The House of Hidden Mothers (28 page)

‘I will bring the cash to you myself, no need to mention it to my husband, OK? And you get a new court date as soon as possible. Any longer than a month and the deal's off.'

Sita gave him a hard cold look, handed him a steaming earthenware tumbler of tea and walked, with the other held out carefully in front of her, towards her waiting husband.

FROM A DISTANCE
, they looked like any other family group out for the evening, enjoying each other's company, perhaps marking a birthday, an anniversary, tucked into the corner of the hotel dining room. Only on closer inspection did the oddities become apparent: the older woman with her white companion, trying to fill the long silences with loud, over-polite chatter; the dark thin couple with their hands on their knees, staring at the starched tablecloth; the elderly couple with their fixed, glassy smiles. And unlike all the other diners, with not one child at the table.

Dr Passi had told Shyama that she did not think this was a good idea. ‘I understand your wish to celebrate the good news. But we don't encourage this … level of socialization. And, of course, Mala is at a very delicate stage. We encourage as much rest as possible during the first few weeks of a pregnancy.'

‘I'm not planning to get her drunk and take her clubbing,' Shyama replied, not looking up as she was about to tap her card pin number into the machine on Dr Passi's desk. ‘But we are leaving tomorrow and we just wanted to … say thank you. I mean, we probably won't meet again until the birth, will we?'

‘I don't envisage that, no. And while I think this a very thoughtful gesture … oh sorry, is this a credit or debit card? There's a ten per cent surcharge on all credit-card transactions.'

‘Ten per cent?' Shyama paused with her fingers hovering above the keypad. ‘I do have a debit card, but it's back at the hotel.'

‘Here,' Toby intervened, fumbling with his wallet, his face reddening as he struggled to pincer out the slim plastic rectangle and handed it to Shyama. She raised her eyebrows at him, didn't want to say it out loud, but they both knew what she was asking. Is this OK? Can you afford this? It was a delicate area, the fact that she had been paying for him throughout their relationship, and the not-so-casual remark about their unequal finances during their row in the car still lingered between them. Toby was surprised by the knot of tension twisting his gut, the twitch in his fingers, as if he wanted to smash something. Instead he flashed Shyama what he hoped was a manly, reassuring sort of nod whilst doing quick calculations in his head, almost sure the funds he had borrowed from his brother would cover this first instalment. He hated the whole money aspect of this – it made him feel squeamish, shady. Maybe because the nameless surrogate now had a name, a face, a character. That should have made him feel better, getting to know the woman who would nurture their baby. And yet he privately agreed with Dr Passi: a cosy farewell meal somehow did not feel right.

His unease was confirmed as he sat at the table across from Mala and her catatonic husband, who did not look up from the glossy menu he gripped between his hands like a shield. Shyama was wittering on about various dishes, trying to include them both in the conversation, but fairly soon gave up on Ram and focused on Mala, who responded to her enthusiastic questioning with short whispered answers, which gradually expanded into longer, more animated ones, punctuated with pauses in which she searched for a word in English, followed by a quick, shy glance at her husband. Prem and Sita sent Ram and Mala the occasional beam, but otherwise whispered excitedly between themselves, no doubt buoyed up by their recent good news in court. They had secured a surprisingly swift hearing in front of the same judge who had dismissed them previously, who had suddenly ruled that their claim was indeed lawful and proper, and had fixed an eviction date for the end of the year, around the same time that their second grandchild was due. The bewildering speed of both these longed-for events added a frisson of anticipation to the atmosphere, Shyama's voice a little too bright and sharp, Prem and Sita's smiles a shade too effusive. Ram's defences were primed and quivering, his ears pricked as if tuned to the higher-than-normal frequency of the festivities. The more Mala talked, smiled, responded to Shyama's questions, the smaller he seemed to become, hunching his shoulders until they almost touched his ears. At one point Toby whispered to Prem, ‘Can't you speak Hindi to him? I'm not sure he's keeping up with the conversation.'

Prem dutifully fired off a couple of questions, which Ram answered in monosyllables. Everyone was grateful when the food finally arrived.

The steaming platters of daal, saag, chicken and rice were laid out with serving spoons. Prem picked one up and offered it to Ram, who looked so nervous that Sita briskly took over, ladling a portion of each dish on to everyone's plate and encouraging them all to eat before it got cold.

‘Extra portions for you then,' joked Shyama, offering a buttered naan to Mala, who took it with an uncertain smile, until Shyama added, ‘You must eat lots. For the baby.'

The mention of the B word made everyone pause for a millisecond, hands halfway to mouths, then continue as if nothing had been said, a pebble thrown into a pool causing a rippling tension which they covered with vigorous chewing and compliments to the chef.

As Mala broke into the yeasty clouds of warm flatbread, she felt another sharp dig at her side. Her evening had been punctuated with warnings from her husband's feet and arms – a tap to the ankle here, an elbow press to her ribs there. For every answer she slowly constructed in English, for each smile she reciprocated, Ram jabbed and poked and squeezed his wife, conducting their own silent marital exchange under the table. Like ducks on water, Mala thought fleetingly, all beaky smiles up top and all kicking below. She knew what Ram was trying to do – he had made it clear before they had entered the restaurant, during a hurried conversation in the hallway of the hostel when he had come to collect her.

‘You don't get too friendly with these people,
acha
?'

‘Why not? The more they like us, the more they will give us,
hena
?'

‘Everyone here knows.' Ram lowered his voice, leading Mala out of the door and out into the warm night air.

The sun was setting over the glass towers of the luxury hotels, its fiery trails like scratch marks on the curved cheek of the sky. Mala felt the familiar heavy pull in her belly: only a few weeks in and already nausea and tender fullness were affecting her body.

‘Knows what?' She took a gulp of air, tasting cooking smoke and metal. Over on the wasteground, oil lamps were being lit. She looked for the woman with the small child on her hip, but her hut was dark.

‘I heard them.' Ram cocked his head, indicating she should keep up as they walked. ‘Saying you are thinking you are a madam yourself, acting like you're special.'

‘Let them. Bored, fat chickens all of them, pecking for any bit of dirt. That place becomes a prison, once you are pregnant. Nothing to do except sit, eat, get bigger, like they are fattening you up for a festival killing. They are only jealous. Most of them can't even write their name.'

‘Why should you? You want them to notice you even more?' Ram strode along the path parallel to the clinic's outbuildings, their industrial air vents whirring like the beating wings of some huge iron bird. ‘
Theklo
, think, woman. If anyone finds out we said we had two kids … If they want to make trouble for you … Maybe we can end up in jail, hah?'

Ram had continued berating her until he noticed he was talking to air. He stopped and looked behind. Mala was leaning against the wall, supporting herself on one arm as she tried to draw breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him sauntering back towards her. Bastard can't even run to me, she thought, and wheezed even harder, coughing up a little bile which she spat out, only narrowly missing his chappaled feet. Hah, now you're sorry, she noted as the annoyance drained out of his face, replaced by an anxious curiosity. He placed a tentative hand on her forehead, the back of her neck, so gentle it made her want to weep.

‘You're not sick?'

‘I'm carrying a baby, idiot. What do you think?'

My husband is offering me his arm, noted Mala with wonder, walking me like a memsahib, making his voice low and sweet like a river. Now he is telling me not to worry, he will take care of everything as long as I am well, we are safe. For a few minutes Mala wasn't walking along a litter-strewn pathway smelling of fried food and disinfectant, she was the wet sari in the fountain, the wind-swept dancer on the hillside, the garlanded goddess on a plinth. Until she realized that what he was worshipping wasn't her, but inside her, what he longed to protect wasn't his wife, but his investment. Otherwise, why hadn't he thrown flowers under her feet the first time she was carrying a baby?
Their
baby?

By the time they reached the restaurant, Mala had made up her mind. You want me to look at the floor and
chup
like a half-wit? Watch me.

No one saw it coming. One minute Mala was chatting away to Shyama, expanding on the face scrub she had invented that every woman in her village now used. ‘Only yellow
channa
, not black … small-small pieces,' then suddenly Ram was on his feet, yanking Mala up by her wrist and overturning his Vimto in his haste to escape the table.

‘Thank you … sorry … thank you,' he muttered as he pulled her towards the exit, Mala banging her leg against the edge of a chair and letting out a small involuntary
hai
of pain. Shyama and Toby were both on their feet, Toby blocking Ram's path, Shyama scooting around the other side to pull the table out a little, trying to reach Mala. Sita was busy applying serviettes to the fizzy brown stain invading the tablecloth.

‘Hey hey, steady now,' Toby said somewhat foolishly, using the tone and words he employed to herd the cows towards the milking shed.

‘You OK?' Shyama took hold of Mala's hand. Now she and Ram were on either side of her, pulling at an arm each like a party cracker.

Mala glanced from one to the other, Ram sending her a death-stare, daring her to break rank.

‘Tell them you're tired,' he whispered to her in Hindi, forgetting that Prem and Sita were sitting opposite, Prem's hand still hovering above his plate, dripping spinach.

‘You are tired, Mala?' Sita asked gently, and then in Hindi to Ram, ‘If she's tired, of course you must go.'

‘
Hahn-ji
… tired,' Ram repeated and tried to tug Mala with him, but found himself eye to eye with Toby. Even though Toby was the broader and stronger of the two, as he faced Ram he saw the eyes of something wild, cornered, with fangs bared. He lifted up his hands, an old gesture, like the namaste, assuring him he held no concealed weapon.

‘Is everything OK, Ram? Um …
thoom teek-hay
?'

Hearing Hindi come out of the
gora
's mouth was almost enough to make Ram laugh and let go, but he had gone too far now, in front of all of them. Shaking his head, he managed to yank Mala away from the big-mouth woman with the stupid red hair and stride for the door. Shyama made to go after them, but even though Toby held out a restraining arm, it was Prem's voice that halted her.

‘Leave them!'

Shyama couldn't remember the last time she had heard her father raise his voice. He hated conflict, she could hear it in the tremor of his tone, the careful way he wiped his buttery fingers with his napkin, turmeric-yellow fingerprints on clean white linen.

‘They have taken your charity. Now leave them with some dignity.'

‘This was perhaps a mistake, Shyama,' Sita added. ‘I know you meant well, but things are done differently here.'

‘What? I shouldn't try and be nice to the woman who's going to change our lives?' Shyama tried to control her breathing, aware of curious eyes on them from different corners of the restaurant. She looked at Toby for support, but he was carefully avoiding her gaze.

‘Darling, it's just a job to them,' said Sita.

‘
Them?
'

‘Please don't do this. Don't do your flag-waving thing at me,' Sita snapped back. ‘You think we don't think they are human? Two bad harvests and we would have been in their shoes all those years back! But you made them feel … awkward, bringing them here. How could they ever return the hospitality, open their home and pockets to us?'

‘I wasn't expecting—' Shyama began.

‘You don't expect because you don't know.'

‘I know when a woman is being bullied by her husband. Or is that another local custom I'm supposed to respect?'

‘Shyama! Don't—'

But Shyama was already on her way out. Toby didn't need to see Sita's frantic gestures, he was already behind her.

In the hotel courtyard, Mala pulled free from Ram, heading for some greenery in the side lobby, away from the imperious moustachioed doormen in their mock-maharajah outfits who had given them both fearsome looks when they had arrived earlier. She felt dizzy, either with nerves or speed-eating. The food had been so rich and abundant, she wondered how she had managed to talk as much as she had. But she had managed somehow. Good. She stood facing Ram, who clenched and unclenched his fingers slowly, knuckles cracking.
Chalo
, she thought, here we go now. Will he hit me finally, this husband of mine? Nostrils flared, ready to buffalo-charge me. Look at him.