The House of Hidden Mothers (35 page)

‘Mala! Where were you?' Shyama Madam had come after her, her face angry and flushed as if she had been running. Yes, she had, there were beads of moisture pinpricking her forehead, and her guidebook was crumpled in her hand.

She had told her off like a little girl, a two-minute finger-wagging – I couldn't see you, you were lost, something could have happened – which drew curious looks from some of the other people wandering around, trying to find their way out. Mala's first instinct was to look at the floor and wait for the wind to pass, but then curiosity lifted her head to Shyama's face, and what she saw was not anger but fear. The more fear she saw, the taller Mala felt, the weightier she became as Shyama Madam started to fade and shimmer like insubstantial air. As I climb, she is falling, Mala realized. It made her feel powerful and also sad, the same melancholy she used to feel standing at the fields' cropped edges, hearing the peacocks' sobbing sighs which heralded the approaching rain; they were wailing that cloud bursts were coming, bringing thunder and relief.

Shyama wasn't surprised when she opened the door to Priya, who swept past her, kicking off her heels and dumping her various briefcases in a corner of the hallway.

‘Don't even bother apologizing,' Priya said airily, throwing off her coat with a sigh and briefly checking her reflection in the hall mirror.

‘I wasn't going to,' Shyama replied, automatically picking up Priya's coat and draping it over the bannister.

‘You've been back nearly two months! I wouldn't have known you were back at all if I hadn't bumped into Tara at Westfield … she looks a-maa-zing, by the way, very French. She was giving out leaflets for something or other. I didn't have time to chat, but … anyway, come on, this is ridiculous … what's going on? Is everything OK?' Priya stopped mid-flow, her eyes widening as she stared over Shyama's shoulder.

Mala stood in the kitchen doorway, a damp tea towel in her hand. ‘You want tea?' she asked Priya, who for once was lost for words.

‘I think that's a very good idea, Mala.' Shyama smiled, nudging Priya into the kitchen and whispering, ‘I'd close your mouth, very unforgiving double chin on show …'

Priya couldn't take her eyes off her. It wasn't just her obvious beauty – OK, she was a little dark, but those cheekbones, those eyes, that figure that you only usually saw on the prow of old ships or adorning temple walls in impossibly athletic sexual positions – it was the way she seemed to glide around Shyama's kitchen as if she lived there. Of course, she did for now, but it was as if the two women were unconsciously attuned to each other. They moved effortlessly around the space in each other's wake, with none of the awkward gridlock that always ensued whenever Priya's mother-in-law presumed to help herself to a cup of tea.

She had been expecting some scrawny timid refugee type, a woman thinned and cowed by poverty, because why else would anyone do this for such a measly sum of money? But this one, she looked you straight in the eye. She wanted to talk in English, asking Shyama for help if she got stuck or bringing out a small dictionary she kept tucked away in her sari pleats, confident that everyone would wait a few moments for the right word to be found. The woman could even cook. She brought to the table the best pav bhaji that Priya had ever tasted. As she ladled another helping of the spicy vegetable mix on to a hot buttered roll, she told Mala, ‘The last time I ate this was on the street in Mumbai … it was supposed to be the most famous pav bhaji stall in the city, but yours is better. You have to give me the recipe.'

‘Oh, I've asked her, but she always cooks when I'm not around so I still don't know the secret!' Shyama smiled, then said, more reflectively, ‘It's going to be really strange going back to work next week. I hope you won't be lonely, Mala?'

Mala shrugged, licking the tips of her fingers thoughtfully. Priya was struck by how sensual the gesture was, filing it away for future use. Maybe she should try it at the dinner table later, though she knew her husband was likely to wrinkle his nose and pass her a tissue.

After Mala had excused herself and gone upstairs, Priya took a proper look at Shyama, who seemed lost in thought as she put away the last of the dishes.

‘Doesn't she do that?' Priya broke into her reverie.

‘It's not her job!' Shyama said a little too quickly, and then, ‘But she does, all the time. And the cleaning. I can't stop her. Toby thinks I'm forcing her to pay for her keep or something. She says she likes to keep busy. She's devoured all the magazines I've given her, and is just starting on the bookshelf. She reads a lot. I don't expect her to do much else. Anyway, I'm looking round for a replacement cleaner for when … well, as soon as possible.'

‘I'm sure Marta would like to earn a few more quid, if you want me to ask her?' Priya paused. ‘Shyama?'

‘Sorry … sorry.' Shyama sighed and dropped into a chair with a grunt. ‘It's the whole going-back-to-work-thing … It's weird … I don't want to leave her.'

‘No, I wouldn't want to leave her with my husband either!' Priya chuckled.

‘What? What do you mean?'

‘Oh, come on.'

‘No, what?'

Priya saw the ice in Shyama's eyes and, for once, swallowed what was on the tip of her tongue. Mainly the name, Corazon – the Spanish au pair she had employed the first year the children were both finally at school full time. Priya had specifically avoided the French or Swedish variety, following advice from other mothers who swore their husbands found just the idea of a girl from either region forbidden and exciting. And, of course, the accents didn't help, far too seductive. Spanish girls, now they were more like Indians – they lived in extended families, and came from a culture where religion and respect for elders were still part of the fabric of society. And in Priya's vast experience, most Asian men still got their erotic thrills from the idea of bedding a blonde, pale-skinned beauty, the kind of girl they would never have had a chance with as tumescent youths, the ultimate forbidden fruit and as far away as possible from the kind of women they would end up marrying. Got that one wrong, Priya recalled, remembering the number of times she had come across Anil and Corazon casually chatting in the kitchen, or how often Anil would volunteer for the morning school run, where he would help bundle the kids into the car and have Corazon sitting beside him up front, always revving the car a little too enthusiastically as they pulled out of the drive, and how he'd blushed like a teenager when the Iberian minx had told him over morning porridge that her name meant ‘Heart'. The children had wailed in protest when Priya had sacked her; she'd told Anil she thought they should find someone French after all, as the children would soon be learning it. He, of course, said nothing, but he went into a major sulk for about a month, going out of his way to be as formal and distant as possible with Céleste, the next au pair, who had the voice of Brigitte Bardot and the face of a trucker sucking a lemon. Priya had managed to stop an accident before it happened; Anil, of course, had no idea she was such an expert in these matters, adept at sensing the swell and promise of a budding affair. One day he would thank her. And she knew absolutely that Shyama wouldn't.

‘She's like our daughter,' Shyama snapped.

‘Right, of course,' Priya replied.

‘Actually,' Shyama's face softened, ‘it's only just occurred to me, but we've been doing a bit of sightseeing, and … actually it did feel like when Tara was little again. How we'd just take off in the car and have adventures and she was just so fascinated by everything, even a trip to the car wash or a dash round the supermarket. I'd forgotten how much fun that was.'

‘Good practice for when the real thing arrives … Sorry, didn't mean to call your unborn child a thing, but you know what I mean,' Priya added quickly.

Shyama laughed, and Priya breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I'm used to translating your foot-in-mouth language into English,' Shyama said. ‘I'm sorry if I'm … I didn't mean to shut you out for so long, but … this takes a bit of getting used to … But I'm beginning to feel it's going to be OK. It is, isn't it?'

Priya took her oldest friend in her arms. ‘You're going to have a beautiful baby at the end of this. That's what you wanted, isn't it?'

‘Oh, so much.'

‘When's the due date?'

‘December – mid December.'

‘A baby's for life, not just for Christmas, eh? Then relax. The hardest part's out of the way. It's going to be fine.'

Mala's pav bhaji was an unqualified success with the rest of the family. Sita even took a Tupperware of leftovers when she and Prem made their way across the back garden later, a fresh bundle of legal papers under their arms which Toby had spent an hour downloading and printing off as soon as he'd got in from work. Now he was sitting back in his chair, a cold beer in his hand, with that slightly vacant look of fatigue that often descended at this hour.

Shyama watched as Mala moved around him, clearing up silently. The only time she looked anything like the cliché of the demure Indian housewife was when she was around Toby. He, in turn, never once looked at her. At one point their hands brushed accidentally whilst they both reached for a discarded mug and he stiffened awkwardly.

Shyama felt less guilty now about snapping at Priya earlier. She adored her, but it was no wonder Priya saw intrigue in every shadow – how long had she been playing away? Although, thinking about it now, it had been some time since Priya had regaled them with any fruity foreign anecdotes. Maybe she'd finally grown up.

Watching Mala expertly wipe down the draining board, Shyama imagined her standing at her own sink or cutting vegetables in her own kitchen. How hard this woman must have worked throughout her entire young life, for only experienced hands performed domestic tasks so quickly and capably. Shyama remembered what she had first sensed in Mala during that initial meeting in the clinic – her intelligence, her hunger to engage and learn (she found it touching, the way Mala carried that Hindi–English dictionary with her everywhere, its cover already stained with turmeric and smelling faintly of garlic) – and she remembered how, back then, Mala's surly, silent husband had seemed to drag on her life force like an anchor against an impatient tide. She reminded herself how much Mala had given up and left behind to be standing here in her home. She couldn't let her wipe sinks for another five months, cooped up like a battery hen, confirming everyone's prejudices about women like Shyama herself – women who bought a womb as unthinkingly as renting a car for a package holiday.

‘Tobes?' Shyama ruffled the hair at the back of his neck, the baby curls hidden at his hairline.

‘Mmm?'

‘Need to talk to you about something.'

As if on cue, Mala dried her hands on her sari and asked brightly, ‘It is OK I have bath?'

Shyama waited until they heard the bathroom door slam shut upstairs. ‘She loves her baths, doesn't she? Twice a day, a minimum of an hour each time … we're spending a fortune on bubble bath.'

‘Still cheaper than the medical bills.' Toby grimaced as he shifted in his chair and discovered an aching muscle he didn't know he had.

‘She can't go to the NHS, Tobes, not for antenatal … if it was an emergency …'

‘I know. It's fine.'

‘We're lucky Mum and Dad know so many private doctors, we're still getting a bit of a discount and—'

‘Shyama, honestly, I'm not counting pennies when we've come this far. If she's happy, the baby's happy. And it's not for ever.'

‘On that note …' Shyama paused. ‘You know I'm back at work next week, and I was thinking I should take Mala with me.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, I think she's bored and she will be home alone all day.'

‘We could do her a Mala flap … like a cat flap, only bigger.'

‘Are you listening to me?'

‘Well, you do make her sound like a pet …'

‘Yes, that's the point!' Shyama twisted round to face Toby, who to her surprise wasn't smiling. ‘She's clever and she wants to learn, and I want her to take back something that might be useful … She's going to be a single woman and that's not going to be easy back in the village.'

‘
If
she goes back.'

‘Sorry?'

‘To the village,' Toby corrected himself. At least he seemed to be listening now.

Shyama ploughed on. ‘She seems to know a lot about skincare – just basic home-remedy stuff really – and when we visited that salon in Gurgaon she seemed to have some good ideas. I was thinking, why not let her just muck in and see what happens?'

Toby rubbed his eyes slowly, adopting his man-in-deep-thought pose. It used to charm Shyama, how he'd tune out and ponder her bigger suggestions, never wanting to be pushed into anything too quickly. It had taken a good month of conversation to get him to take the whole surrogacy idea on board. But now, she wondered why on earth she needed his permission for this. He was at work all day, why should it bother him?

‘I suppose at least you will be able to keep an eye on her,' he said finally.

Shyama squeezed his hand, felt the calluses on his palms, all her irritation melting away. How could she forget it was this man, her love for this man, that had brought them here? She wanted to see those work-worn hands cradle their baby's head, watch his slow smile as he took in their toddler's first steps, the first time he or she rode a bike, read a sentence, broke their hearts with worry or pride. It was all to come, and she would be the first person he would ever have those experiences with, and hopefully the last. She'd only recently realized that rather than mourning not being able to carry this child herself, she was secretly relieved to be avoiding the nine-month journey from nausea and rusty-mouth to stretch marks, heartburn and piles. Her pregnancy with Tara had been uncomfortable and seemingly never-ending: whilst the other mothers in the local NCT classes had paraded around looking like flowers in slow joyful bloom, Shyama always looked like she'd been sleeping rough on a greasy bench. Her hair went lank and started to fall out, her skin dulled to the texture of parchment, and she cried at anything and everything – toilet-roll adverts, old people at bus stops, passers-by who dared to do a double-take as she waddled past with tissues in one hand and a bag of jalapeño-flavoured tortillas in the other. True, the sensation of her daughter growing inside her had been fantastic and freaky in equal measure, but although she was glad she had done it, she didn't yearn to do it again. Maybe that was why Toby was so distant with Mala – he was angry at missing out on that intense initial bonding where the doting daddy lays his hands on his wife and feels his progeny tumble to the sound of his voice.