Losing Touch (7 page)

But somehow trotting out the old argument isn't as convincing as it used to be. He slips the sachet back into the box.

He pours tea into one of Haseena's plain white teacups, props two chocolate biscuits on the edge of the saucer and sits at the kitchen table. He sips his tea and looks over the flat-cropped parallel hedges of lavender bushes streaming down to the end of the garden path. Sunila would like this. Perhaps he can suggest they grow lavender. He imagines them choosing the plants, putting them in the soil together, nurturing the seedlings, discussing soil acidity. In reality, she will want to plant in the sun and he will want to plant in the shade. She will knead in handfuls of plant food, too much for the delicate seedlings. He will want to prune to encourage growth. She will want to snip off stalks for her flower arrangements. Why can't they see things the same way once in a while?

A high laugh. Tarani. Murmuring of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He sits a little straighter. He wants to compliment Haseena on her hard work and artistry. But as they enter he can only look at Tarani. She is wearing a white, baggy blouse tucked into bell-bottomed blue jeans and shiny red shoes with thick crêpe platforms. She looks at least five inches taller.

‘Isn't she trendy?' Haseena twirls a laughing Tarani around. ‘She should be on the cover of a magazine!'

Tarani faces Arjun, a little shy but smiling, waiting for his compliment about how she looks in these ridiculous clothes. Arjun doesn't want to insult Haseena, who has clearly spent a lot, but he can't allow Tarani to go about looking like a clown. The bell-bottoms are so wide they'll trip her up when she walks. The puffy-sleeved blouse hangs on her thin frame instead of fitting her properly. And the ugly, clumping shoes. Surely she can't expect to walk in those?

‘He's speechless.' Haseena looks at him. ‘Come, let me pour some tea, Tarani. How many sugars do you want?'

But Tarani wants a response. ‘Do you think I look trendy?' She tries out the word on him.

‘I'm afraid I don't really know what trendy is.' He tries to be light-hearted, in the spirit of the occasion. ‘The, uh, the blouse is quite nice.'

Haseena puts Tarani's tea on the table. ‘Come, darling, and have your tea.' She turns back to Arjun. ‘This is the height of fashion. It's the
look
.' Haseena brings over the plate of McVitie's. ‘It's flowing, casual. Free. She looks gorgeous.'

‘Free.' Tarani throws her arms out and pivots. She staggers in the platform shoes. ‘Oops!'

‘Come sit down, darling, before you twist your ankle.' Haseena laughs.

‘Or break your neck,' Arjun offers. ‘Those things are dangerous.'

‘I love them, Aunty!' Tarani is still heady with being beautiful. ‘I'm getting used to them already.'

‘Haseena, you took so much trouble.' Arjun examines the trousers that balloon around Tarani's legs.

‘No trouble.' Haseena smiles. ‘And the shoes are from a friend. They don't fit her daughter, so she gave them to me.'

‘They're groovy. Thank you so much, Aunty.' Tarani hugs her aunt and sits down.

‘Your mother won't approve.' Arjun tries to make it into a joke but Tarani's face empties.

‘Have a biscuit.' Haseena pushes the plate towards Tarani.

Arjun clears his throat. Doesn't Tarani realize people will laugh at her? ‘You've been busy.' He picks out one of Haseena's lavender sachets from the box. ‘Very nice.' He smooths out the lace. ‘Tasteful. Delicate colours. Something that people will love to buy. Something they can be proud of having.'

Silence.

Beside him, Tarani makes a sudden movement, knocks the table. Tea slip-slops into the saucers.

The front door is thrown open and they hear high, clear singing. ‘Oh, food, fabulous, food, beautiful, food, glo-ri-ous food!'

Ten-year-old Sadiq, hair sticking up, shirt hanging out, sweater struggling over one shoulder, trousers streaked with mud, enters and flings his arms wide. ‘Thank you, thank you. You're a beautiful audience. I'm
starving
. Oh. Hullo Uncle. Hullo Tarani.' He offers himself to Arjun for a dutiful hug.

Sadiq, so much like Jonti. Arjun smiles. ‘So? How are you, Sadiq? Doing well at school?'

‘Yes-thank-you-Uncle.' Sadiq throws himself around his mother's neck and suddenly straightens up. ‘Tarani, you look like a real dolly bird!'

Tarani is startled. ‘Pardon?'

‘You should be on telly. Shouldn't she, Mum?' He turns back to Tarani. ‘
Top of the Pops
.'

‘Me?' Arjun can see that Tarani is ready for Sadiq to say
Just kidding!

‘I mean, some girls are too fat to wear bell-bottoms, but you look all right.'

‘Thanks.' Tarani pushes her hair back.

Haseena unwinds Sadiq's arms from her neck. ‘Yes, my noisy rambunctious son, she does look stunning.' Haseena smooths Sadiq's startled-looking hair. ‘What have you got in your hair? Car oil?'

Sadiq ducks away and grabs a biscuit. ‘Oh, hey.' He picks up one of the sachets. ‘Mum
made
all of these. We're going to have a shop. Did she tell you?'

‘It's a small flower shop in Hounslow. We've talked on the phone and they're willing to share their space. We're meeting them next week,' Haseena explains as she hands cutlery to Tarani and Sadiq, who go into the dining room to set the table.

He can hear the giggling.

‘Congratulations, Haseena. You and Nawal deserve this.' Arjun is pleased for her.

‘Thank you,
bhai
.'

He watches her deft movements as she transfers the curry and rice from pans to serving dishes. He's watched Sunila do exactly the same things at home, so how is it that Haseena looks so different? Suddenly, like opening a small box crammed with old Christmas decorations, their showy glitter faded and irrelevant, the pushed-down feelings come surging up.

‘Haseena, I've never said anything to you.'

She is busy ladling dhal into a bowl. ‘About what?'

‘Richmond Park. I wanted to – I'm so sorry—' His heart is almost throttling him.

‘Please,
bhai
.' Haseena places the ladle carefully on a small plate and turns around. ‘Let's not talk about it.'

‘But I've never apologized to you. All this time.'

She steps forward and for one moment he thinks she will take his hand. ‘It was just a mistake. I don't even think about it.'

‘But I—'

She holds one hand out, palm flat against an invisible wall. ‘It's past and forgotten.' She smiles, turns the palm up. ‘We're still friends, yes?'

He nods. ‘Yes, of course.'

Friends? This is all?

She picks up the ladle. Straightens the pot of dhal. ‘Any news,
bhai
? From the hospital?'

He clears his throat. ‘Just tests. You know how they take their time. But I'm fine. I played squash this week. Thrashed some young kid who thought he knew what he was doing.' He doesn't mention that his leg wouldn't allow him out of bed this morning. He had to wait another five minutes before it would agree to move.

Tarani comes back in to ask what else she can do. She takes bowls of food to the table, fills water glasses, folds napkins. You'd think she was enjoying herself. Why can't she be like this at home?

Sadiq is attempting to juggle with two of the sachets. ‘You can buy one if you like. They're only five pounds.'

‘What nonsense, Sadiq.' Haseena catches the sachets mid-flight and returns them to the box. ‘They're one pound each. And they're for the sale at the church.'

‘Oh, please, Mum. Just one more try. I can juggle under my leg, look. If I just stand like this—' He falls.

Tarani is laughing. Arjun, despite himself, is smiling. Their smiles flick across each other, hesitate, almost withdraw, and then the complicit our-family-is-so-bizarre understanding. He feels his chest flooded with relief. She still likes him. He picks up his tea and sips, watches Tarani's shoulders relax and her body curve into a chair as she talks with Sadiq, laughs at his descriptions of singing exercises.

Of course Tarani will have to change into her normal clothes for the journey home, but let her keep these things. Maybe she can wear them at weekends around the house. He feels himself expand. It is good to allow these little indulgences. He wishes he might reach out his hand and smooth her hair, just a single touch. He sets his teacup carefully in the saucer.

Hampton Court. In the bitter cold, when anyone with a grain of sense would be at home, not tramping around some draughty old mansion. ‘Palace,' Arjun says. ‘A good idea to come when it's not overrun with tourists,' he says. ‘And it's free
.
'
As always, Arjun sticks to his idea like a dog to a tree. If he decides to take the children out, that's it; and Sunila must be dragged along, too.
The family should be together
. It doesn't matter that she is with the children all week; their grumbling and complaining and forgetting their lunch money, their dirty clothes (how can two children be so filthy?), their endless quarrelling that she hides from Arjun so that he won't discipline them. By the weekend she is tired of them.

She glances behind at Murad and Tarani sitting in separate seats. Murad stares straight ahead, arms crossed. Tarani looks out of the train's window, down at her hands, fiddles with her hair, anything to avoid looking at her father sitting in front of her.

How the young can hate. It happens so quickly, so easily for them. One moment they are in the kitchen, laughing over some joke, and then Tarani is silent in her room, hair over her face, wounded over some imagined insult, some conversation that went wrong, some wild idea she's had that Arjun has mockingly dismissed. They are so alike, she and Arjun: the same quick manner of expressing themselves, the same sense of humour, sudden anger, sudden generosity. They even use their hands the same way when they speak. When they argue it's like watching two mad, rival conductors swiping and slashing the air between them.

Arjun keeps his feelings to himself about these conflicts. His position, as usual, is inflexible.
I am an Indian father and she is my daughter.
Tarani, however much she wishes to contain the hurt, cannot. Sunila hears the late-night muttered monologues as Tarani treads and retreads conversations, clumping around in those foolish platform shoes that Haseena gave her. Sometimes, Sunila has sat on the stairs, listening to her daughter being witty, energetic, disdainful. It's almost as good as a play. Often Sunila can't make out the actual words, but Tarani's tone is exactly Arjun's: slightly boisterous, bullying, superior. She can even do his weary
all right then have it your own way
voice that shows he's right and everyone else is too stupid to understand. How has Tarani managed to reproduce Arjun's voice so accurately?

Sunila has longed to tap on the door, say ‘I understand', but Tarani would be furious. Perhaps if Sunila had the courage to agree with Tarani,
yes, he is unfair,
her daughter might talk to her more. But Sunila has given her word: for better or worse. It isn't Christian to take sides against one's husband. And yet her heart goes out to Tarani.
I know what you're going through.
She prays about it.
Lord, please let them get along.
She sits with her Bible, the mainstay for most of her decisions. But Jesus wasn't married; He didn't have children. What use is Jesus in a situation like this? Of course, Jesus would have had some excellent advice if only someone had thought to ask about it and then write it down. What opportunities the disciples missed. And that Paul, so busy with his letters here, there and everywhere, couldn't he have slipped in a few questions to the Lord? Jesus was so gentle with the children, suffering them to come to Him. But how much would He have suffered teenagers with their snarky comments and their way of looking through you?

As they exit Hampton Court Station, Arjun doesn't respond to Sunila's comment about the nice clear day. The pale sun backs against the pale sky but there are none of the characteristically heavy winter clouds that hold snow or sleet. It is a cheering thought, this idea of a little sunshine in the middle of such an English winter. Let Arjun sulk in his winter coat. Today, Sunila will look for something bright; some colour, some winter flower that she can tuck away to remember as she goes through the week. And she can tell the girls at the office that she went to Hampton Court.
Such beautiful grounds. And they do a lovely tea, don't they?

The pathway to the palace is frost-crisped as though it's been toasted in some Arctic oven. The Union Jack hangs limp between the sceptre-shaped chimneys. Let's see Bert chim-chiminey his way across that roof. Despite the arched entrance and the white gargoyles, there is something un-royal about the ordinary-looking brick. Grey scaffolding hedges some of the apartments.

They enter the Cartoon Gallery; the relief of being out of the cold. She examines the large paintings that don't look anything like cartoons. Many kings and queens must have walked through this gallery. Sunila doesn't know who they are but surely something of them is still here. She can imagine it: the sigh of a brocade dress along the wooden floor, the tap of a red-heeled shoe, the genteel conversation. What did they talk about, those old royals? Cleaning the chimneys? The plans for the next ball? Whose head to chop off?

‘Come on, Mum, we're going to the maze.' Murad comes up and takes her arm. She is grateful for his firm support –
what a handsome boy he is
– even though she has no need of it.

‘Look at these lovely hedges. So many interesting shapes. Look, there's a bear.'

‘Topiary,' Murad says.

‘So much more attractive than the normal bushes, although I'm sure they look nice, too.' God did, after all, make the bushes. What would He think of his creations being shaped into birds and animals?

‘Murad, is Tarani all right?'

Murad grunts.

‘Does that mean yes or no?'

‘Don't know.'

‘She hasn't said anything to you?'

Murad hesitates. ‘What about?'

‘Nothing. Just, you know. She seems quiet.' Sunila is hungry for what her fourteen-year-old daughter is up to and Murad probably knows.

Murad doesn't answer. He's taking his A- and S-level mocks this year. No wonder he's preoccupied.

Arjun turns to call to them, ‘Let's all go in together.'

But Tarani has already disappeared into the maze.

Arjun is irritated. ‘She'll get lost. I'm not going to search about for her.'

Murad slips past Sunila and Arjun into the maze.

‘Murad. Wait for us.' But Murad has gone. Arjun turns to Sunila. ‘You can't ask them to do one simple thing. Haven't I spoken about how dangerous it is to go running into the maze willy-nilly?'

Sunila bites the inside of her cheek at the idea of running about in a maze willy-nilly.

But Arjun has caught her expression. ‘Go ahead and laugh. We'll see who'll be crying soon.'

They stand hesitantly at the maze's entrance. ‘Well, we may as well go in.' Arjun walks ahead and Sunila follows.

How neatly they keep the hedges in here, too. Sunila admires the tall, square-cut shapes that rise perpendicularly all around. If it weren't a maze it would be quite disturbing. Just imagine being stuck in here. Is Tarani all right?

Sunila bumps into Arjun, who is coming back. ‘Dead end. Let's try a different path.'

She stands aside to let him choose the next turning. They follow that one successfully for a while until a right turn takes them to another dead end.

She remembers something. ‘Jonti came here, didn't he? Haseena found the middle straight away.'

Jonti had thrown his hands in the air. ‘Nawal and I were both going hither and thither. Where is centre? Have you found centre? Shall we call for help? Nawal said, “What kind of outing is this? I can get lost by myself in Hounslow. I don't need any Hampton Court nonsense.” And then these people with rucksacks came along. I said, “Nawal, darling, come. These people will know the way. Hikers and all.” And when we finally arrive, Haseena was standing there. “Where have you been? I've been waiting for you.” Cool as a cucumber. “Shall I lead you back now?” I was mad. Nawal was laughing and laughing. And they made me buy cream cakes. Such injustice,
bhai
. When did these women get so cheeky?'

‘Haseena.' Arjun stops. ‘Haseena told me…' He turns left and his voice is lost.

Sunila hurries around the corner. ‘Told you what?'

‘ … a boyfriend.'

‘Who has a boyfriend? Nawal?' Nawal would never look at anyone else. What nonsense, a boyfriend.

‘Haseena…' Arjun's voice comes through the hedge separating them.

Sunila is irritated. ‘Can you just stay in one place while I catch up?'

Arjun is waiting when Sunila turns the corner. ‘Haseena has a boyfriend.'

The word is wrong. Kids have boyfriends and girlfriends. Haseena is forty. What does she want with a boyfriend? What on earth do they talk about? Their dead spouses?

‘Who?' Sunila reaches for Arjun's arm, but he is already walking away around another corner.

His voice comes back faintly. ‘Someone she met at the shop.'

‘What shop?' Sunila has a distressing vision of Haseena chatting to men over the carrots in Tesco's.

‘The one they're leasing. Nawal and Haseena. You remember. For the lavender.'

The shop in Hounslow is doing well. Orders pouring in, they say. They went to Paris for a week last September. How nice for them. Arjun has money. He could have taken her to Paris, too, but they ended up on day trips to Stonehenge and Cheddar Gorge.

‘…I told her…' Arjun's voice disappears again and Sunila tries to work out which way his voice went. Was it further along the path or did he take this left-hand turn? She looks up at the towering hedges. If only they had thought to cut little holes in the hedges, then people could see where they were going.

‘ …she's been seeing him for a month…' Arjun's voice floats to her.

‘Who? The shop owner?'

Sunila walks quickly along one path and then waits for Arjun's voice. It comes from much closer. There's a small gap at the base of the hedges and she catches a glimpse of his shoes.

‘A banker. International banking, she says.' His voice sounds strangely bitter, but perhaps it's just the leaves blurring the sound.

‘Arjun, I'm here. Just on the other side. Can you wait for me?'

‘Walk along and turn right.'

But she turns right at the wrong corner and is still separated from him by long, implacable green walls. ‘What bank is he with?'

Suddenly Arjun appears. ‘Don't shout like that. Do you want everyone to hear our private business?'

She whispers. ‘I'm sorry, but—'

‘I don't know what bank. I don't know who he is.'

‘Is it safe?'

‘She's an adult. She can do what she wants.'

She puts a hand out. ‘Is he – is he – Indian?'

‘I don't know anything about him. I have to talk to her. Perhaps I can meet him.'

What is happening to the family? In the old days, people married and that was it. If your husband died, you became a widow. You didn't go about with boyfriends.

In this corner of the maze they may as well be in a cave, exchanging secrets. Sunila speaks softly. ‘Should you go alone? To see Haseena?'

He clears his throat. ‘It might be better.'

He says nothing for a while. She wishes there was a way she could touch his arm, show him she was on his side.

There is no one to offer advice. These days, the great-aunts sit mumbling over knitting. Mum is gone, Jonti is gone and Mike, well, he is family but even though he's English, she can't imagine sitting down over a cup of tea to discuss Haseena with him.

‘Then go.' Her whisper comes out almost as a gasp. She has always suspected Haseena of having feelings for Arjun. And probably vice versa. But if Haseena must have a
boyfriend
it should be the right kind.

‘I don't want her to think I'm interfering.' Arjun is looking down.

‘But you are her brother-in-law. And the head of the family. I'm sure she'll want to talk to you about it anyway.'

He begins to move away. ‘Who is he, anyway, chasing after a widow like that? And what is Haseena thinking?'

He's angry at the man, but he's also angry at Haseena. What does he mean? Sunila can't call out to him in case she upsets him.

Despite the boyfriend nonsense, Sunila feels sorry for Haseena, who started her own business, handled her son alone and has taken care of her sister. And Arjun will talk to her as though she is just a stupid woman. Sunila knows that this is the way Arjun always talks, but she is used to it and Haseena isn't. Is there some way to warn her?

She tries to imagine what it's like to be Haseena, to bring up her children alone. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, apart from the kids always fighting. And kids certainly don't want conversation, at least not hers. When did it all change? They used to run to her when she came home from work. It was
Mummy this
and
Mummy that
and what they'd learned and what their friends said. Now she may as well not exist. The sympathy for Haseena fades.

Arjun has walked ahead and she is alone again. She turns another corner and Tarani is walking towards her. ‘Hello Mum. Are you still looking for the centre?'

‘I don't care about the centre. I'm tired of this maze.'

Tarani links her arm through Sunila's. A few quick turns and they are out. It's hard to believe that all this time they were so close to the exit. They wait for Murad and Arjun to appear. It's even colder than before.

‘Shall we wait inside?' Tarani is shuffling from foot to foot. ‘We can see them when they come out.'

They plod along the gravel path and push through the doors into the warmth of the palace.

Tarani says, ‘I put my hands in the hedge. It wasn't warm but it felt nice.'

Sunila wants to say something too, but she can't tell Tarani that her aunt has a boyfriend. She looks down. They keep the floors so well polished.