. My friend.’

Avtar touched her feet, but she seemed unused to this and mixed up her blessings.

‘Where’s Jimmy bhaji?’ Randeep asked, looking around. ‘I thought he was coming.’

‘Oh, something came up. But he’ll be at home. They’re both looking forward to seeing their cousin.’

She lived in Ilford, in a small semi on the straight edge of a keyhole-shaped cul-de-sac. There was a mean black hatchback with a phat exhaust on the drive and behind this she parked her grey, spluttering metal bucket of a motor. Home, she said, as if amazed to have made it back in one piece. She held the front door open while they wheeled their cases over the step and found themselves immediately in the living room. Two lime leather sofas and a massive TV dwarfed the space. There were video consoles, too, and boxes of computer games, a clutch of keypads tangling about the carpet. An archway led to the kitchen and at the table sat a young man hunched over his bowl of cereal. Long shorts, gym vest. A buzz cut and a goatee. Glassy studs in both lobes.

‘Jimmy bhaji! How are you?’ Randeep paused at the table, waiting for Jimmy bhaji to jump to his feet at seeing his cousin after so many years. Jimmy remained sitting. He looked up and with his spoon still in his hand nodded at Randeep.

‘Hey, man. Welcome to England. I forgot Mum said someone was visiting for a bit.’

Randeep smiled, a little chastened.

‘This your first time? To England?’

‘Ji.’

‘Well, wrap up warm. You know what they say about England.’

A door closed somewhere above and from a staircase partially obscured by the archway a girl – a woman – entered the room. She wore denim shorts over thick black leggings, and an old grey T-shirt. Her vast frizz of crunchy-looking curls was mushroomed high up on her head, fountain-like, and earplugs emerged from her neckline to noodle about her chest.

She looked at Massiji and Avtar, and then at Randeep. ‘Oh, hi.’

‘Pehnji? I didn’t recognize you.’

‘It’s Aki,’ she said, with emphasis.

‘Sorry.’ He tried again: ‘I can’t believe it’s been, how long, more than ten years since we were all together? Do you remember when we milked those cows and how it went all over us? We talk about that all the time.’

She gazed at him, then glanced at Jimmy and the two of them exchanged smiles. Abruptly, she turned to Massiji. ‘I’m going for a jog and then to Lauren’s. I probably won’t be back tonight.’

‘Akaljot, we agreed. I told you.’

‘Sorry, Mummy dearest. It’s her birthday.’ Then to Randeep: ‘Enjoy your stay.’

She left via the back door, fixing her earplugs in as she went. Then Jimmy pushed his chair back, screeching it along the linoleum, and dumped his dishes into the sink. He patted the pockets of his shorts, checking for keys, said
laters
to Randeep and whoever the other freshie was and followed his sister out. The glass panel in the door rattled as it closed. Randeep turned to his massi and smiled in an effort to convey that he wasn’t offended. But Massiji was looking out of the window, altogether embarrassed.

She tried to give them her room – the children have college, you see, they need their sleep, otherwise absolutely they would have given up their rooms for you – but the boys insisted they’d be fine on the settees in the front room. ‘Please, Massiji, it’s much more comfortable than we are used to.’

The next morning, rooting in his suitcase, Avtar found the manila folder of student stuff Vakeelji had given him. He recited a short prayer in front of the Guru Nanak calendar hanging in the kitchen and set off to enrol. In his hand he had an old Tube map Massiji had found and over which she’d penned in careful blue Panjabi a list of directions Avtar was to make sure he followed. She didn’t want him getting lost in that big city.

Even so, it was long past two o’clock when he passed under the grey concrete frame of Edgware Station and looked around for some helpful street sign. He was exhausted, and late: the ticket-wallah on the Underground had sent him off towards Edgware Road, not Edgware, and hours seemed to pass before he found a Panjabi-looking man willing to explain that Avtar would have to buy another ticket because he needed to be in another part of London altogether. Thankfully, the friendly man demonstrated how to use the ticket machines, which saved Avtar having to queue at the counter again.

He walked straight on, towards what looked like a major road, and kept to the right-hand side of the pavement. He reminded himself to ask Massiji about changing up some money and to then give her some for letting him call home. They were fine, his parents had said. Pleased he’d arrived safely, his father added, a little formally. They weren’t used to speaking to their son in this way – generally, without a real reason for the call – so it was a short conversation, the main thrust being that Avtar wasn’t to worry about them. He was to concentrate on making something of himself in England now God had blessed him with this opportunity. To that end, Avtar allowed himself a little optimism. The trains had come when the electronic signs had said they would. The guard hadn’t expected money to point him in the right direction. Cars were only driven on roads and only in nice long columns. Even the air was a clear and uniform blue. All the signs of a well-run country. A fair country. A country that helps its people. A country that might even help him.

A brown signboard read ‘Coll. of NW London’ and indicated the first left at the big grassy roundabout up ahead. He wondered how to cross the road. Grey railings lined the kerbside, and it was surely against the law to jump them. He tailed a woman with wheatish hair, hoping she’d show the way, but at the roundabout she followed the road as it curved off and Avtar was left behind. Cars flowed round as if in a deliberate rush to fill in any gaps. He returned to the railings. Perhaps they were low precisely so that people who needed to cross the road could do so. Maybe it wasn’t illegal at all. He secured the folder into the back of his black trousers and, with one foot lifted to the top of the railing, jumped over. The cars were so close. Drivers glanced confusedly over and one or two pointed at the ground, mouthing words. He hoped that now he’d made clear his intention the traffic might stop, but there seemed to be no sign of that. He ventured a foot forward, then took it back as a white van came roaring down. He was breathing hard. He looked about again: nothing. No traffic lights. He had no chance. He waited. When the moment came he felt the cold of the railings leave his body and he was running as hard as he could. The road felt coarse under his thin soles. He could feel his folder coming loose from his trousers and as he reached behind to hold it in place a long brassy horn sounded. Avtar looked over his shoulder. The cars were coming. He wouldn’t make it, and as he launched towards the central mound of the roundabout his foot gave and he felt one of his shoes slip off. All he could do was squeeze between the black-and-white arrow signs and clamber onto the grassy circle. Safe at last, he covered his ears. He felt stupid and angry and through the legs of the arrow signs saw his poor shoe being flipped about like a fish.

About an hour later, a beautiful yellow-haired girl smiled at Avtar as if she’d been waiting the whole day just for him to walk into the college registration office. She looked like one of those white girls that used to come on the television, selling Sunsilk or Amla Shampoo. He managed a weak smile and tentatively presented his folder. He hoped he’d removed all the grass stains.

‘Welcome to North-West,’ she said, unclipping the folder, going through his papers. ‘Computing with Security Systems. I hear that’s a good course.’

‘Thank you,’ Avtar said, just about understanding.

She asked him where he was from and he said India, and then she said they had him down as making his own accommodation arrangements, and he said that, yes, that was true.

‘Not a long way, I hope?’

‘Ilford?’ He showed her the address Massiji had written down for him.

‘Lots of early starts if you want to make your nine o’clocks, then!’ She laughed, which permitted Avtar to laugh too.

She photostatted his visa and passport and Avtar watched her filing the copies into a metal cabinet. She handed him various things: maps, a student union application form, an events listing, his timetable, a pass with his name and picture on it – to give him access to the Mathematical Sciences building, she explained. All this he gathered into his folder, thanking her, keen to leave before they reneged and shipped him back home.

‘There is a strong college Indian Students’ Society, which does a lot of good work helping students adjust to – ’ she struggled for the word. She seemed to want to avoid saying
England
– ‘a new approach. They’re still open. It’s just down the corridor if you’re interested.’

He thanked her again, inadvertently bowing his head a little, and turned to leave. He couldn’t believe it had been so easy. No interview, no questioning, no police. At the exit, he thanked her once more, only to catch her staring at the cracked heels of his naked feet. He felt suddenly embarrassed and, clearly, so did she.

‘It’s just down the corridor,’ she said again, pointing.

The corridor – an open-air walkway, really – was a low corrugated roof protecting a slabbed concrete floor. To his left were doors and classrooms, while the right opened onto a half-empty car park. There were several squat buildings: Materials and Metallurgy, Blocks 3F to 4B, the Tony Baker Building. So this was a real college. He imagined impossibly clever people in spectacles behind each of those doors, being groomed for a rich and employed future. And here he was, amongst them. If his parents could see him now. Behind him, a voice called out, ‘Hello?’ An apna, Avtar knew, before he’d even turned around. A plumpish middle-aged Indian, in fact, in woolly, dark-coloured clothes. His round glasses balanced on top of his shaved bald-grey head.