He fixed them a holiday in London, for two weeks in October. He booked her a direct flight; he himself would be arriving from New York. They planned to meet in the hotel. “It's our honeymoon,” he told her, though they had been married a year. He booked a room overlooking Hyde Park, so that when she opened the window, for the first time in her life she would smell autumn. He pictured the two of them, laden with carrier bags, walking beside the lake and kicking the leaves. He had been raised in an orphanage. He hadn't kept this a secret; it was just that nobody asked. It was his wife who 50 years later was giving him back his childhood. For this he would give her the world, which he had crossed so many times alone. If not the world, at least he would give her London.
He was leaving two days earlier than Aisha. He hugged her. Ridiculously, his stomach churned. He had never before suffered from flight-nerves.
“Look after yourself,” he murmured. He pressed her glossy head to his chest. She gripped him. “Fly to me safely.”
“You always say it's the safest way to travel.”
“But you're different,” he said.
“Why?”
“You're precious.”
When he left, a gust of wind blew through the apartment. Doors slammed; the planes rocked.
All that evening a gale blew in from the sea. Sand dimmed the sunset; drifts half-buried the café chairs. Down in the city, dust swirled.
Shirley, emerging from a business function at the Metropole Hotel, saw Aisha climbing out of a Mercedes. Giggling, she was smoothing down her loose lurex slacks which billowed in the wind. Another girl followed her, and three Pakistani men. Cigarettes glowing, the men propelled the girls downstairs into the Excelsior Hot Spot.
Shirley climbed into her own car and sat next to her husband. She though: Aisha is an innocent. Not as nice as Johnnie, but an innocent too.
Now why did she think that? The words jostled in her head; a puzzle she hadn't the will to work out. Let them get on with it, she thought recklessly. Tonight she was tipsy. She had drunk a great deal of Rs 300-a-bottle imported gin.
Perhaps, when he returned, Johnnie would hold one of his shindigs. Ah, she remembered, but by then she and Kenneth would be back in London; his contract finished at the end of the month.
At the moment, as they drove through the dusty street, palm trees swaying in the headlights, Kenneth clearing his throat beside her - at that moment with the crystal clarity that alcohol can bring, she knew that once she returned to England she would leave him.
In the subcontinent, the most beautiful times are dawn and dusk. Johnnie had often remarked upon this. The sky was pearly-pink as Aisha sat in the car with Farooq. The storm had passed; the sea glinted, swelling like oil. It was the early morning. Across the world, across time zones, her husband slept. Or maybe he was eating lunch. Who knew? Painfully, she wished she did.
Farooq kissed her forehead. “You'll adore Yasmin,” he said. “She's a terrific girl.” He withdrew his hand from inside her blouse and reached into the back seat. “Remember, Thursday morning. Where?”
“The Kardomah Cafe,” she repeated.
“And where is that?”
She closed her eyes. “In Oxford Street.”
“Where is Oxford Street?”
She paused, and said dreamily: “Opposite Marks & Spencer.”
He passed her the parcel. It was a box, wrapped in ribbon. “No peeking,” he said. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead.
“It's her birthday present?” she asked again.
He nodded. “Snakeskin shoes from the Reptile Emporium.”
“Snakeskin.” She shivered.
“My sister adores it, and it's frightfully expensive in London.”
She closed her eyes again. “I'm going to Harrods and Marks & Spencer and Selfridges - ”
“Yasmin'll take you. She knows simply everybody, and everywhere. Shops, nightclubs, you name it.”
“Johnnie and I don't know anybody.”
“Trust her. Have a sooper-dooper time.” He took her arm and folded it around the parcel. “And don't forget this, will you?” He kissed her lightly. “Sweetie.”
She flew overnight. Below lay the glittering grids of cities; around and above, black space. Whimpering, she pressed the airline pillow to her cheek; she felt rigid with fear. She had never flown. Surely the plane would fall? Surely Johnnie would not be there?
The cabin bucked. Everyone else slept blamelessly.
“Just a little turbulence,” the stewardess told her, as Aisha gripped her hand.
She clenched her eyes shut. She tried to rub out the thought of Farooq's hand between her thighs. She knew she was wicked, and that she would be punished.
They didn't believe her. Who would believe an overdressed Pakistani girl, no better than a tart, who reeked of cheap perfume and scratched the customs officer with her crimson fingernails? She yelled that the box wasn't hers, it was given to her by a friend. Who? Called Farooq. Farooq who? She didn't know. She had never known his surname but he was a good friend, his father knew the President. What sort of friend is that, they asked, that you don't know his surname? Where did he live? She didn't know.
The packet was laid out on the table, fat, white, smug. There were now four officers in the room. She struggled; the policewoman held her down.
She screeched: “He said they were shoes!”
“Yes dear.”
“Snakeskin shoes!”
By now she was hysterical. She twisted in the policewoman's arms. She spat like a cat. She was pregnant, she yelled, she was ill, she wanted her father, he was a very important person, he was a personal friend of President Bhutto. She started swearing in Urdu. They frowned, looking at the flimsy walls; people would think they were beating her up.
The mascara ran down her cheeks, her voice rose higher. She wanted her husband, he was very important too, he knew everybody, all the places to go. Her mother was sick, her mother was dying, she had to get out.
Where did her mother live? They asked.
She tried to struggle free. “At Harrods!” she shouted.
An hour later Johnnie arrived, breathlessly. They were trying to take a statement from her; she had jammed shut the lavatory door and was yelling for her husband. He heard her shrill voice; his heart shifted.
It only took him a moment to realise what had happened. It all made the most painful sense, but he didn't want to think about it. He only knew that she meant everything to him and that the world was senseless without her. He stood, swaying with fatigue, staring at the creamy walls.
For cocaine smuggling she would get at least a year in prison, his darling wife. Or maybe they would deport her and she could never visit Britain again, all her life.
He heard her voice approaching as she was dragged out of the toilets. She sounded coarse as a fishwife, he had learnt some of the oaths by now, but he would always love her.
He cleared his throat and addressed the police officer.
“I did it,” he said. “I put it in her suitcase.”
He was sentenced to a year. Remarks were made about a man in his position, a senior pilot, and how he had abused a job that demanded the utmost trust and integrity. Regrets were expressed that a man with such a distinguished wartime record could end his career on such a note of disgrace. More abominably, that in doing so he had tried to corrupt a simple-minded girl who was young enough to be his daughter. What were the British coming to?
In his absence the Sind Club members learnt more about Johnnie than they had ever learnt when he was there. His real name was James and he had been decorated for bravery in action during the war; he had been a fighter pilot, flying Hurricanes, and one had been shot in flames from beneath him. As a child he had live in institutions; once grown up, he had restlessly moved from place to place, living at one time in Australia and then Canada. Finally in the 'Fifties he had moved to Karachi. Until now his record had been blameless.
“Well well, so he's a crook,” said Mr Khan, who that m
orning had slipped Rs 30,000 to his good friend Habib-sahib at the Port Authority, to facilitate the importation of some air conditioner in which he himself happened to have an interest. “I always said there was something odd about this chap Johnnie; he was so nice to everybody.”
It is the next summer, 1977. At the far end of the beach route the casino remains uncompleted. It is simply a concrete shell, monument to the corrupt Bhutto regime which is now ending. There will soon be bloodshed. In July Bhutto himself will be thrown into prison and some months later executed. Martial government and strict Islamic law will be imposed on the country; gambling will be forbidden and drink no longer available even on the black market. No more shindigs. This will be a New Era of Purity.
Farooq and his family, having Bhutto connections, are now out of favour and have fled the country. They were last heard of living in Knightsbridge.
Aisha had unwittingly told the truth, the previous October; she was indeed pregnant. This summer she gives birth to a boy. The baby's skin is surprisingly dark but this is never mentioned either by herself or by Johnnie. Neither wishes to. He dotes on the child.
He is no longer employed by PIA, but then he says that he always wanted early retirement. Flying has lost its importance; he prefers to be at home sweet home. Phase One is now finished and a small bazaar has sprung up between the apartment blocks. Aisha shops there, ordering aubergines and onions to be piled into her increasingly frail Harrods carrier bag. When she passes the cars, parked facing the beach, she rolls her eyes at the young men. Nothing will change her, but Johnnie has always known that.
One evening, unused to the heat, June and David drive out to the beach. They are new arrivals; he is Kenneth's successor at Grindlay's Bank. To mark his status as sahib and Branch Manager he is trying to grow a small moustache.
There is a café on the beach. Johnnie and Aisha are sitting there. Johnnie holds the baby in one arm while with the other he passes a model aeroplane to and fro above his head. He makes aeroplane sounds.
David turns to his wife. “Isn't that the chap who went to prison?” he asks. “Unlikely-looking couple aren't they?”
June sighs, but so softly her husband doesn't hear. She watches them for a moment, then she says; “They do look happy.”
END
Smile
Now that she has found out his name, Sandy doesn't know how she's going to face the man again. On the other hand, she'll die if he doesn't turn up.
We had to wear these SMILE badges. It was one of the rules. And they'd nailed up a sign saying SMILE, just above the kitchen door, so we wouldn't forget. It's American, the hotel. Dennis, the chief receptionist, even says to the customers, “Have a nice day,” but then he's paid more than I am, so I suppose he's willing.
I was on breakfasts when I was expecting. Through a fog of early-morning sickness I'd carry out the plates of scrambled eggs. The first time I noticed the man he pointed to the SMILE badge, pinned to my chest, then he pulled a face.
“Cheer up,” he said. “It might never happen.”
I thought, it has.
Looking back, I suppose he appeared every six weeks or so, and stayed a couple of nights. I wasn't counting, then, because I didn't know who he was. Besides, I was on the alert for somebody else, who never turned up and still hasn't, being married, and based in Huddersfield, and having forgotten about that night when he ordered a bottle of Southern Comfort with room service. At least I'm nearly sure it was him.
I was still on breakfasts when I saw the man again, and my apron was getting tight. Soon I'd be bursting out of my uniform.
He said, “You're looking bonny.”
I held out the toast basket, and he took four. Munching, he nodded at my badge. “Or are you just obedient?”
It took me a moment to realise what he meant, I was so used to wearing it.
“Oh yes, I always do what I'm told.”
He winked. “Sounds promising.”
I gave him a pert look and flounced off. I was happy that day. The sickness had worn off; I was keeping the baby, I'd never let anybody take it away from me. I'd have someone to love, who would be mine.
“You've put on weight,” he said six weeks later. “It suits you.”
“Thanks” I said, smiling with my secret. “More coffee?”
He held out his cup. “And what do you call yourself?”
“Sandy.”
I looked at him. He was a handsome bloke; broad and fleshy, with a fine head of hair. He wore a tie printed with exclamation marks.
I've always gone for older men. They're bound to be married, of course. Not that it makes much difference while they're here.
When he finished his breakfast I saw him pocketing a couple of marmalade sachets. You can tell the married ones; they're nicking them for the kids.
When I got too fat they put me in the kitchens. You didn't have to wear your SMILE badge there. I was on salads. Arranging the radish roses, I day-dreamed about my baby.
I never knew it would feel like this. I felt heavy and warm and whole. The new chef kept pestering me, but he seemed like a midge - irksome but always out of sight. Nobody mattered. I walked through the steam, talking silently to my bulge. This baby meant the world to me. I suppose it came from not having much of a home myself, what with my Dad leaving, and Mum moving in and out of lodgings, and me being in and out of Care. Not that I blame her. Or him, not really.
I'd stand in the cooking smells, look at my tummy and think, You're all mine, I'll never leave you.
When she was born I called her Donna. I'd sit for hours, just breathing in her scent. I was always bathing her. It was a basement flat we had then, Mum and me and Mum's current love-of-her-life Eddie, and I'd put the pram in the area way so Donna could imbibe the sea breezes. Even in our part of Brighton, I told myself you could smell the sea.
I'd lean over to check she was still breathing. I longed for her to smile - properly, at me. In the next room Mum and Eddie would be giggling in an infantile way, they seemed the childish ones. Or else throwing things. It was always like this with Mum's blokes.
I'd gaze at my baby and tell her: You won't miss out. You'll have me; I'll always be here.
Behind me the window pane rattled as Mum flounced out, slamming the door behind her.
I went back to work, but in the evenings, so I could look after Donna during the day and leave her with my Mum when she was sleeping. They put me in the Late Night Coffee Shop. It had been refurbished in Wild West style, like a saloon, with bullet holes printed on the wallpaper and fancy names for the burgers. The wood veneer was already peeling off the counter. Donna had changed my world; nothing seemed real any more, only her.
I had a new gingham uniform, with a flounced apron and my SMILE badge. I moved around in a dream.
One night somebody said, “Howdee, stranger.”
It was the man I used to meet at breakfast.
He put on an American accent. “Just rolled into town, honey. Been missing you. You went away or something?”
I didn't say I'd had a baby; I liked to keep Donna separate.
He inspected the menu. “Can you fix me a Charcoal-Broiled Rangeburger?”
It was a quiet evening so we hadn't lit the charcoal. Back in the kitchen I popped the meat into the microwave and thought how once I would have fancied him, like I fancied the bloke from Huddersfield, like I almost fancied Dennis in Reception. But I felt this new responsibility now. Why hadn't my parents felt it when I was born? Or perhaps they had, but it had worn off early.
When I brought him his meal he pointed to my badge. “With you it comes naturally.” He shook salt over his chips. “Honest, I'm not just saying it. You've got a beautiful smile.”
“It's added on the bill.”
He laughed. “She's witty too.” He speared a gherkin. “Somebody's a lucky bloke.”
“Somebody?”
“Go on, what's his name?”
I thought, Donna.
“There's nobody special,” I s
aid.
“Don't believe it, lovely girl like you.”
I gave him my enigmatic look - practice makes perfect - and started wiping down the next table.
He said. “You mean I'm in with a chance?”
“You're too old.”
“Ah,” he grinned. “The cruel insolence of youth.” He munched his chips. “You ought to try me. I'm matured in the cask.”
Later, when he finished his meal, he came up to pay. He put his hand to his heart. “Tell me you'll be here tomorrow night. Give me something to live for.”
I took his credit card. “I'll be here tomorrow night.”
During breakfasts he'd paid the cashier; that's why I'd never seen his name.
I did now. I read it once, on the credit card.
Finally, I got my hands to work. I pulled the paper through the machine, fumbling it once. I did it again, then I passed it to him.
“What's up?” he said. “Seen a ghost?”
That night Donna woke twice. For the first time since she was born I shouted at her.
“Shut up!” I shook her. “You stupid little baby!”
Then I started to cry. I squeezed her against my nightie. She squirmed and I squeezed her harder, till her head was damp with my tears.
Even my Mum noticed. Next day at breakfast she said, “You didn't half make a racket.” She stubbed her cigarette into her saucer. “Got a splitting headache.”
I didn't answer. I wasn't telling that last night I'd met my father. I couldn't tell her yet. She'd probably come storming along to the hotel and lay in wait in his room.
Or maybe she'd be indifferent. She'd just light another fag and say, Oh him. That bastard.
I couldn't bear that.
The day seemed to drag on for ever. Overnight, Brighton had shrunk. It seemed a small town, with my father coming round each corner, so I stayed indoors.
Deborah Moggach Page 2
