Jubilee (6 page)

Sarah’s door was shut, a plastic Do Not Disturb sign depicting Snoopy asleep on his doghouse. Satish reached for the handle.

‘No,’ whispered Cai. ‘Listen.’

Behind the door, the girls were playing a record. Satish could hear a bouncy piano accompaniment, a loping drumbeat. He looked at Cai, quizzical.

‘What is it?’

‘David Soul,’ said Cai. ‘It’s completely spastic. Listen.’

They moved quietly up to the door and pressed their ears to it. The blond fluff of Cai’s hair tickled Satish’s lips and chin. David Soul was duetting with a high-voiced woman.

‘It’s a
soup recipe
,’ Cai told him. ‘A musical soup recipe.’

Satish tried to make out the words amidst the sound of his own hair rubbing against the door and the occasional thumps and creaks from within. Cai was right. The song was a list of ingredients; he caught a reference to tomatoes and onions. There was mention of garlic. He and Cai looked at each other, world-weary. David Soul exhorted the woman to mash some black beans. Then suddenly the track finished, the needle scraping across the grooves. In the silence that followed, they could hear the girls talking.

‘You said he was a seven,’ said Sarah. ‘Most
men
couldn’t do that. Believe me, I know.’

‘What? How?’

‘I can tell you—’

But Sarah’s revelation was cut off by a swell of violins. The boys groaned.

‘Not this crap again!’ muttered Cai. ‘It makes me want to
puke
.’ Satish nodded agreement. They’d heard the track incessantly the previous winter. Now here it was again:
Don’t Give Up On Us, Baby
.

‘That stupid film,’ whispered Satish. ‘When he sings behind that fence thing.’

‘That spazzy horse,’ said Cai. Satish agreed. A car was cool, a horse was spazzy. He knew that.

Whatever the girls had been talking about, they’d stopped now and were giving themselves freely to the music, singing along with varying degrees of tunefulness. After a while the boys could hear more movement in the room – were they dancing? Satish could make out soft thuds, and muffled commands from Sarah (‘
Now do the thing with your shoulders … No! Like this!
’). Satish tried to imagine what was going on in there. They could be acting the song out in dance, like Pan’s People.

Cai put his fingers down his throat and mock-puked. Quickly, Satish did the same. Then, as David Soul turned his attention to rain and stars, Cai put his hands together: index fingers forward – a pretend gun – and levelled it at Satish. ‘I’m Starsky,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’m Starsky. You’re Hutch. OK?’ Cai started doing the tune from the programme. He pointed at the door with his gun. ‘In there.’

And then Satish realised what he was supposed to do. He didn’t watch the programme much. He hoped he’d remember enough.

They crept up like the cops did on TV: one each side of the door, guns pointing up. Mandy hit a particularly tricky high note. Cai nodded towards the door handle. Satish pushed it gently down, hoping the girls’ attention was elsewhere. He gave Cai the thumbs up, and Cai jumped round, aiming a kick at the centre of the door. It burst open and they rushed in, more or less as Starsky and Hutch might, accompanied by the gratifying sound of Sarah screaming. She lowered her arms from the beseeching position they’d been in. The door rebounded and knocked Cai into Satish, but he quickly righted himself and held up his improvised gun again, pointing it at the girls, then into the corners of the room.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ shouted Sarah.

Satish crouched under the window ledge and then sprang up, aiming a few shots into the street. Cai threw open the wardrobe and hauled out a jumper, pointing his gun at it.

‘Wankers!’ Sarah said, checking the door.

Satish got the record player in his sights and squeezed off a couple of rounds. Cai leapt onto the bed and then sat down hard on it. Satish remembered that: Hutch jumping on the car in the intro sequence.

‘Just get out! Get
out
!’ Sarah howled at them then, quieter, to Satish, ‘You just bloody get out!’

Behind her, Mandy was corpsing, looking at Satish, and then looking away. The boys retreated a safe distance, then both lifted their guns once more – simultaneous, Satish felt warm with it, and fired one last time. They clattered downstairs, turning to each other as they reached the sitting room, landing there for want of a better place. As he entered, Satish could hear his mother talking.

‘Of course the children will eat them! Satish loves them. Satish, don’t you love your chakli?’

Satish’s mood flattened. He wished he’d stayed to fight with the girls. Most of all, he wished that Cai had. Instead, his friend was beside him, and Satish wondered whether there’d be a price to pay for this later on. He answered his mother with careful neutrality: ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘He does not
suppose so
. He loves them! Takes them from the kitchen all the time when I am making them. They are a lovely snack.’

Miss Bissett gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sure they
are
lovely,’ she said, ‘but they’re not British food, are they? Do let’s remember this is a particularly
British
celebration.’

‘I live here. I am British now. She’s my Queen too.’ There was a shifting in the room. Sima looked at the floor. Above them, Satish could hear movement as Mandy and Sarah’s performance resumed. Even as his abdominal muscles crunched, he sensed that the conversation had moved beyond food and even felt, though this may have been a retro-fitted response, an untrustworthy memory, that his mother had been quite clever. With those final four words, she had occupied the territory of patriotism. Mrs Miller, hostess and mediator of disputes, stepped in.

‘Of course she is, Neeta. You say they’re crispy snacks for the kids? Looking at this list, there’s lots for everyone already, so if the children really don’t like them, there’s plenty more to eat. It’s another reference to the Empire, really, isn’t it?’ This to Mrs Tominey, who smiled noncommittally. In the chair by the window, Satish’s mum looked down at her lap.

‘Are you happy with that, Verity? Lots of English food, like your lovely fruit cake, and some more … cosmopolitan contributions, too?’

Miss Bissett pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m sure that sort of thing is very appreciated in your household, Neeta, but it seems an odd dish to have at a Silver Jubilee party. I suppose it doesn’t matter, really. Add it to the list.’

The ensuing silence was deftly handled by Mrs Miller, who set about filling teacups and recirculating the biscuits. Satish, feeling hot and weak, turned to Cai. ‘This is boring, let’s go back upstairs.’

Later, in the sanctuary of her own kitchen, Satish’s mum was to rail against the lot of them.

‘I’ve taught History, remember!’ she harangued Satish, when his dad had heard enough and retired to the lounge. ‘“Tribute from the Empire” indeed. I know what was going on in that Empire! You need to know, too. Do they even bother to …? Bloody coronation chicken! I will not touch it! Not one
mouthful
! And you—’ catching Satish as he was shuffling towards the kitchen door, and pointing a wooden spoon at him for emphasis – ‘You shouldn’t either!’

Satish sleeps late, and when he wakes the house is quiet. He tries to guess the time from that silence, from the quality of light on his eyelids, and the messages his hungry body is sending him. When he opens his eyes, the clock confirms it: ten past eleven.

Hanging up on the wardrobe is the T-shirt Asha gave him for Diwali. It’s another of her attempts to modernise him. He likes it well enough, but he needed it explained. It’s khaki, with a row of medals printed on the chest. On the back, it says ‘Chief’.

‘Chief?’

‘Yeah. The Kaiser Chiefs. You know …’

‘Oh, yes.’ He didn’t know.

‘Go on. Put it on.’

He’d come downstairs in it and she’d howled, hiding her head in a sofa cushion.

‘No, Papa! God!’

‘Asha …’

‘I can’t believe …’ She went over to him. ‘Not with cords. You wear it with jeans! And not like that, tucked in! Pull it out.’

Satish did as bidden. The T-shirt hung sloppy over his hips, but she seemed happier. He wonders now whether Maya left it out for him, or Asha herself. She might be contrite after last night’s discovery of the cigarette: contrite, or sulky. He puts it on.

After breakfast he sets off. The town slips around him, and he passes through it at one remove. The pavements are busy with buggies, and his progress is slow. He stands aside, smiles politely, and tries not to make eye contact because he needs to think. He’s working up a script.

Between the wine shop and the hair salon there’s a cut-through, a covered passageway used for fag breaks by shop assistants and hairdressers. There’s no one there now though, and it’s dark and private. Satish faces away from the street. He leans against a wall and mutters to himself.

‘I’m surprised you thought it appropriate,’ he says. ‘I was surprised you thought … I was taken aback when you …’

On the ground there’s a scattering of cigarette butts. They’re soft underfoot.

‘No, that would be out of the question … To be honest, I was disappointed that you found it necessary to call my home … Well, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that …’

Ridiculous. This is language from a business letter. Why can’t he get this right?

‘Given what you know of the events of that day … Do I really have to remind you that …’ His voice echoes back to him in the confined space. He checks the street behind him; shoppers move across the passageway entrance, framed for a moment in forward motion, eyes forward too. They’re oblivious to him. Then: ‘You and I are friends. What the hell were you thinking?’

When he enters the wine shop, Colette is at the back, squatting down to refill a low shelf. He takes in her tight top, the way her too-short skirt rides up her thighs, and tests himself for a sexual response, as he has to with Colette from time to time. No: she’s never quite stopped being his mate’s kid sister. She’s looking like a child today as well, pigtails wonkily erect at the sides of her head; only when he is closer can he see the lines around her eyes. She rises, her polite customer-service face already forming its greeting, then she recognises him.

‘Satish!’ He’s gripped in a bear hug, her cheek squashed to his chest. He lets her do it, doesn’t respond. After a moment she loosens her hold and looks up at him. ‘You’re really pissed off, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a little surprised, I have to admit.’

‘It was a surprise for me, too. Andrew Ford! After all these years!’

‘How did he find you?’

She flinches and pulls away. ‘Don’t be cross.’

‘Why did you do it? You, of all people, know better than that.’

‘Oh, don’t be cross. Please, Satish.’

He can’t let her get to him. He looks down at the floor: rough wooden boards, a filament of straw. Billy Bragg is playing softly on the shop’s stereo system. The phone call: she told Maya about the photo.

‘You called Maya.’

‘We often talk. What’s the problem?’ She looks up at him. Big eyes.

‘Don’t be disingenuous. You know what the problem is.’

Footsteps interrupt them. It’s Oscar, Colette’s boss, coming from the storage rooms. He inserts his head through the doorway, leaning forward into the shop with his hands anchored either side of the frame, his long hair falling over his face. He rocks there, back and forward.

‘’Right, mate?’

‘Yes thanks, Oscar. You?’

‘Yeah, fine. You want a cuppa, Colette?’

She looks him slowly up and down. Satish knows that look, and he pities Oscar. ‘Cheers,’ she says, dismissing him, and he rocks back out of view.

‘Total pash,’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve started smelling his coat.’

‘Don’t change the subject!’ Satish’s voice sounds strident in the quiet of the shop. ‘You shouldn’t have called Maya about it. You’ve placed me in a difficult position.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Then, quieter: ‘Does she not know?’

‘You
know
she doesn’t.’

‘Then I’m sorry. I’ve made things hard for you.’

‘Yes, you have.’ Billy Bragg’s guitar fades, and in the silence between songs Colette reaches up to touch Satish on the right arm, just below his shoulder, and he schools himself not to smack her hand away.

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry,’ she says. Then the shop door bangs open, rammed by a buggy, and a customer struggles in.

The toddler is parked equidistant between two displays of bottles, its mother’s instinctive geometry planting it so both are just beyond fingertip reach. Satish watches Colette as she works. She is asked for recommendations, and as he listens he smiles, despite himself. She’s doing it by the book: two suggestions only, she told him once, an old retailers’ trick.

‘One choice and they feel bullied, more than three and they’re confused. So you go easy on them – two choices, and they’ll buy the one you’re most enthusiastic about, even if it goes over their budget.’ He can hear her patter now.

‘Actually, how about this one? It’s a couple of quid more than you wanted to pay, but it’s gorgeous. Really passionate producer, cracking wines. You get more for your money from Chile, and it’s a perfect match for the food.’

She holds the bottle flat, label upwards. There’s a flourish to her movements that Satish rather likes; she puts each bottle on display, presents it like a temptation. You don’t have to take this from me, she is saying, but look how delightful it is.

He thinks of the lines he hasn’t used:
what were you thinking?
It’s a decent question. What
was
she thinking? She’s mercurial but not insensitive. He’s trying to work this out when the question slips away from him, just like that, and he’s staring at a line of bottles, overcome by his lassitude. Diazepam’s great for that, he thinks, it keeps you in the moment.

He can hear the sound of Colette’s transaction finishing, the door opening and closing. He is held by the luxury of inertia. He doesn’t move until he hears her voice.

‘Satish?’ she’s saying. ‘Satish? Are you OK?’