The House of Hidden Mothers (34 page)

Toby picked up Mala's shawl from where it had been left draped over a chair and smiled. ‘You haven't even seen your room yet. I've put your case up there, so …'

‘Want me to take her up?' Shyama asked.

‘No probs,' Toby replied, already holding the door open.

Mala obediently walked through, pausing to let Toby overtake her and lead her upstairs.

The room could have been a suite at the Savoy, going by Mala's delighted reaction to it. She said nothing but walked around touching everything, tracing the embroidery on the bedspread, pressing the plumply folded towel, stroking the petals of the tulips to see if they were real. Toby ran through all the storage space, taking care to speak slowly and enunciate clearly, though he had the strangest feeling that everything he said amused her. He showed her the workings of the shower in the family bathroom along the landing, warning her about the slightly sticky lock and how you had to push the door in to release it.

‘We all share the one bathroom, I'm afraid. Couldn't afford the planned en-suite with all the …' he trailed off, she didn't need to know that they had forgone their longed-for wet room for the longed-for baby, but Mala simply nodded her head and there it was again, that secretive twitch playing on her lips.

‘Did I say something funny?' Toby asked.

‘Oh no, Toby sahib. I understand all. Now I can sleep, yes?'

‘Oh sorry, you must be … Yes, of course. And, Mala?'

Mala paused in the doorway of the bedroom – her bedroom.

‘Please … no more Toby sahib. Just Toby.'

‘Yes,Toby sahib.'

Mala's throaty giggle followed her into the room and Toby could still hear it fading as he made his way back to the kitchen.

Toby lay on the bed, showered and restless, his body craving sleep, his brain throbbing against his skull. Above him he could hear Shyama talking to Tara, her bass tones an undertow to Tara's staccato bursts of energy. It was a familiar tune; he'd often lain on the bed listening to the dialogue become a screaming match until eventually the desire for peace dragged him upstairs, where he would referee them apart, careful not to take sides, astonished that the next day the two of them would be laughing conspiratorially at the breakfast table and treating him as the interloper. It wasn't going to happen this time. The voices reached their climax, halted by a slamming door and Shyama's angry steps down the stairs and into their room, where she threw herself next to Toby, her face flushed.

‘Home sweet home, eh?' she said flatly. ‘I've never … it's like she's not there. Nothing gets through. I thought, with us being away so long, she might have …'

‘Grown up?'

‘Come back to herself. You didn't know her as a little girl, Tobes, I wish you had.' The memory of that plump cheerful child, her sticky hand in hers, exclaiming at the newness of the world, brought an ache to Shyama's throat. ‘She was always so … kind. She would make a bee-line for anything small, fluffy or injured. Not that she was ever a pushover, but she saw vulnerability and wanted to protect it. She got into fights defending the weak kids from the bullies, and I never told her off. I was proud of her, her need to make things fair. I thought it was the one thing I'd got right with her.'

Normally Toby would have jumped in on cue, reassured her she was doing a great job, had done the best anyone could have done in difficult circumstances, et cetera, but he was lost in his own fantasy, one where he'd met Shyama years ago when Tara was a pliable toddler, when he could have been the only father she'd have remembered. He could have helped shape her, discipline her, guide her, all the stages he had missed out on. Without that history to draw on, he would never have the nostalgic reminders that could soften his judgement now and give him the authority to intervene rather than having to bite back continually what he really thought. His own upbringing, he now saw, had been a process of benevolent neglect, both his parents too busy with the backbreaking daily grind of farmwork to worry about how their sons felt about anything. As long as they were fed, healthy and productive, that was enough. Then when his father had dropped dead of a heart attack in his early fifties and his mother had died of cancer just two years later, leaving Toby an orphan in his late twenties, it had been too late to record all the memories they must have had of him, his birth, his childhood. There were plenty of photos of Matt, the first-born, messy birthday parties with gap-toothed kids around the kitchen table, school reports, even a baby book, not quite complete but with a few milestones recorded in his mother's slapdash italics: ‘
Matty's first lock of hair!
', ‘
Matty's first Step!!
'. But for Toby, just a handful of snapshots, no baby book, a lone report from his first year at school, in which his teacher described him as ‘still settling in but very good with his hands'. Shyama, on the other hand, had a filing cabinet full of Tara's achievements, every school concert and sports day logged and preserved, her gym and swimming badges, articles for the school magazine, school reports running into pages. (‘I should bloody well hope so after the fees I paid.') It seemed as if there hadn't been a moment when Tara hadn't been monitored, assessed and prepared for success. Still doesn't stop the little buggers breaking your heart, Toby thought grimly, so what was the point of all that expensive grooming? If you give them everything they ask for, how can they cope when it all goes tits up, as it one day inevitably will? Much as he wanted to be understanding, he felt Tara's behaviour was mostly because Shyama had spoiled her rotten, and now, when her nose had been put out of joint by a foetus, for Christ's sake, she was kicking off like a prize brat. There. He'd said it. Not out loud. Yet. And then, a pinprick of fear. What if this was going to happen all over again? He and Shyama had never actually discussed how they were going to raise this baby, not in any detail, but if he had a choice between his parents' approach, the feed-and-wipe-clean-and-leave-to-their-own-devices method, and Shyama's military hothousing, he knew which he would choose.

‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘Sorry?' Toby shifted on to an elbow.

Shyama's eyes glistened at him. ‘I said, do you think she's …
on
something?'

‘Be surprised if she wasn't. Everyone at college was trying all sorts, but it doesn't mean—'

‘It's different now!' Shyama sat up, furiously rubbing at her eyes. ‘It's not just a bit of spliff and a bottle of cheap cider round the back of the bus shelter … They've got this skunk stuff that causes schizophrenia, they've got kids dying from alcohol poisoning because of dares on social media … that's apart from all the other pills and horse tranquillizer and chicken-fattening tablets and all kinds of shitty crap that we couldn't even make up.'

‘Chicken-fattening what?' Now Toby was interested, sitting up to join her.

‘There are these tablets,' Shyama continued in a shuddery voice, ‘that farmers use to fatten up their chickens, and women – girls – have been taking them to give themselves bigger bottoms. Not here – in Jamaica, I think … or in the places where men actually like big bottoms, which is a good thing, obviously, but not like this, and once again vulnerable young women are killing themselves just because of this intense pressure they're under to be … and she …'

‘I think we can safely say that Tara is not on the fat-chicken tablets, because the one thing she does not have is a big arse,' Toby said gently as he pulled her to him. She let him, half laughing, half sighing, sinking into him, too tired to cry or to think.

From Mala's room, where she shivered under the unfamiliar duvet, it sounded like the moan of a woman being undressed, caressed, slowly slowly, and trying to be quiet. Mala lifted her pillow, punched it with cold fists and buried her head beneath it, waiting for sleep.

The next few weeks passed in a merry-go-round of doctor's appointments, more form-filling, endless trips in Shyama's battered Golf to supermarkets, clothes shops, health-food shops, each visit seemingly for Mala's benefit only; they bought a whole new wardrobe of warmer clothes (though Mala had to be reminded that most of what she wanted would soon not fit her, so she ended up with a variety of smocks and elasticated-waistband trousers). Shyama pushed a trolley up and down endless aisles, exhorting Mala to pick what she liked to eat. In the health-food shop it seemed anything was allowed, judging by the number of pills and potions that Shyama heaved into her basket (although Mala did not fancy any of the ‘treats' on offer here – the biscuits looked like cardboard and none of the nuts had chilli or lemon on them).

It was only in the doctor's clinic that Mala felt she could relax, that there was nothing she could say or choose that would be wrong. Lying on the examination couch, scratchy paper crackling beneath her, she could finally let down her guard. This is one thing I can do and she cannot, she would console herself, taking pleasure in the wonder flooding Shyama's face when her baby appeared on the sonographer's screen. The view of the baby itself was strangely disappointing at first: a small shrivelled frog in a bag, amphibian limbs and hooded alien eyes. Mala had seen this shape before, in the bloody debris she had left in a sticky pool on the riverbank, oh so long ago. But then her eyes were drawn to the centre of the screen, towards the strobing light, flashing on and off, on and off, throbbing like an electrical pulse cradled by the fishy limbs. Then when the woman in the white coat put a cold trumpet to her belly, she heard the galloping of wild horses' hooves, relentless, unstoppable, the woman's finger pointing to its source.

‘That's your baby's heartbeat,' the sonographer smiled.

‘So loud!' Mala breathed, and felt a hand on hers. Shyama Madam, eyes brimming, squeezing her hand in rhythm with the tiny pumping that held both their gazes.

‘Everything looks normal, there's nothing to worry about,' the woman said.

Mala barely heard her.
Theklo
, this must be the machine they use to see if you have a boy or girl inside you, she was thinking. They could look inside you and tell your fortune, better than the sandalwood-smelling
buddee
back in the village who would read your palm for a few paisa and some leftover food.

‘It is a boy?' Mala asked, seeing the swift glance passing between Shyama Madam and the white-coat woman.

Shyama shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

The sonographer answered for them both. ‘It's far too early to tell that,' she said, busying herself with paper towels, handing a few sheets to Mala, who began wiping herself down.

‘We don't care… I mean, we don't mind, do we, Mala?'

Mala heard the warning note in Shyama's voice. Good job there's no machine like this that can look inside my head, she thought, before widening her smile and answering, ‘No.'

Shyama had been ignoring Priya's emails and increasingly demanding phone messages. Now she was back, what was going on? She could hear the hunger in her recorded voice, desperate for a first look at the new arrival. But Shyama was afraid to leave this domestic cocoon into which they had retreated since their return, with a routine that had finally settled into something approaching normality. They would breakfast together before Toby left for work; Tara would usually grab something on the go, always polite, never staying. Her parents would call in at some point during their usual round of shops, doctor, card games with neighbours. Then Mala and she would go on their daily jaunts. There was always some little thing to buy or look at. Mala's curiosity at everything she saw encouraged Shyama to organize mini-sightseeing tours around the city. First they drove around the landmarks – Buckingham Palace, St Paul's cathedral, the Tower of London, following the course of the Thames from St Katharine's docks all the way along the Embankment, veering off and rejoining it later on towards Richmond, one day going as far as Hampton Court. Shyama had parked up and offered to buy tickets for a guided tour – ‘This was home to Henry the Eighth, it's one of our historic royal palaces.' Mala had declined the offer. She had seen more interesting buildings on a day trip to Chandigarh, and what was this depressing red-brick house compared to the Taj Mahal? Not that she had ever seen the Taj itself, but any fool could see even from pictures that the white marble dome to a dead queen was always going to come out top. Instead she had chosen to walk around the maze, Shyama trotting behind her, clutching a guidebook and a cardboard cup of that dirty-smelling coffee she always seemed to have on the go. As Mala enjoyed the sensation of losing herself amongst the sweet-smelling leafy walls, she remembered snippets of the Taj Mahal story from school: how the great emperor Shah Jahan had built it in honour of his departed wife, Mumtaz, who died having their fourteenth child. But wasn't it true that, for rich and poor, your children were your investment for the future? For the rich, it was to pass on kingdoms; for the poor, to have another pair of hands to forage and plough, to have extras because disease and hunger would carry so many of them away. And this one, still hidden beneath her second-best sari, just a taut pot of a secret, this child would have Shyama Madam and Toby sahib to shower it with every best thing they could afford, and just one sister, much older, hardly there and never to play with. A lonely emperor or queen.
Chalo
, it wasn't her business what happened afterwards. What she should be concentrating on was what palace she could buy for herself when she returned home. The word ‘home' sent a tingle of … what was it? Something … along her exposed spine. Maybe it was the same feeling Shah Jahan had suffered when he lay sweating with fever in the Agra Fort across the Jumna river from his beloved Taj, imprisoned by his own son, knowing the palace of love he could only now see in blurred glimpses had always been a tomb and would soon be his.