Homesick (30 page)

A few people go by as Simon lights a cigarette in his mouth and passes it to her. He doesn’t smoke, hates it, in fact. But he knows it calms her. She didn’t see the general there. This time, it wouldn’t be her imagination. It is Gertie’s funeral, her brother should come.

“I didn’t see him, did you?” she says to Simon.

“No. Well, no one in uniform.”

“He’s not going to be in uniform, idiot. Is he?”

“No. Well, maybe. It is a funeral. But do you think he would come? With the elections in Sri Lanka?”

She smokes her cigarette.

“Let’s not go back in there, Preethi.”

“But we’re here now.”

“If we go in, let’s sit at the back.”

“Tell you what—let’s go to the pub instead. We can catch everyone afterward.”

“No. No more drinking.” He is firm with her these days, and it is what she longs for, a steady hand. She longs for strength in all things: her foundations, the places inside where thought used to be, are crumbling. Without Simon, she would be little pieces.

•

Mumtaz has come. He wears a suit, he is clean-shaven, his hair short. He lives in London now, in halls of residence. He is reading English literature, in his second term. He
loves his course, loves his life. He met Gertie for a coffee at “their” café near Marble Arch twice. The first time, a year after, on July 7th, and they talked about that day and about their lives. The second time, he was there for his interview, so texted her, and she turned up. When she died, Nandini got in touch, told him when the funeral was. They were friends in adversity, that was all. But he wanted to come, pay his respects.

•

They hear a car approaching, and soon enough the hearse drives very slowly to the door of the chapel.

“Shall we go in?” Simon asks.

“All right. Come on, then.” Preethi stands, wipes her skirt down at the back and front. It is a Chanel suit. Cost a huge amount, but what the hell. Money is the only problem she doesn’t have anymore.

They slip past the undertakers and go in. Simon holds her arm tightly and tugs and pushes her into the first pew they come to. He passes her some gum, and as she sits, he takes her sunglasses from her face. She is about to shout, “Hey!” but the devil is out of her. She no longer feels disruptive and afraid. There is simply tiredness: she is small; she would like to curl up and sleep. She reads the order of service and sighs quietly.

The casket is walked down to the front, where trestle legs stand waiting for it. The men gently place it, taking flower arrangements and putting them artfully about the coffin. They unscrew the top and remove it, so that from where she sits, Preethi can see Gertie’s soft, fat hands clasped together. She stands half up in order to see the face more clearly. There she is, old Gertie, the customary frown and smile resting on her face in that puzzlement she looked
upon life with. Preethi would like to laugh out loud at her, in her pale blue sari, but she sits down again, with a bump, knocking her elbow against the carved-wood knot of the pew. The words of a song come to mind, and she has to swallow the urge to sing them out loud.

•

“Oh, this is my
favourite
hymn,” Dorothy whispers to Rosemary. “And the right tune, too,” she says, before chiming in with the congregation:
“Dear Lord and Father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways.”
She looks around her, at all the lonely people, all the women left behind by husbands dead. Some have been dead for years, like Hugo. Like Gertie’s Reggie. Dorothy looks tenderly at Gertie, lying there in front of them, and wonders if all the others feel as she does—a small envy. After all, Gertie is with Reggie now, in heaven. Tears well up, and she has the good grace to let them fall: she loves a funeral. Rosemary links her arm into Dorothy’s, and they sing together, their weak sopranos getting stronger as their voices warm to the tune.

•

After the service, Nandini has invited everyone to her house for the wake. Gertie’s little home would be too small for all the people who would want to pay their respects. She was well-known in the community, for her charity work for orphanages back home and for her welfare work with refugee families in London. She kept it hidden, flitting here and there on buses, so that only at the wake do people start to piece together her importance to so many. It is typical of Gertie, Nandini thinks, as she helps to serve the fish balls and samosas, that as people stop her to talk, they all have a story to tell of Gertie, sometimes a whispered joke.
Only Shamini says something bitter, but people know her as difficult, resentful of a life lived well. She pulls Nandini to a side, says, “All these people! How can you afford?” But Nandini tosses her head, pulls her wrist away. Shamini takes the opportunity to ask, “Is Preethi very upset? She
seems
very upset.” Nandini follows her gaze to where Preethi sits, legs splayed apart, her black suit skirt riding up to reveal her thighs. Her hair is messy, her lipstick blurred: she looks like a broken doll, Nandini thinks. It is a shame, for Nandini is proud of Preethi’s wealth, her intellectual prowess, the power her novel has given her. Poor little Preethi, Victor’s favourite, his little girl. Nandini goes to her, stands in front of her daughter with the plate of food offered. It is only when she stands with her knees touching Preethi’s that she realises, behind the sunglasses Preethi is asleep.

•

Preethi wakes because her mother kicks her foot. She is startled to find herself in her family’s home. For a moment, she is disorientated and doesn’t know who is alive and who dead. She thinks she awakes into a different party, and that her father is in the dining room and Gertie and Mrs. Chatterjee are sitting with their backs to her. She looks around: there, in the corner, is Chitra, on her own, in a high-necked black blouse and smart trousers. She is very much alone, and Preethi thinks how beautiful she is, how glacial in her beauty. Gertie is not here, she has to remind herself. Gertie is dead. She fumbles her feet into her shoes. Is Simon there? Did Simon come with her? She looks into the garden, and outside men stand and smoke. Among them, Simon laughs with Mohan, who carries a little girl on his arm. She will go out to them: she wants to talk to Mo, wants to throw her arm around his shoulders and hold on to his steady assurance.
Mo is not changed, the way her family have changed, the way
she
has changed. Rohan dead, Gehan in New Zealand, as far from here as possible. Only she and Ma now, Dad gone five years ago. She wants to see someone from her childhood, she wants to say, “What has become of me?”

As she stands, she stumbles forward and catches herself just in time, against a chair. Dorothy comes to her side. “Come with me, sweetheart,” she says gently, and takes Preethi’s hand.

“I was thinking about Gertie, Dorothy. I was thinking it was like the song: do you remember that song about the corpse?”

“No, darling. Come on, let’s get you a drink of water in the kitchen.” As they walk through the crowd, Preethi starts to hum. She can see Simon stand on tiptoe and register that she is not where he left her. He will come for her in a minute, and she’ll be safe.

Her voice is loud but in tune and clear. She likes the sound of it, likes the noise in her head. It is not her
own
voice, not the voice of crying or grief or fear. She begins to sing.

Dorothy hushes her, takes her firmly into the kitchen. She walks past the photographs in their frames on the wall. There is her wedding photo; her parents’ in Sri Lanka; Rohan and Victor on Ro’s graduation day; Gehan in New Zealand with his family; Gertie with her foster child; Chitra and her ex-husband, Roy; Dorothy and Hugo; Siro and Wesley, Mohan, Nil and Vita. She sees that they have dust on them, she sees the dust, not the faces, sees the appalling age of the photos, the creeping bleed of moisture trapped. She sees the dust only.

•

Mumtaz is on his own at the wake. He doesn’t know why he accepted a lift, why he is standing with his orange juice and samosa in a corner. People smile at him, and he at them, but no one talks to him. He looks around at the house, at the mainly Sri Lankan people, worries that he looks out of place, wonders how to get out soon. A woman brings more food on a plate. She is in her late forties and has that arched-brow type of face that reminds him of Anna Karenina—kind, funny, ironic. She says, “I’m Nil. Are you a friend of Gertie’s?”

Mumtaz chokes. He has yet to get used to the sudden thrust of a conversation onto his thoughts. After all these years, his comfort is still in silence. He makes an overplay of his coughing, to give him time to formulate the words, then says, “We met on a bus,” gasping words out quietly.

“Oh! I know about you. We used to tease Gertie about you. You’re her 7/7 boyfriend.” He grimaces. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says, “but Gertie was very proud of her friendship with you. We all thought it very touching—how you met up in your café.”

He smiles and looks away. Tears have taken him unawares. She sees them, he knows, and he is mortified. “I … really liked her,” he whispers. “We were friends. We talked about things.”

“Yes,” she says. She offers the plate of food, and he takes a fish ball. She looks about for others to offer the food to. Then she says, “We have an album of photos, you know. Over there, on the coffee table. Nandini Aunty is clearing up Gertie’s house, and we found boxes and boxes of photographs.”

He is grateful for the diversion. He lifts his hand, says, “I’ll just go and wash my fingers,” and walks away. He has to creep behind and around groups of people standing in
the hallway and the corridor, and as he gets nearer to the door, he realises the people in the corridor have stopped speaking and are listening to a commotion coming from the kitchen. He pauses, starts to walk back, but stops abruptly, still. The photographs on the wall have arrested him. It is a photo he recognizes: Gertie, her hair only greying, holding a child on her lap, and the child is his mother.

•

Preethi is surrounded by women: her mother, Dorothy, Shamini, Chitra. Nandini stands behind her, not daring to look at her, Preethi thinks. When Simon pushes his way into the kitchen, Preethi feels him more than sees him, feels the aura of calm about him, the way that he wraps her, as if rays of trust and warmth emanate from him. She goes to stand, but Nandini’s hand comes to her shoulder, pushes her down.

“Hey,” she says. Simon walks to her and takes her hand to pull her up.

Nandini says, “No, Simon,” and amazingly he leaves, as if by prior agreement.

They sit in silence. Then, of all people, Shamini says, “You shouldn’t have written that book,” as if it is her business.

Dorothy says sharply, “Enough. It is not up to us to tell a writer what to write.” Shamini stands and is quickly gone. “But,” Dorothy says quietly, watching Shamini leave, “she is right. It made trouble for you, for all of us. Look, now: Sri Lanka is rid of terrorism. Everyone has the flag flying—they are all nationalists. It is a peaceful place.”

“Peaceful, my arse,” Preethi says. The women pull in air sharply,
tsk-tsk
at her. “For goodness’ sake, it’s a dictatorship,
and he kills anyone who doesn’t agree with him: even his closest friends! Editors of newspapers! Can’t you see? It’s a mad place, and no one really cares about the dead, not here, not there. Of course I should have written the book.”

“Yes,” Chitra says. “Yes, of course you should. It was a brave book, a wonderful book. I read it and I loved it and loved it more when I knew it was about Sri Lanka.” Preethi smiles at her across the table, and Chitra takes her advantage. “So, why not be brave and stand up for it? Why fall apart? Why are you drinking so much? It is time to stop being so … I’m sorry … so
weak
.”

Nil comes in. “Weak?” she asks with a smile. “Who is weak?”

Preethi looks toward her desperately. “Me. They say I’m weak,” but as she says it she makes a sudden movement, of arms waving in front of her, her wrists feeble and tumbling. Dorothy and Chitra wince, and Nandini turns away.

Nil laughs. “Oh, leave her alone,” she says. “Let her be herself.”

“What, a drunk? Not
my
daughter,” Nandini suddenly explodes.

“Yes,
your
daughter,” Preethi says.

“Not
a
drunk,” Nil says. “Just drunk sometimes. We’re all upset today, aren’t we? We all loved Gertie, and—”

“It’s not that, Nil. That’s not why I’m upset.”

“Why, then?”

“I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I … I just want it all over with. I want to stop feeling this way.”

“What way?” Dorothy says more tenderly now.

Preethi wakes up. Why would she share her innermost thoughts with these old women? They have no understanding:
only judgment. “Where’s Simon?” She stands up. None of them stop her. “I think we’ll go, Mum.” She looks around for her sunglasses, walks unsteadily to the door, where Nil puts her arms around her.

“No one is judging you,” Nil says, and then to the rest of them, “no one has the right.” Preethi hugs Nil, holds her close. “But Preethi, you know, in a way they’re right.” Preethi pulls herself away.

“But
you
of all people would know how I feel, Nil.
You
know how it’s always been—here we are, in England, and we’re different, and there we are in Sri Lanka, and we’re different. Nowhere is home, nowhere! And it makes me
so angry
! I want to feel I
belong
. I want to feel—”

“But you do belong,” Nil says, pulling her close. “Here. You belong here, with
us
. You belong with Simon, with your children. Why have a meltdown about something like that, for goodness’ sake?”

“I’m not. It’s not just
that
. It’s everything,” she says in despair. She throws her hands in the air, tries to pass Nil. But Nil stops her.

“You’re not allowed to break down. Simple as that, Preethi,” Nil says, laughing.

“Why? Because I’m a dutiful daughter? Because it would be letting the side down? Me being depressed is not about winning or losing, you know. It’s not about how it looks or who else it affects.”

And then Nil is angry. “Yes. Yes, it
is
. You have to deal with it. Stop being so bloody selfish. You think none of us feel the way you feel? You think you’re the only one? This is not about being white or being brown, or belonging or not belonging, or winning or losing. You’re not allowed—
I’m
telling you now, Preethi,” and Nil turns Preethi’s face to
her own. “I won’t allow it.
We
”—she juts her chin at the women at the table—“won’t allow it. Because that’s life, baby.
Either you struggle and survive or you go under. And we’re not going to let you go under.” Preethi sees the fire in Nil’s eyes, sees the reflection of herself there, but behind her there is her mother, Dorothy, Chitra, all in Nil’s eyes.