The House of Hidden Mothers (37 page)

Lydia was standing a few paces away, watching. She and Shyama had barely spoken during their vigil at the station.

‘Thank you so much for coming out,' Shyama began.

‘No problem. Tara's free to leave, she hasn't been charged with anything yet, but she gave a very good statement.'

‘Yet?' Shyama interrupted. She turned to Tara. ‘What did you do?' She knew the moment it came out of her mouth that it sounded wrong.

Tara looked up at her wearily, then at Lydia, rolling her eyes. A small gesture that stabbed Shyama somewhere soft and hidden.

‘She was arrested on a demonstration,' Gina filled in quickly. ‘They did the usual mass round-up, but there's a lot of footage confirming the troublemakers and the ones who just got in the way. Thank God for mobile phones.'

‘But will she … she won't go to court?'

Gina indicated that Shyama should accompany her out to her car, to talk her through the various legal processes that might follow.

Lydia joined Tara and held out a plastic bag. ‘Got your stuff back. Are you hungry?'

‘No, but I need a rollie …'

Tara fumbled for her papers and tobacco and, despite trembling fingers, expertly rolled a thin cigarette. She had never smoked in front of her mother before. She had always told herself it was a mark of respect, which made this smoke, she thought as she exhaled gratefully, somewhat symbolic.

‘What did Mum say to you?' Tara asked as she removed a shred of tobacco from her tongue tip.

‘Hardly anything.' Lydia shrugged. ‘Obviously she was upset that you had called me first, and then when I told her you'd asked me to stay …'

‘I'm glad you did, Auntie Lydia.'

Hearing her moniker from Tara's childhood brought a lump to Lydia's throat. She had always had a soft spot for this kid, firework-bright and pugnaciously curious, the kind of daughter she would have been proud to raise. She loved her mother, too, often reaching to call Shyama's number, especially since she had heard that she had returned with a surrogate in tow. But there had been so little contact between them since that spat in her kitchen that she wondered if she would still be welcome. Ridiculous, this was infants' school stuff – she's not my best friend any more, boo hoo. But Lydia understood all too well the complexity of women's friendships from the lives of those on her consulting couch; unconsciously, most women expected to be disappointed by a man at some stage of their lives, but when the betrayal came from another woman, it brought with it disbelief, outrage, a sour aftertaste. All this distance, because Lydia had been trying to straddle the impossible fence between a mother and a daughter, understanding how Tara felt, knowing that Shyama had no idea, not wishing to betray either of them. Now she realized she should have just treated them as she would any other clients: sat them opposite each other in a neutral space and encouraged them to talk. Fat chance of that happening now the baby mama was here. Lydia had her own theories as to why Shyama had wanted this baby so badly, because she had seen this kind of behaviour before – the desperate yearning of an older woman for a child and the obsessive lengths to which she will go to acquire one, both emotionally and financially. She'd seen it all: the older woman/younger man see-I'm-fertile-too baby; the last-chance-saloon baby when peri-menopause suddenly arrives; the empty-nest, don't-leave-me-on-my-own-with-my-husband baby; the classic glue baby when a long relationship begins hitting those old rocks of boredom and habit; the baby for the single professional woman who's fed up with waiting for Mr Right and wants one right now; and the always upsetting cases of those women who have put their bodies through years of medical torture, hoping for a miracle that doesn't arrive. Lydia's sympathies were always with the last group; with the others, she looked beyond the wished-for baby to what it actually symbolized – a barren marriage, a fear of abandonment, a refusal to face ageing and death. And it could take weeks, months, to break through this ovarian fever; you had to tread so delicately, picking your way through a minefield of unexploded ancient bombs, for there was nothing more primal, more personal, than the desire to carry a child. Lydia was glad to be free of it; she had laid her ghost babies to rest some time ago. But she had seen how it could change a woman. Watching Shyama now, deep in conversation with Gina, she missed her fiercely and wondered if she'd ever truly get her back.

‘You need to tell your mum what's going on, Tara,' Lydia said quietly, enjoying the waft of tobacco smoke across her face.

‘I've tried. There's never enough time to get beyond the shouting stage,' Tara murmured. ‘She's got Mala now.'

‘What's she like?' Lydia couldn't help but ask.

‘As you'd expect. Young, poor, dependent. Perfect breeding stock.'

‘Your mum went to a lot of trouble to bring her here, care for her. That must make the whole thing less …'

‘Exploitative?' Tara threw her stub to the ground, extinguishing it with a grind of her heel. ‘Come on, we both know this is fundamentally wrong. This is no different to the old crones who cut off girls' labia in the name of tradition, or the mothers who insist their daughters have their feet bound or marry their fat old cousins or stay in violent marriages, because if they had to suffer, why shouldn't all the others who come after them?'

‘No, I don't think it's the same…' Lydia began.

‘It's women once again exploiting other women!' Tara hissed back. ‘Mainly because they want to keep some man happy. Mum's not doing this because she wants another kid, she's doing it so Toby won't leave her for somebody younger. You knew it, you tried to say it, and she's dropped you like she drops anyone who doesn't agree with her …' She was wiping away furious tears now.

Lydia extended a hand, which Tara batted away.

‘Priya's met Mala … did you know?' Lydia asked quietly.

Tara shook her head.

‘And she says she's smart and seems … content. Said she didn't strike her as a victim. No one forced her to be a surrogate.'

‘Maybe no one did,' Tara said, wishing she could stem the tears that kept flowing like a warm river down her cheeks. ‘But her poverty did. Her lack of choices. She has no idea that she's going to be paid a tenth of what any white woman in the West would be paid for the same thing, with laws and regulations to protect her. Why couldn't my mum just be happy with what she had?'

‘Why can't any of us?' Lydia smiled sadly. She recognized every word, every angry tear – she had been there at the same age, though never as eloquent as Tara, when the world lost its wonder and all you could see was what was wrong, what needed putting right. How she envied her, with all that righteous energy, the unshakeable belief that with enough marching and shouting and protesting the young could start to repair the mess they had inherited from the old and the cynical. Then one day, you woke up and you were old and cynical too, and you shared your bed with compromise and resignation and someone you loved not passionately but enough, whose snoring could bring down barricades. Tara would not understand why Shyama had done this, not whilst she lived in a world of black and white, right and wrong, not until she understood how much of life was, in actuality, shades of ever-shifting grey.

‘Can I come home with you?' Tara asked finally.

Lydia glanced over at Shyama, who seemed to be finishing off with Gina, nodding earnestly whilst tapping notes into her phone.

‘I don't think that's a great idea, sweetheart,' Lydia began.

Tara looked at Lydia, all her anger gone, her face drained by the queasy yellow of the neon street lights. Something jangled at the back of Lydia's head, the same sensation she would get when listening to a client telling one story when they actually wanted to scream another.

‘Tara? Is there something else?' Concern made her blurt it out. ‘Has anything happened? I mean, is there anything else you need to tell me?'

Tara dropped her gaze and zipped up her jacket, shivering slightly. When she looked back at Lydia, she seemed ten years older.

‘Not now,' she said simply and walked off to join her mother.

Toby had resigned himself to not sleeping until they returned. On a whim, he had spent an hour browsing the internet for farmhouses in Suffolk, stunned by how much his parents' smallholding must now be worth. A million quid wouldn't get you more than forty acres plus a few outbuildings, though there was one property for sale he kept returning to, a substantial former rectory with its own small dairy and livery stables, with two converted barns which could be rented out to holiday-makers as the coast was a mere three miles away. He imagined himself running full-time stables and a riding school, with holiday accommodation offered on site. He'd checked out how much city folk would pay to stay on a real-life working farm – they apparently even wanted to muck in for free, all part of the authentic rural experience. Plus he could produce the sort of crumbly rustic cheeses that he saw sold for eye-watering prices at the local farmers' market every Sunday. There was just enough land to keep some pigs as well, so there were your organic sausages sorted. Once he'd got his share of his inheritance, even after repaying his debts, and chucking in the money they would get for the sale of this house, he could just about do it. It was a possibility, though he hadn't discussed it with Shyama yet. He knew how she felt about the countryside in general, but this was different, they would be running their own business. With her financial brain and his farming experience they could make a success of this, and she would never be bored – they would have visitors from all over, stopping them from feeling like inbred hicks cut off from civilization. And most importantly, their child would grow up like he had done, breathing clean air, eating fresh food, running around outside instead of being slumped over a screen all the time, like he was now.

The more he dwelled on this line of thought, the more excited he got. It might even be good for Tara, like a sort of detox haven, far away from the people and stresses that had landed her in the nick this evening. There was the more pressing issue of Sita and Prem, of course, but there would be plenty of room for them to come and stay for long stretches, and once their flat was finally sorted, they would probably be moving back to India anyway.

Toby wasn't used to ideas catching him unawares; he felt restless, his pulse racing with possibilities. It all made sense now. It wasn't farming he hated, it was the idea of working for his brother that had driven him away. And it was the reality of impending fatherhood that was now pulling him back.

Toby started at a gentle knock at the bedroom door.

‘Toby sahib?'

He opened the door to Mala, who had a shawl thrown over her night-time shalwar kameez. His eyes were drawn to the obvious swelling of her belly, straining against the cotton material.

‘Sorry to disturb … I heard Shyama Madam go out, long time ago. No problem?'

Her English was so fluid now. That jewel in her nose, he had always assumed she removed it at night, but there it was, catching the light reflected off the computer screen.

‘No Mala, no problem. She's … gone to collect Tara from somewhere …'

Mala's gaze fastened on the computer, her eyes lighting up. ‘Apple Mac, yes?'

Toby nodded dumbly.

‘Shyama Madam says I should practise. Because they have same one in the salon. You know I am working there soon?'

Toby could hardly refuse this bare-faced request. Awkwardly, he stood to one side as Mala pushed her way past. She stood silently for a while, then pointed to the Suffolk property still on the screen. ‘Very beautiful. You want to buy?'

Toby nodded again. He felt trapped, not just physically but also by his promise to Shyama.
Be nice.

‘It's just an idea at the moment … I grew up on a farm not too far from this house.'

‘I also.' Mala smiled, her eyes never leaving the screen. ‘Green everywhere around … corn, vegetables. I milk, um …
bainse
?'

Mala patted her body, her hand snaking into her top. Toby watched her small hands move beneath the cloth, glimpsed the dark shadow of her cleavage. He looked away, at his hands, his feet, anywhere.

‘My dictionary …' Mala said. ‘Downstairs. I don't know the word for …' She broke off, mimed a pair of horns above her head and emitted a bellowing sound so comically loud it shocked Toby into laughter.

‘What was that?' he chortled. ‘Don't tell me you milk elephants.'

‘Elephants?' Mala was genuinely affronted until she realized. ‘You are joking!'

‘Sorry, but it sounded like something huge and in pain … too big to be a cow, obviously.'

‘Not cow …
bainse
… I know this …' Mala was shaking her head, half amused, half annoyed with herself.

‘Buffalo, maybe?'

Mala's face flooded with relief. ‘Yes, buffalo! I milk buffalo. Very hard. They have bad temper. Like husbands.'

Toby laughed again. It was OK. It was working. This wasn't awkward at all.

Mala never meant to talk so much, but she was hijacked by so many memories of her childhood which she had never shared before. What was the point, with Ram? He had seen the same trees, the same wheat, stepped over the same piles of dung that she would have to collect and dry in the sun for fuel and to cover the walls in winter. She had been as free as any boy until her chum arrived. That was Mumbai speak – she had heard it on a chat show about women's health problems. Chum, a stupid word for the curse, which meant her ramblings around the village stopped overnight, as if the smell of her blood would bring all the menfolk slavering on their bellies to her feet. Why was it her fault if they couldn't control themselves, why couldn't they stay indoors instead? When she had asked her mother this very thing, she had got a hard tight slap.