My Daughter, My Mother

by Annie Murray

  ‘We are going to see your Pita-ji,’ she told Raj carefully. He had never met Khushwant, who had left for England two months before his son was born in September 1960.

  Raj twisted round to look at her. His glossy hair was tied in a little white topknot. His huge, long-lashed eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘Pita-ji? We are going to see Pita-ji? Raj was convinced his father was the most exciting thing in the world. The reality had been a betrayal from which she believed he had never fully recovered.

  They had been married for seven months when Khushwant left. She must have conceived Rajdev in the first week of marriage, bruised and desperate as she was.

  For the first three nights he had set about her as soon as they were alone, slapping her face, knocking her to the ground. Khushwant had been a well-made man, even in those days, though he was not carrying surplus fat. He cut her lip one night and she hid her swollen face the next day. Two of her teeth came loose. All this was the prelude to sexual relations, a fast, thrusting event in the dark, which hurt her even more because of her bruises. For a time she bore it. Bear everything: he is your husband, he is as God . . . On the fourth night a cry burst from her lips.

  ‘Why are you doing this? What have I done that you punish me like this?’

  Khushwant, who was drawing his hand back to strike her, stopped, looking in astonishment at the frail, pretty woman before him.

  ‘You are my wife!’

  ‘But why should you hit me? I have done nothing wrong.’

  The room was almost dark. She could see the glint of his eyes in the candlelight.

  ‘It is my place to hit you. It is what I must do.’

  Meena’s father had never hit her mother. Even after all that had happened, after the severest of provocation a man could endure: no violence. The two of them had suffered in silence.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It is not. Why do you think it is?’

  Even now, looking back, she was amazed by her certainty and courage. It was almost the only time in her life that she had spoken out.

  By the time he left for England the beatings had stopped. Sometimes he lashed out at her, when he was impatient in the way of a husband, but he did not make a session of it, as he had at first. She knew Khushwant was not naturally a violent person. He did not welcome physical exertion. His father and brother had led him to think this was the way to do things – to beat her into submission from the first day. She showed him that he had already succeeded. He did not need to beat her; she would meet his every need and command. There were no feelings – not then. All she hoped for was a life without being assaulted each night, to have a roof over her head, food in her belly . . . and to have a family. By the time Khushwant left she was carrying his child. If he was pleased, he didn’t show it.

  Despite all her fears of leaving India, and the wrench of leaving Mama-ji Nirmal, she had been ready to go. A woman on her own was useless, of no status, Meena felt, even though she had given birth to a son. She needed to be with her husband.

  Lapping up the last spoonfuls of Raj’s milk, she remembered an English saying that Sooky had once translated for her: A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

  At first she had stared blankly at her daughter. Then she laughed until her sides ached. ‘Hah! So I am a fish and he is a bicycle. That is marriage!’

  She had been ready to come here, to the damp, shared terrace in Smethwick, a mile from the High Street, with its freezing rooms, its outside toilet and pale, incomprehensible neighbours. The friendliest had been Mrs Platt next door, with her hair curlers, jiggling false teeth and little zipped boots, who talked on and on at Meena, even though she could understand not a word the woman was saying. But she always made a fuss of Rajdev, chucking him under the chin and greeting him with, ‘Oooooh, bab . . .’ followed by a string of words that seemed kindly enough. Meena tried smiling and nodding her head, and that seemed to satisfy Mrs Platt, who soon scurried off into her own dishevelled house again.

  ‘What did she say?’ she’d ask Raj as he grew older and was speaking English. But even then he’d shrug, looking bemused.

  ‘When are we going home?’ he asked, all through that first winter, his face twisted with misery.

  Never had Meena been colder or more lonely. The other four occupants of the house on the Oldbury Road were all single men, and Meena found it was her job to shop, cook and clean for them all. Khushwant came with her at first, to show her where to go, how to shop and use English money. He had learned some broken English by then. She found it hard to go out sometimes, as she didn’t have the right clothes and her shoes were flimsy. All the white people seemed to be staring at her. One day Khushwant came home with a big pair of wellington boots for her, which at least kept the water out, though she didn’t like to wear them. They made her feel like a man.

  ‘Just be thankful you weren’t here last winter,’ he told her. The early months of 1963 had already become a legend of snowbound endurance. Meena thought the cold this time round was quite bad enough. The greyness and drizzling rain dragged her spirits down.

  And though her husband was seldom violent towards her now, it felt as if they were strangers to one another. She had not known him well to begin with, and England had changed him. He and the other tenants were working long hours in a foundry. Khushwant was always under pressure, tired and mostly absent. He had never been a religious man and in those days seldom went to one of the gurdwaras that were being set up in Smethwick. At that time Meena did not like to go by herself. It was only later that she made some friends. The men’s favourite way to unwind was over a pint in the local pub. Meena spent many hours alone, on a blanket laid on the linoleum, crouched up by the old gas fire. She never complained; and met troubles with silence.

  Sometimes she dreamed of running away, of getting on a boat or a plane back to India. If she begged her uncle, would Nirmal take her in?

  That winter the men had clubbed together and bought a second-hand television. Meena left the Test Card on for company when there were no programmes, its jaunty music streaming through the house. On its jumpy black-and-white news broadcast she saw the President of the United States of America being shot, the month after she arrived in England.

  Even when Khushwant was home, they didn’t have much to say to each other. Home was for food, sleep and sexual relief.

  ‘Why doesn’t Daddy come home?’ Raj would ask, hurt.

  Khushwant showed little interest in his son, who had arrived in England three years old and a stranger. He had not seen him grow up and had no idea how to handle a child. He seemed to have no feeling for Raj: the boy was Meena’s business, so far as Khushwant was concerned. Raj was to be hustled off to bed as soon as he appeared.

  ‘Tell him to stop making that noise,’ he would say grumpily if Raj was playing. Now and then, at weekends, he would join in and come on a visit to the park. But Raj knew; he did not feel loved or wanted by his father. Not the way his younger siblings were wanted when they arrived. Nor did he feel in the least English. He was the one born in India, the one who was different. It had always marked him.

  It was Sukhdeep whom Khushwant had wanted the most. The first child born in England, somehow she had made things better. Meena had been surprised by this. Sukhdeep was only a girl, after all. But she seemed to help Khushwant belong, to feel as if he was truly part of a family. And Sukhdeep had adored him from the start. They were in tune with each other in a way that he and Raj had never been.

  A memory came to her of following Khushwant and Sukhdeep down the street when the little girl was about six, a wiry, bright-eyed little thing. She was clutching her father’s hand and looking up at him, chattering and skip-skipping along. Khushwant turned and looked down at her with a smile, the sort of smile Meena had never seen truly directed at her, spontaneous and full of love. It was a glimpse of what was possible. It’s not her fault, she had told herself as the blade of jealousy stabbed through her. Not her fault if her father loves her . . .


  As Sooky had grown older, she had also grown closer to her mother. Meena loved having daughters. As well as enjoying their company, their duty was to fulfil the family’s izzat – the honour of doing right in the community. Sooky had been a good student and a sweet, lively child. But then came her marriage.

  Meena closed her eyes. As usual, any thought of her daughter filled her with rushing emotions, like two waves surging towards each other in opposing directions and colliding, causing her nothing but turmoil.

  Twenty

  Joanne pushed Amy’s buggy into the church hall and looked round, surprised. It was already twenty past ten, no toys had been put out and the hall seemed deserted.

  Tess appeared out of the kitchen in a pea-green vest and a green-and-blue patterned skirt. Even in the week that had passed she seemed to have grown much more heavily pregnant. Her frizzy hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she was fanning herself with a cardboard plate.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ she smiled in her usual warm way, but Joanne could sense her weariness. ‘Well, today’s the day. I’d planned to take us all off down to the park at some point, and it’s so lovely out there . . .’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Joanne said. ‘Amy, we’re going to the park with your friends. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

  She knew Amy had been longing for the painting table. Her face was beginning to crumple.

  ‘It’ll be fun – and I expect Priya’s coming.’

  Tess squatted down, knees splayed round her bump. ‘Hello, Amy. We’re going to take some games outside, and have some races. Can you run fast?’

  Amy loved Tess. She nodded, sucking on one of her fingers.

  ‘Where’s your lad?’ Joanne looked round.

  ‘Actually I left him with my mother today. I just felt a bit grim this morning, and running this is so much easier if it’s just me – at least at the moment!’ She stood up with an effort. ‘Oof,’ she said. ‘Lucky I do yoga!’ There was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

  ‘It must be really hard, doing all this,’ Joanne said. ‘When’re you due?’

  ‘Early August – about four more weeks. We’ve only got two more weeks in here anyway – we pack up over the summer.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Joanne felt her heart sink. Of course they would, but she hadn’t thought about it. The toddler group felt like her lifeline.

  The others started arriving, and Tess went off to greet them. Joanne hoped Sooky would be on time, though Tess said that she would leave a note on the door to tell anyone who arrived late where they had gone. In a few moments a wave of happiness passed through Joanne as she saw Sooky push Priya through the door. She was wearing pink today, Asian clothes, with a black cardigan over the top. As soon as she saw Joanne she waved and hurried over.

  ‘Hello!’ Her face was all smiles. Joanne thought how pretty she was. ‘Hello, Amy. I got here on time for once! I hear we’re going on an outing?’

  The little girls were bouncing with pleasure in their buggies.

  ‘I’m glad you got here. Yes, Tess has got it all organized. I think we’ll all have to help her carry stuff, though.’

  Soon they all set off, with various bags from Tess stashed under their buggies. The green of Handsworth Park opened out in front of them, the flowerbeds bright with colours, and Joanne felt her spirits lift.

  ‘We’ll go and let them feed the ducks first,’ Tess passed back the message. ‘Then we’ll spread out and do some games.’

  Tess, ever prepared, had brought a couple of cheap loaves of bread, and soon all the children who were old enough were on the bank, hurling bits of the white pap at the ducks and Canada geese. Then they moved on to the flattest piece of grass they could find, as the park had a lot of slopes. Tess was announcing that the children should get into a line as they were going to do an egg-and-spoon race.

  ‘Blimey, she’s even brought real eggs,’ Joanne laughed. ‘There’s going to be scrambled egg all over the park after this!’

  ‘I think she hard-boiled them,’ Sooky said. ‘She’s amazing. Our girls are too young for that, though.’

  The children old enough to take part were just getting lined up when a voice called out, ‘Hold on: one more!’

  Kieran, the dad who sometimes came, was trotting towards them with the baby strapped to him in a sling and his little boy holding his hand. ‘Go on, Billy – look. Get a spoon . . .’

  Billy was very eager to join in and balanced his egg earnestly.

  ‘Hi,’ Kieran said, appearing beside Joanne and Sooky. ‘I’m glad I made it. I went to the hall first – didn’t realize you were all coming out here.’

  ‘He seems happy enough,’ Joanne said, looking at Charlie, the baby, who was fast asleep against his father’s chest.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Kieran said, grinning. He had widely spaced teeth and this had a cheerful effect. ‘He loves it in here.’

  Tess produced a couple of balls and the children took turns to kick them between goalposts made from their mother’s jumpers. Amy and Priya were quite happy playing together in their own little world. After a few more games they all sat down for squash and biscuits, which Joanne had carried along on her buggy. They all sat, half in shade, half in sun.

  ‘Ah, this is the life,’ Kieran said, stretching out his legs, but still rocking gently to keep Charlie asleep.

  ‘How’s your wife?’ Sooky said carefully.

  ‘Well, some good days, some bad, you know. She’s called Gerri by the way. Geraldine.’

  ‘D’you think she’s getting better?’ Joanne asked. It made her think of her mom. You never quite knew how you’d find her.

  Kieran’s face was solemn, and for a moment the strain of it all showed through.

  ‘God, I hope so. The hospital are talking about ECT . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ Joanne asked.

  ‘Electroconvulsive therapy,’ Kieran said. ‘They sort of pass electricity through your head – it’s supposed to help depression.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Sooky said. Her face was full of sympathy. ‘That’s a big thing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kieran shrugged. Joanne realized how haggard he looked when he wasn’t putting on a cheerful face. ‘I’m praying they don’t do it. But you just wonder if you’re ever again going to see the person you knew. It’s like watching someone get lost – as if she can’t find herself.’ He looked over at Billy, who was sitting beside one of the other boys. ‘Or us.’

  ‘How’s he dealing with it?’ Joanne asked. She could see that Kieran was relieved to have someone to talk to.

  ‘Well, we go and see her sometimes. It upsets her a lot. I mean, this one’s so young – she wanted to breastfeed him, but I’ve had to give him a bottle . . . I think Billy understands that Mummy isn’t very well. But in the end he’s only just four. It’s very tough on him.’

  ‘It’s tough on all of you,’ Sooky said.

  Kieran gave a wonky smile. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘I think you’re very brave,’ Joanne said.

  He chuckled. ‘No – not brave. You just have to keep on keeping on. Anyway, enough of all this. Let’s talk about something else. And I need to give this one a bottle soon. And check whether Billy needs to pee . . .’

  Kieran got up and went over to his son.

  ‘Poor bloke,’ Joanne said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Sooky was watching him. Joanne saw that her own expression was very sombre. Now that Kieran had moved away, Joanne realized her friend had something on her mind.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she said. ‘I mean, I hope you don’t mind me asking?’ She liked the way Sooky had spoken to Kieran so directly. ‘Is your mom speaking to you again yet?’

  Sooky turned to her, shaking her head. ‘No, not really. I mean, she says things through Dad, or whoever else . . .’

  ‘That’s terrible – I mean having to live with that. Mind you, my mom’s not the easiest of people . . .’ Seeing the pain in Sooky’s eyes, she stopped. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just t
hat they want me to see someone. He’s coming on Friday.’

  ‘You mean a man?’

  ‘Yes, someone who’s come over from India. He’s got relatives in Leicester.’ She was looking down, her slim fingers plucking at the grass almost as if she was ashamed.

  ‘But surely you can’t even be divorced yet?’

  ‘I’m not. But, you know, he’s the same age as me, and all the other things . . .’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘He’s a Jat: that’s our group, our caste . . . He wants to come and live here.’ Sooky’s picking at the grass became more forceful. ‘I think the idea is that it will take time for me to get a divorce. I’d go to India and marry him, you see, and then he can apply to come to the UK as my husband.’

  Joanne was filled with a sense of panic on Sooky’s behalf. ‘But what if you don’t like him? Are you just getting married for your mom?’

  ‘I probably won’t like him,’ Sooky said. ‘He’s grown up on a farm in India, he doesn’t speak English, he’s never lived in a city. It’s like someone coming from Jupiter and asking me to marry him.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you wanted?’ Joanne joked. ‘Someone off the Starship Enterprise.’

  That set them both off laughing.

  ‘He might have green ears,’ Sooky said.

  ‘Or one big eye in the middle of his forehead!’

  ‘The thing is,’ she managed to say, still laughing, ‘I’m supposed to be grateful for anyone wanting to marry me – I’m soiled goods. And he wants a visa!’

  ‘Oh God,’ Joanne groaned. ‘But surely you can say no?’

  ‘Yes, I can say no.’ The laughter had faded from Sooky’s eyes now. ‘I want to apply to college. But how many more times is it going to take? Do I have to get married just to get my mom to speak to me again?’

  As they cleared up, packing away the snacks and toys, Joanne felt suddenly that she could not bear to go home to her empty house. She wanted more company. Going up to Sooky and Kieran, she said, ‘Look, I wondered if you’d both like to come back to mine. I live quite near the church – I could make a bit of dinner for the kids and they could carry on playing . . .’