Dead Unlucky (18 page)

Rodgers leaned back in his leather chair, pursed his lips together and slowly nodded his head, a paragon of sagacity. ‘Harry, I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh on you a few minutes ago, but it was one hell of a shock you presented me with, talking about an exhumation of a kid right out of the blue. And, after all, it did look like you’d been insubordinate and gone behind my back.’

‘Nothing to apologise for, Sir. I agree it looked a bit odd, but I wouldn’t disregard a clear order like that from you on purpose. Not in a million years.’

‘No. No, of course you wouldn’t. Maybe I’m a bit touchy, what with Christmas coming up.’

‘Understandable, Sir. You have yourself a merry Christmas,’ said Hart, as he reached the door.

‘Thanks, Harry. You too. And, Harry.’

‘Sir?’

‘Good luck in this enterprise. I’m with you all the way.’

If somebody had told Harry Hart a week earlier that he would be sitting at a dinner table on Christmas Day next to the newest recruit at the Lockingham factory, with her mum and dad and her little brother completing the quintet, he would have done them the favour of looking up
psychiatrist
in the Yellow Pages to save them the bother. So how did it happen? How did an unwelcome, not to say slightly peculiar, encounter during the purchase of a pound and a half of braising steak lead to Harry sharing the big day at the home of four strangers?

It certainly had something to do with Arthur Rhodes and the exhortation he delivered in The Pickled Firkin for his mate to make an effort to enjoy himself, with its undertone of disapproval that he wouldn’t get anywhere by wallowing in self-pity. That began it all, but there was more. The past few days had brought home to Hart like never before that there were just too many dead people in the world, people who were past having a good time. And, what’s more, they’d left behind folks who really couldn’t be expected to party their lives away. He didn’t suppose that Ron and Daisy Brown would be belting out
Happy Birthday, Dear Nicola
today as they lowered funny hats onto their heads to celebrate the births of Christ and their daughter. No, Harry had decided that he should demand it of himself to make the effort that Arthur had encouraged. In fact, having a crack at enjoying a good time on Christmas Day seemed to him to be just about an obligation.

Hart thought to himself that he had never been in a house quite like this one, although he didn’t mean that as a criticism. But it seemed especially weird today, when most dwellings in Lockingham would be adorned with angels and Santas, plastic trees and tinsel, paper decorations and jolly baubles. The Kanjarias’ home had its own embellishments, some of them as jovial, others definitely not.

‘So who’s this then, Jatin?’ asked Hart, being careful not to touch the Hindu
murti
, in case it wasn’t the done thing.

Asha’s little brother was eager to instruct him. ‘That’s Lakshmi, she’s got four arms and she’s standing on a lotus flower.’

‘And we make sure we keep her happy by presenting her with offerings every day,’ volunteered Nirupa Kanjaria. ‘She’s the goddess of wealth and good fortune so we certainly don’t want to fall out with her.’ As she disappeared into the kitchen, Hart reflected that her emerald-green and ruby-red sari trimmed with gold constituted a novel yet gorgeous Christmas costume.

‘And this pair?’

Asha answered this time, and treated him to a short lesson as she could feel he was genuinely interested and not just making polite conversation. ‘Rama and Hanuman, the monkey-god. Rama’s an avatar of Vishnu, the Preserver. That is, he’s an incarnation, or representation, of him. Lakshmi’s his wife.’

‘All of the gods are ultimately differing manifestations of the source and sum of the universe, called Brahman,’ related Sanjay. Like his daughter, he sensed that Hart really wanted to know. ‘Brahman is not a god, more an essence that infuses all creation, and we need to use numerous depictions of the characteristics of Brahman to help us understand such a difficult concept. That’s why we need so many gods, they actually represent those characteristics of Brahman, because the universe is such a complex and diverse place to comprehend.’

‘Too complex for me, I reckon,’ agreed Hart, sipping at a sherry. ‘But even I know this chap here. Ganesha.’

‘That one’s easy,’ lectured Jatin,’ because of his elephant’s head.’

‘The god of wisdom but, unfortunately, not of good manners,’ said Sanjay, ruffling his son’s hair.

‘He also has endless compassion. Just like my father,’ rejoined Jatin with a shrewd smile.

‘And who’s this?’ asked Hart, padding over to the to the mantelpiece in his grey socks and pointing out a bronze figure with several arms, dancing inside a circle of fire.

‘Shiva is often referred to as the Destroyer, Harry,’ instructed Sanjay, ‘but that’s a little bit of a misnomer. He’s not really the villain some people make him out to be; he’s more the god of rebirth, of regeneration. It’s impossible to reap the benefit of the new until the old has been put away; without the winter there could be no spring. He doesn’t just ride over the Earth looking for people to kill for a bit of a lark as some people who make little effort to understand Hinduism might like to suppose. But when he stops dancing it’s time for this universe to end, so let’s hope he keeps going a little longer.’

Although he would have liked to have learned more, the end of Hart’s introduction to Hindu theology was at least heralded in the most marvellous fashion by Mrs Kanjaria’s return to the dining room, bearing a giant of a turkey. George the butcher had been right in his description of a monster because it really was a beast of epic proportions. Harry was thinking that, however the day turned out, it wasn’t going to be all bad, the food would certainly be more bountiful than the sparrow he would have served up for himself at home.

Mrs Kanjaria rested the heavy platter on her husband’s place-mat and he began carving while she returned to the kitchen with Asha to collect the vegetables. Sanjay and Harry had a glass of red wine each, everybody’s plate was stacked to overflowing, and the usual compliments were afforded to the cook. And every one of them deserved, she had served up a feast.

‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten the napkins,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry on my account,’ replied Hart. ‘I don’t think I’ll be looking to spill any of this down my front.’

‘I wish we could have turkey more often,’ suggested Jatin.

‘Then it wouldn’t be special,’ replied his mother. And now to Hart. ‘We are in the fortunate position of being able to enjoy the best of two cultures. We can throw out the bits of each we don’t like and savour those that we do.’

‘And Christmas is on the list of hits?’ enquired Hart, although the answer was obvious.

‘Certainly. One of our favourite occasions, although we don’t go in for absolutely all of the trimmings. Again, we can be very picky and just adopt the parts we like or which aren’t too much trouble.’

‘Like the turkey,’ volunteered Jatin.

‘He’s only interested in taking up traditions which fill his belly,’ teased the boy’s elder sister.

‘I can relate to that, he’s an astute young man. A nice drop of wine, too, Sanjay,’ said Hart, lifting up his glass.

‘Thanks, Harry. It’s good to have someone to share it with. After dinner, we’ll round it off with a glass of that malt you brought round if that’s okay. It’s not often I get the chance to enjoy a drink. My wife doesn’t allow it.’

‘Don’t you listen to him, Harry; making me out to be an old dragon like that. And you don’t have to worry about Asha, either. You treat yourself to a little drink and don’t fret that she will blab. A police officer must be able to keep her mouth shut. You could dance on this table under the most intense intoxication and news of your entertainment for us would not reach the police station in the morning. If it did, Asha would be on the next plane from Heathrow to marry a man we’ve lined up for her in case she misbehaves. He’s eighty-three, has no teeth, and he beats his other ten wives with bamboo sticks.’

‘Mr Hart, my mum could chatter for England or India, and the country she chose to represent would win any gossiping competition,’ stated the embarrassed young woman.

‘I’m afraid it would be India then, as in all contests,’ explained Nirupa as she passed around the Brussel sprouts. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. Of course we are English, and therefore British. We contribute to the economy of the country by what I hope is our hard work. My husband is an engineer for British Airways and my daughter is a British police officer, although I wish she had chosen a less dangerous career. But these are all superficial measures of Britishness.’

‘That all sounds pretty British to me,’ said Hart.

‘Maybe, but the real determinant of how English a person is must of course be their views regarding cricket. And I have to say that we are all supporters of India, we fail the test. There are certain emotions that tug at the heartstrings more than language or colour or politics, and they cannot simply be discarded by settling in another country. Certainly, we do our civic duty and we vote for whichever of those scallywags we find we dislike the least. But that’s merely politics, nothing important. So by doing so we don’t have to abandon something which is embedded in the soul, like the loyalty to one’s cricket team. In a generation or two, Asha and Jatin’s children or grandchildren, they will probably shout for England. But for now, I’m afraid, we are all just a little bit foreign.’

‘Are you a cricket fan, Harry?’ asked Sanjay, hoping he had found a soulmate to welcome into the family. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘Love it. One of the two great games.’

‘And the other’s football?’ Asha asked the question, and the four Kanjarias stopped eating, forks suspended in mid-air as they awaited a reply which was clearly important to them.

‘Sad to say it’s rugby,’ said Hart, misjudging the answer they had hoped for.

‘That’s a relief!’ exclaimed Sanjay, and merriment returned to the table, as though Harry had been under suspicion of a terrible sacrilege but was now proven innocent.

‘If I want to watch a load of grumpy and objectionable men shout, spit and swear, I could stand in front of my bathroom mirror and do it myself. It would save me fifty quid a time as well.’

‘You’re not
that
grumpy, Mr Hart,’ said Asha.

‘Now, don’t be so rude to our guest,’ chided her mother.

‘And don’t be so dishonest either, Asha,’ scolded Hart. ‘You know full well I’m the most crabby worker at the factory, so don’t malign my hard-won reputation.’

After the sumptuous dinner came the Christmas pud, surrounded by a moat of creamy old-fashioned custard. That lot filled Hart to the brim, but it would have been a sin not to make room for a little Stilton marinated in port. It had only been soaking for a day or two, probably just since he had phoned to accept the invitation, so it wasn’t as soggy as it should have been. But it was a delight he hadn’t enjoyed for years.

‘Do you have any children, Harry?’ asked Sanjay as he passed him his coffee.

‘A girl in Canada and a lad down in Australia. We keep in contact, the occasional email and phone call, but it’s not the same.’

‘Have you ever been out to visit?’

‘We were going a few years ago, out to Oz, but then my wife was killed and it all fell through.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Harry,’ said Sanjay. ‘Perhaps you’ll get another chance to go.’

‘It was a traffic accident, just over four years ago.’ Hart felt the need to tell the story, to lighten the load. ‘A hit-and-run driver clattered into Maggie, drunk at four o’clock one Saturday afternoon. She was crossing the street on the way back to the car park, loaded with some weekend shopping, and he sped straight through the red pedestrian traffic light. At least he was caught. He got three years.’

That explains everything
, thought Asha. Why he was so odd about taking a woman along to break the news to that boy’s parents, why he insisted on it.
I bet it was a woman who told him about his wife, and he’s always been grateful for that.
And then she remembered something else and smiled inside:
and he said there was no way he’d take what he called a mediocre plod.
But he did take Asha.

‘That’s all so sad,’ said Nirupa, gazing at Hart, a faint smile showing her concern.’ We do feel for you, we really do.’

Hart smiled his gratitude in return.

‘Perhaps I’ll get out next year and visit one of the kids.’ Now he wanted to move away from the subject; his cloud had already tipped enough rain onto the Christmas candles. ‘I’ve never been to anywhere really exotic, only pottered around in Europe before.’

‘There are some marvellous foreign countries out there, Harry,’ said Nirupa, catching on to his endeavour to avoid being morbid. ‘Some of them very peculiar, with the most eccentric customs imaginable. Look at England, for example. Its deprived people had never even experienced the delights of the curry until we brought it over for you.’

‘A fair exchange for cricket,’ countered Harry. ‘And look how much we’ve improved the chicken tikka masala since it arrived on these shores.’

‘True. A bit like what we did to the cricket you took to us.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Talking of cricket, we’ve got a treat for this afternoon,’ said Sanjay. ‘Let’s get the washing-up out of the way, then we’ll get that whisky uncorked.’

‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of stopping too long, I don’t want to impose. I’m sure you’ve got things to do,’ said Hart. He hadn’t meant his protest to be so transparently feeble. He needn’t have worried.

‘That’s typical of you men, trying to get out of a little work,’ said Mrs Kanjaria. ‘You needn’t think you’re leaving this house until you’ve helped with that washing-up. And then you’ll settle down in front of the TV with the rest of us and watch our spanking new DVD of
Botham’s Ashes
.’

‘Nirupa, consider my arm well and truly twisted.’

*****

Christmas Day wasn’t a big deal in Hiba Massaoud’s home, of course. It found her lounging about again in one of the living rooms in the family’s Mayfair apartment, flicking through the channels on the TV. She had been idling away far too much time lately and promised herself she would get stuck into her school work again once the new term started. Hiba turned off the television, plumped up a cushion on the arm of the sofa, and lay down on her back with her bare feet flat against the settee and her legs forming an inverted vee. And then she thought about the final really good time she had shared with Nicola – the fun of the school camp in Derbyshire last August bank holiday.