My Daughter, My Mother

by Annie Murray

  She looked up again and took up her vegetable knife.

  ‘Until that time though, she said nothing. There was only silence and suffering.’

  Thirty-Three

  Meena laid her paring knife down then, covered her face with her hands and began to weep. Sooky and Harpreet, seeing her heaving shoulders and hearing the long-withheld, heartbroken sounds, went and stood each side of her, their arms round her shoulders. They were both crying as well. And Priya, catching all the grief in the room, clung to Sooky and soaked her leg with tears.

  When they were all calmer, Sooky fetched the box of tissues from the other side of the kitchen and handed Meena some.

  ‘Oh, Mom,’ she said. ‘It’s all so sad.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us anything before?’ Harpreet asked, tears still running down her cheeks.

  Meena looked up at her. She seemed dazed and tired, but, reaching out, she took Harpreet’s hand and pulled her soft, sweet daughter towards her. She stroked her arm.

  ‘Don’t be upset. No one wants to talk of these things. It was the same for everyone. For some, much worse things happened – whole families killed. But we were the lucky ones because my mother came back in the end. It was her kismet, her fate. Whatever is your kismet you cannot prevent. You can never argue with it.’

  ‘Do you believe in kismet?’ Harpreet asked.

  It was later on that night and Sooky and Harpreet were up in their room. The house had gone quiet, but the girls were still trying to take in what had happened that afternoon. They were sitting on their beds opposite each other, each leaning exhausted against the wall.

  Sooky considered the question. ‘What, you mean like Mom does?’

  ‘Yeah. Like everything’s laid down. Whatever you do, it’s all going to happen like that, and you can’t do anything about it.’

  Sooky stretched her legs out in front of her. ‘I wonder if she thinks it was really my kismet to stay with Jaz.’

  ‘She probably does. But then in a way she doesn’t – that’s the problem, isn’t it? She can’t work it out. She’s pulled in every direction.’

  ‘So what happens if you break your kismet? You defy fate?’

  Harpreet looked uneasy. ‘I dunno what to think. It’s what we’re brought up with . . .’

  ‘The idea that you can’t decide anything for yourself?’

  ‘Yeah. I get it in one way, but it just seems . . .’

  ‘Claustrophobic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harpreet said intensely. She leaned forward. ‘And where does it end? I mean, if I go downstairs tomorrow and I decide to eat, say, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes for breakfast instead of Rice Krispies – I mean, is that fate? Or doesn’t it apply to breakfast cereals?’ She was laughing now. It was a relief.

  ‘You could try asking Mom,’ Sooky giggled. ‘No, I suppose it’s just big things. The grand sweep-of-life things . . .’ She considered it seriously again. ‘But no, really, I don’t think I do believe in it. Not the way Mom does.’

  ‘But do you believe that out there somewhere there’s the perfect man for you?’ Harpreet drew her feet up and sat cross-legged, looking keenly interested in the reply.

  ‘Well, maybe. But whether Mom and Dad would recognize him is another matter! I don’t know, Sis – there are actions and consequences and personalities, and all of them interrelate. I don’t think there’s anything “out there” called fate, though. Or at least I don’t think I do . . .’

  ‘It just seems so sad,’ Harpreet said, her face solemn again. ‘What happened to Mom and to our grandparents, and all the killing and everything. Why did it have to be like that? They were all suffering when Partition happened, so why did they have to hate each other so much and kill so many people? As if everyone had gone crazy. And whatever happens, no one ever seems to think anything can ever be any different.’

  Sooky shrugged, shaking her head. They sat silently for a moment.

  ‘What’re you going to do, Sukh?’ Harpreet appealed to her. Sooky could feel how desperate she was to know what to think about her life, and to be led by someone. It stiffened Sooky’s determination.

  ‘I think what I’m going to do,’ she said slowly, ‘is ask about applying for that part-time degree.’

  Harpreet looked worried. ‘What if they find you a husband – soon?’

  With more confidence than she felt, Sooky said, ‘It could take ages. And anyway, do I really have to spend my whole life waiting for a husband who’ll take me on, soiled goods that I am, and never do anything else?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘It’s a bit late in the year – the Poly might not take me anyway. But I think I’ll give it a try. My A-levels should be good enough.’

  ‘What if you don’t get in?’

  ‘Well, little Sis,’ Sooky smiled. ‘Maybe that’s down to kismet.’

  At first Meena was resistant to it, as she always was to new ideas.

  ‘What will your father say?’ she asked, when Sooky found a moment to ask her about it the next day. They were sitting in the living room with the TV on in the background. Roopinder had at last gone out, after drifting round complaining for most of the morning.

  Sooky smiled. Her mother always liked to portray her husband as a towering figure of paternal authority, when what Khushwant usually said about anything in the family was, ‘Ask your mother.’

  ‘If you’re okay with it, he probably will be too.’

  Meena sat staring at the TV. Sooky felt herself tense up. She could see another lecture coming on about her disgrace, the need for her to marry, to redeem herself and the family’s izzat. God, she thought, can’t they change the record?

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘You have always been a good student, Sukhdeep,’ Meena said. She turned her head at last, and Sooky could see another tortured inner tussle going on within her mother.

  ‘I just thought, as I’m here and not doing anything much, I might as well achieve something. That’s if you’d be prepared to look after Priya while I’m at the Poly – if they’ll have me?’

  ‘What do you want? You want to get a job?’

  Yes, Sooky thought.

  ‘I don’t know. I want to do social sciences of some sort. Maybe become a social worker – be able to help people.’

  Meena seemed to look at her with new eyes – eyes that were full of a clashing mix of admiration and panic.

  ‘Help people? But what about getting another husband? Children?’

  ‘Well, there’s no one on the cards at the moment, is there? Can’t we just give it a chance? Maybe I could even do both? Some people do, you know, Mom.’

  Meena turned back to the TV. Sooky sat with her heart thumping.

  ‘You are a kind girl, wanting to help people. There are many people needing help. But is it really a job for a woman? Such rough people you would be dealing with . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t be getting a job yet,’ Sooky reassured her. ‘It could be years before I got a job – I might be married again before then. But this would just be to find out. Maybe at least get another qualification.’ She knew Meena liked certificates, with their thick, classy paper and look of official grandeur. ‘It might even increase my marriage chances. Can I at least give it a try?’

  Meena hesitated, then slowly gave a slight inclination of her head.

  Thirty-Four

  Birmingham, January 1946

  Margaret waited, all that week, for the shivering, skin-and-bone boy she had met at the wharf to call in as he had said he would, but he never did. She realized she recognized him from school, where she had seen him standing to one side of the yard, looking cold and lonely. He was in the form above hers, and she didn’t dare go up and speak to him and he didn’t speak to her, either. He seemed to be as much of an outsider as she was.

  By the Thursday she had given up looking out while she was working in the house, to see whose boots they were that she could hear crossing the yard. Her small tentacle of hope, which had just begun to peep out, curled itse
lf back in again. Of course he hadn’t come. He was only saying it; he hadn’t meant it. Why would anyone want to come and see her?

  Next Saturday she set off for the wharf, expecting nothing. She stood shivering in the queue, the scraping sounds of coal being shovelled growing gradually closer. A mucky mist hung over the cut. She waited, hunched up with her hands in her pockets, one hand stroking a bruise on her left thigh where Peggy Loach had landed a kick at her last night. ‘Get out of my way you useless little brat!’

  Margaret was numb – beyond even hating Peggy. There seemed no way out of any of it, and she tried not to feel anything. The only bright spot in her life was going to Elsie’s house and seeing Susan and Heather, her little nieces, who were always pleased when she came. But she only got over there once a month, if that.

  She was already trudging home, pushing the pram-load of coal, head down, so that she didn’t even see him until he loomed close to her.

  ‘Margaret, ain’t it?’

  As she looked up she saw him flinch, as if he expected her to reject him. She remembered the gentle, timid face. This time he was wearing a shirt and didn’t seem quite so paralysed with cold.

  ‘You got yours already,’ he said, nodding at the pram.

  ‘Yes. I’m going home.’ Too late, she decided she ought to smile.

  There was an awkward silence, then Fred said, ‘I’ve had a lot of jobs on this week – for Mom. She ain’t been too well.’

  ‘Oh,’ Margaret said. ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘She’s a bit better now . . .’

  More silence. Both of them were hopeless, had no idea what to say.

  ‘I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?’ Fred said eventually.

  Margaret nodded. ‘You might’ve done.’

  He nodded too, and looked away down the street. Finally he said, ‘I’d better get along. Our mom wants to get the fire lit.’

  ‘T’ra then,’ Margaret said, leaning against the handle of the pram to get it going.

  ‘See yer around.’

  She did see him around. Now and then she saw him at school, but sensed that he didn’t want to be seen talking to a girl – especially one in a lower form. He seemed afraid. And soon the school term ended for Christmas, and she met him at the wharf and in the streets a couple of times. Margaret was so unsure of herself that she might not have stopped when she saw him, but Fred, though having a cringing sort of shyness, never pretended not to see her, or passed her by when they were outside school. He always came up and spoke.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked, running into her one dark Friday afternoon.

  ‘Yes, ta,’ she said, looking up at him, hoping her wonky eye didn’t show up in the gloom.

  ‘Only I thought you looked a bit . . . I dunno. Poorly or summat.’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a cold, that’s all,’ Margaret said.

  Fred looked up at the tin-grey sky. ‘Looks as if it’ll snow.’

  The clouds seemed full to bursting.

  ‘You going to the wharf tomorra?’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘Can I walk with yer?’

  Her heart beat faster, just as it had when Elsie’s girls had showed they wanted her. The little hope-tentacle popped out again.

  ‘All right then.’

  It was nice having someone to go to the wharf with. It was like when she used to go with Tommy. Fred was nothing like Tommy, who had been bold and strong, but it warmed her to think he would be waiting for her.

  When she got up that morning there was no sign of her father or Peggy. They’d be sleeping it off for hours yet. The house stank of stale booze tinged with urine from the bedside po’s. The range would be cold, so there was no prospect of a warm drink, and there was nothing left but a handful of slack. Margaret dressed, pulled on her old boots and hurried outside, collecting the pram from the brewhouse where Dora Jennings kept it stowed.

  She pushed the pram down the entry, careful not to slip on the icy bricks. Would he be there somewhere? All the time she was telling herself not to expect anything. As she turned into Washington Street, though, she saw him waiting for her near the corner, with his makeshift cart.

  He was looking out for her and, as she drew closer, a smile lifted his woebegone face.

  ‘All right, Margaret?’

  ‘Yes, ta.’

  They went along to the wharf and, as they waited, Fred pulled from his pocket a dog-eared collection of cards, held together with a rubber band.

  ‘D’you wanna see my collection? My uncle give me them – they’re from before the war.’

  ‘All right,’ Margaret said.

  Soon they were going through the well-worn collection of cigarette cards: there were ships and sportsmen, beautiful actresses and views of foreign cities Margaret had barely heard of. She could see why Fred liked to have them; it was like carrying a picture book in your pocket. It made her think of the books of fairytales they had read in Buckley, and this brightened her day.

  ‘Come on, you two – get a move on, if yer going,’ the woman behind said to them. ‘Some of us ain’t got all morning, yer know.’

  Once they’d got their coal and were on their way back, Fred stopped her for a moment.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘as it’s nearly Christmas . . . whether you’d come round to ours: meet our mom and the others?’

  ‘What, now?’ Margaret said.

  ‘Well, no – not now. What about Monday: it’s Christmas Eve? You know, just for a bit. For tea?’

  Margaret could feel her cheeks turning red. ‘Won’t your mom mind?’

  ‘No, she’ll be pleased. We don’t have much company.’

  ‘Yes, all right then.’ And she dared to smile properly at him for the first time.

  ‘Oh, good!’ Fred seemed really pleased. He told her his address in Washington Street. ‘See you then – in the afternoon?’

  Thirty-Five

  It was already dark when Margaret went round to the Tolleys’ house. It was a back house off a yard off Washington Street, very like her own, but that didn’t make her any less nervous. Her hand was clammy as she raised it to knock on the door.

  Fred opened it almost at once, and in the dim light she could see his grin. At home, he seemed less edgy and there was an excitement about him.

  ‘ ’Ello – come in! We’re all ’ere.’

  Behind him a woman and two children were peering round trying to see the visitor, standing near the table, which to her seemed stacked with food. An anxious pang passed through her. The cooking at home! She had peeled a pan of spuds for Peggy to boil and there was leftover stew. Just for once Peggy Loach would have to do something for herself.

  ‘Bring her in, Fred,’ Mrs Tolley instructed. ‘Don’t leave the poor wench on the doorstep – you’re letting the heat out.’

  And Margaret stepped into the cosiest room she had seen in a long time.

  ‘Mom, this is Margaret,’ Fred said shyly. ‘This is our mom – and this is our Jean, and Bobby.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, dear,’ Mrs Tolley said. She had a light, gentle voice and Margaret could see immediately that Fred must have favoured his father, as he looked nothing like her. Mrs Tolley was small and frail as a bird, with black curly hair, brown eyes and sallow skin. Bobby, who was seven, took after her in looks, but Fred and Jean were skinny, long-legged and hollow-eyed, with pale-brown hair. Much, much later, Margaret would see those looks reproduced in her daughter Joanne.

  ‘Come and sit down and we’ll have our tea,’ Mrs Tolley said. ‘The kettle’s on the boil.’

  She seemed desperately keen to please and to make the evening into a little party.

  ‘Here y’are . . .’ Fred pulled out a chair for her and Margaret said, ‘Ta’, as the others scrambled eagerly to the table and the plates of bread and butter, pot of jam and a fruitcake, everything laid out nicely on willow-patterned china. They seemed excited over the Christmas celebration as well.

  Jean put her hand to her mouth and hissed from be
hind it, ‘There’s jelly for afters, as well!’ Margaret liked Jean, who had plaits and big gappy teeth and seemed to be a chatterbox.

  She gazed round the room, amazed. Her father’s house was so neglected and dismal. Her mother’s old crocks were mostly broken now and the rooms were bare of anything but the few essentials. Their living-room table was covered by a stained oilcloth and there was nothing about the room to make it homely. But the Tolleys’ downstairs room was warm and cosy that evening, with lots of things to look at, and the table was spread with a white cloth.

  The range was alight, heating a big kettle from which Mrs Tolley was brewing tea in a big brown pot. The walls were painted pale blue and there was a picture of a ship on one wall. She saw the shadowy shapes where there had been other pictures and wondered where they had gone. Only much later did she realize that Mrs Tolley must have pawned them.

  On one end of the mantelpiece was what must have been a wedding photograph, slipped in alongside ornaments and candlesticks and jugs, and in the middle stood a brass carriage clock. In pride of place at the other end a framed portrait looked down on them of a thin, hollow-eyed man, smart and upstanding in his RAF uniform, and Margaret knew she was seeing Fred’s dead father. The floor was softened by two colourful rugs, and brightening the backs of the two armchairs were strips of crimson cloth serving as antimacassars. Draped from the corners of the room were paper streamers crossing in the middle and someone had pinned a star, cut from yellow paper, at the point where they crossed.

  Most fascinating of all to Margaret, though, was the small table close to the window with its crimson curtains, on which sat a cage containing two green budgerigars, which kept making cheerful chattering noises.

  ‘Go and see ’em if yer want,’ Jean said, noticing Margaret’s fascination. ‘That’s Wally and Flo.’

  ‘Save it for after your tea,’ Mrs Tolley said, bringing the pot to the table. ‘It’ll be cold else.’