Jubilee (4 page)

Mandy had brought something to show him. She was holding a long cardboard box. She lifted the lid, reverently, and he heard the
sh-ish
of tissue paper. Mandy spread her fingers to move aside the wrapping. Three oval soaps lay underneath, creamy-white and snug against their cardboard partitions.

‘It’s special soap, for the Jubilee,’ she told him. ‘My mum bought it at Murray’s.’

He looked at her quizzically for a moment. ‘Your mum bought them?’

‘Yes! Look at them, will you?’

He turned his attention to the soaps. Each one had a sepia photograph of the queen set into it on a transparent plastic disc; Satish could see the dots that made up each picture. He scratched at the surface with his fingernail.

‘Careful!’

‘I
am
being careful. I just want to see how hard it is. Will it wear down like the rest of the soap?’

‘I don’t know. That’s not the point. Do you like them?’

‘They’re OK. They’re just soaps.’ He leaned down and sniffed. ‘They don’t smell of much.’

Satish had bought his mum Aqua Manda bath foam for her birthday; he knew the importance of powerful fragrancing where women’s toiletries were concerned. But now, looking at Mandy, he had the sense that he hadn’t given her the right answers.

‘They’re really nice, though. Special, like you said. I haven’t seen any like these before.’

Mandy smiled at him, placated. They were in Satish’s room, its familiar landscape glamorised by the flickering, dappled shadows of the bunting. Since early morning Satish’s dad and Mr Brecon had been on ladders, stringing triangular pennants across the street under the eaves of the houses. Every few yards there was also a line of Union Jacks with the queen pictured in the middle of them, wearing her cloak and crown.

There were no cars parked in the street; it was empty and waiting, a sweep of uncluttered tarmac between two rows of identical semis: the same wavy roof tiles, the same dormers, the same patches of green at the front, the same brick pillars marking the entrance to the same concrete driveways. At either end, Cherry Gardens was anchored by homes of eclectic design: corner houses, owing allegiance neither to Satish’s road, nor to the streets adjoining them. Aside from these mavericks, there were only subtle variations: the colour of a door, a rockery instead of a flowerbed out front, a ceramic house number in place of a metal one.

The men were nearly finished. The ladders stood at the entrance to Cherry Gardens, where you could turn in from the village’s main road. Resting his elbows on the windowsill, Satish peered down to where the men were working, flattening his cheek against the glass. They were putting up a banner, their finishing touch, and he read it backwards: ‘Reign She May Long’.

Looking up, it was hard to see past the lines of red, white and blue; they cut off the sky. When the wind lifted, as it did now, the bunting swayed and bounced like the roof of a tent.

He heard Mandy come and stand beside him. Her elbow was on the sill, touching his. He wanted to move away and he wanted to stay there. Satish kept looking forwards; her house was opposite his. She had the dormer room, too. He concentrated on his arm, not letting it push any nearer, not letting it pull away. He thought about food.

In her kitchen, he knew, Mandy’s mum was decorating fairy cakes in red, white and blue. He visualised glass bowls of bright colour on the marbled Formica of their counter, vibrant dribbles of sweetness that hardened as they trickled down the sides of the cakes. Satish was a connoisseur of Mandy’s mum’s fairy cakes; he liked the icing best when it had just lost its gloss and a thin matte crust had formed over the stickiness underneath. This held true for only a very short moment but if you pushed against it with your tongue, you could taste the sweetness and feel the give of it without breaking through.

Beside him, Mandy was standing quietly, looking out over the road. He thought he should say something funny, or clever, but wasn’t sure which words he could enlist to do that. Her elbow was a constant pressure against his. If either of them moved, something would be switched off. He thought of electricity experiments at school: light bulbs and circuits. He remembered the muffled snarl of the buzzers.

Mandy was his secret. When they all played together, him and Cai, her and Sarah, she was like most of the other girls he saw at school: she went on about pop stars and laughed about things that didn’t make sense to him. He’d liked her, and he’d watched her, just as he watched the others, trying to understand how it worked between them, but they hadn’t been friends. Then one day he’d met her in Jennings’ Field, the bit of waste ground near the school that he’d cycle around on bored afternoons. She was alone too, which had surprised him, but he’d eased his bike down beside her, and they’d talked.

Without Sarah she was more fun, more up for a laugh. She did impressions of some of the teachers in school, and told him about seeing Mr Tominey in the nude through his bedroom window one night. Satish imitated Mr McLennan, their headmaster, as he called the school to order before assembly – ‘and …
sit
!’ – which made Mandy giggle. Satish repeated his performance, hoping to hear her giggle again.

They talked about their families. Her mum and dad were going out to a party that night, she said. Her mum had bought a new dress and was spending the afternoon at the hairdresser’s. He could see it: Mrs Hobbes, elegant in her long gown, her hair piled up high. He couldn’t picture Mr Hobbes in a jacket and bow tie though; in fact, he struggled to imagine him at a party at all. Satish had only ever heard Mr Hobbes say two things: ‘I’m warming her up,’ shouted into the house as he headed to the car in the morning, and ‘I was hoping for red, actually,’ after Satish’s dad complimented him on his new Granada. Unless the partygoers were keen to discuss motoring issues Mr Hobbes would be at a loss. Certainly, Mandy didn’t have much faith in him.

‘It’s not like he ever enjoys it,’ she said. ‘Mum says all he does is sit in a corner and eat cheese. Then he spends the next day complaining about the other guests. Do your parents go to parties?’

He thought about it. ‘Not like that. We go to my Uncle Ranjeet’s place a lot, though. He lives in Bassetsbury.’

‘What do you do there?’

He knew what she was asking now. She wanted to know what Asian people did, about how it might be different.

‘We talk and eat.’ There were things he couldn’t tell her about, things English people didn’t understand. He thought about Ranjeet’s family shrine, which took up the whole dining room. Auntie Manju washed and dressed the image of Vishnu every Sunday. Mandy wouldn’t understand that. He offered her something else, ‘sometimes they make me and my cousin play music’, and shot her a sideways glance as he said it, waiting for her derision.

‘They once made me do a ballet dance at my uncle’s house,’ Mandy told him. ‘They brought a butterfly costume and made me wear it.’

Satish received this in silence. He picked up a stick and spun the back wheel of his bike. A few moments later they both got up and made their way through the field, onto the main road. Neither of them said anything, but when Mandy turned the corner into Cherry Gardens, Satish slowed down. He waited for a bit, leaning on his bike, to give her enough time to get home. When he heard the sound of a door slamming, he started moving again.

After that they’d get together when no one else was around, each instinctively knowing that each was a liability for the other: she a girl, and a younger one at that, he the acknowledged outsider. She grew used to greeting his mum quickly at the door before slipping upstairs to his room, and he became used – gloriously, deliciously – to the treasure house of baked goods that was Mandy’s mum’s kitchen.

Looking out of the window on that Jubilee morning, Satish followed Mandy’s slow gaze, taking in his neighbours’ homes, performing imaginary cross-sections to reveal the industry going on in each one.

Fairy cakes at number one; Jubilee celebration cake at number three (Miss Bissett standing on a ladder, the better to reach the summit of her creation); no food at number five (Miss Walsh was providing the drinks); coronation chicken at number seven (huge platefuls of creamy-pale lumps. Satish wasn’t familiar with the dish, but it had met with warm approval from many of the adults). On his own side, there were the Chandlers at number eight (the Chandler boys, large and intimidating, sliced tomatoes and lettuce with flashing cleavers), whilst next door to him, Cai Brecon – lucky beggar – stoked a fire in his garden as his dad had volunteered to do the barbecue. On the other side, the Tomineys at number two were providing jelly and ice cream. In their kitchen, he felt sure, elaborate, wobbling creations only previously seen in comics or on children’s TV sat waiting to be revealed to the astonished revellers.

In his own house, Satish had been barred from the kitchen since breakfast. Between his mother’s anxious perfectionism and his sister Sima’s sulks – press-ganged into cooking she would adopt, at nine, a sullenness that prefigured her adolescence alarmingly – the atmosphere was unbearable anyway. They were making great bowlfuls of crispy chakli and would later steam dhokla, cut it into squares and put it out on the long tables at the last minute, warm and sprinkled with mustard seeds still popping from the heat of the pan. Thinking about the snacks made Satish’s stomach feel tight. When his mum cooked, he would usually hang around the kitchen, trying to grab what he could when her attention was elsewhere. He liked to sneak a curl of chakli before she’d let him, when it was still too hot to eat safely, passing it from hand to hand, judging the moment when it would not-quite burn his tongue.

Mandy leaned towards him, nudging his shoulder with her own, then left it there so that he could feel her warmth along his upper arm. She’d seen something.

‘Hey, look! It’s Colette. What’s she
doing
?’

Below them, Cai’s little sister was standing in the street, right in the centre of the road, bending her body backwards, face to the sky, her eyes clenched shut. She was grinning, her cheeks forced into squirrel pouches, and she held her hands out on either side of her, presumably to balance herself, though as they watched she staggered backwards. Mandy made an explosive sound in the back of her throat. Satish covered his mouth and laughed through his nose.

‘What on
earth
is she—’

‘Look at her! She looks such a—’

‘She’s just – quick, hang on, you can’t—’

Colette had dropped her strange pose, but not moved from her position, as her dad advanced towards her from the end of the street. She waited for him, still grinning. He held one end of a ladder and walked in long strides, his free hand sweeping back and forth, feigning a military march. Satish’s dad brought up the rear.

‘Stop it, she’ll hear you.’ Satish grabbed Mandy’s arm and shook it gently, trying to silence her. They stood next to his bed, where the box of soaps had been placed, and he was aware, all of a sudden, of himself touching her. He liked Mandy, and he liked being with her, and as they both slowed their laughter, he allowed himself to wonder what other things might be possible. The sun went in again and the room darkened slightly. This quick moment felt like privacy. He glanced at Mandy’s face, saw nothing warning him off and, filled with the spirit of adventure, he stepped towards her.

Satish is finally home after a tough run of nights. He decompressed on the drive back from London: twenty-odd miles down the M40 to his town, which, in its well-heeled Georgian charm, is a lifetime away from the modest semis of Bourne Heath. Not so far by road, though; just a little further down the motorway, along the valley, up the hill, and he’d be right back where he started.

He’s discharged his paternal duties and put the kids to bed. As ever, they’ve felt his absence, Asha more cuddly, Mehul more wired than he would be in a normal week. Satish’s mum, displaying an Austenian delicacy, has gone up to her room early, and even his dad has now caught on and joined her. Satish and Maya are alone in the kitchen.

There’s a rhythm to this end of the day. It goes on in his absence, but rejoining it affords him a deep pleasure. Maya will prepare the children’s packed lunches for the next morning, tutting over their nutritional foibles, but indulging them nonetheless. An apple, always, for Asha, but no tomatoes, ever. Mehul’s craving for cheese is met with one of those little red-waxed balls Maya hates. She mutters as she slips it into his lunch bag. Satish leans against the hob, watching her work. He likes the back of her neck, the space between her hair and the neckline of her blouse. It’s an unguarded, vulnerable place; he remembers how she’d nuzzle that same spot on her babies, and he can watch it unnoticed. His fingers drum the countertop beside him. Their gallop keeps pace with the thing in him that is not at peace. As Maya drops her head forward, her thick hair rides up, exposing a little more skin.

‘Tired, Sati?’

‘Not yet. Still running on adrenaline. Work was interesting, though. A couple of good catches.’

‘Yeah?’ She pours juice into Asha’s sports bottle. He knows she misses it, the bustle of the ward, the drama of it, being at the centre of things. She even misses the more pedestrian satisfactions of her stint as a school nurse. He knows she’s waiting for the moment – maybe three or four years hence – when the kids are old enough not to trouble her conscience, when she can go back to work and not feel guilty. They’re crying out for good people. She’ll walk into a job.

‘Three-day-old baby girl, blue. Transposition of the great arteries.’

‘Oh, God. Heroics.’

The baby had come in from a hospital thirty miles away. Lights and sirens, the registrar crouched in the back of the ambulance with the patient. ‘It’s a close one,’ the reg had said. ‘Hurry.’ What you had to do, in these circumstances, was not catch the fear around you. You had to breathe, loosen your shoulders, be methodical.

Satish had performed the procedure in the Cath Lab, a room so quiet he could hear his own exhalations as he fed the catheter through the child’s blood vessels. All the clamorous things outside the lab – the ambulance, the registrar, the parents prowling the waiting room – those things were behind him now. The mercy dash was in its final few centimetres: the steady advance towards the heart, into it, and down to the septum, the wall dividing the chambers. There it was on the screen: the tiny hole which had kept her alive so far. Satish breathed slowly in and out, focused on keeping a steady hand. Narrowing his eyes, he inserted the catheter into the hole. Then – carefully does it – he inflated the balloon at its tip, and the hole stretched larger. When he’d finished, the balloon withdrawn, he’d watched the screen to see oxygenated blood rushing across the septum through the space he’d widened. It happened again, and then again as the heart pumped. The baby had sighed and twitched in sedated sleep, raised her fist off the table and then settled it down again. The nurse turned to Satish and smiled: ‘Nice one.’