My Daughter, My Mother

by Annie Murray

  It was good to hear someone else’s voice, someone outside the situation, Sooky thought as she put the phone down that morning. It had been a desperately sad week. For all those days, her heart had felt like a stone.

  They’d kept Roopinder in for observation, but she was now recuperating upstairs. She was very low and weepy, and while Sooky did her best to keep her company, she could only stand so much of it. Her mother had been curled into herself with grief ever since Bhoji’s call. Sooky was upset – for all of them; for the horrific way Nirmal and his son had died, and for his daughters and Bhoji. She knew how much Nirmal had meant to her mother. She’d loved him like no other relative – and he had been her connection with home. Now Meena seemed so lost and sad. On top of that, no one could stop thinking about the situation in India and all the anguish and rage that the events had caused.

  Sooky had been to college on Tuesday this week and it had been a relief to get away from the grief-stricken atmosphere of the house. She realized most people weren’t taking too much notice of what was going on with the Sikhs in India, and this both angered her – such a bloodbath! Imagine if it happened in England, the uproar there would be! – and was an escape from thinking about it all, just for a while. One thing she did do, which was unusual, was to go to college dressed in Punjabi clothes. Putting on jeans, fashion clothes, and leaving her head bare had felt wrong that day. She couldn’t work all of it out emotionally, but she just felt she had to be a Sikh and show she was a Sikh: Sukhdeep Kaur Baidwan. She wasn’t the most religious of people, but it was part of where she belonged.

  She went to find Priya, who was with her cousins by the TV in the front room. Everyone was taking it in turns to look after them all this week – even Dad. To her surprise she’d come down on Tuesday, ready for college, to find him on his hands and knees on the rug, one arm swinging merrily in front of his face as he pretended to be an elephant. Smiling, she had stood and watched for a moment.

  Khushwant had looked up at her, his hair all rumpled. He wasn’t dressed for work and she knew he was doing this to allow her to go out.

  ‘How the elephant got its trunk,’ he said rather bashfully.

  ‘Go on,’ Sooky said, leaning on the doorframe. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’ It was a relief to laugh about something.

  ‘This is much harder than going to work,’ he grinned up at her. He took in, suddenly, what she was wearing. She had toyed with wearing a bright orange-and-yellow suit, but that felt wrong too. She had put on one in a sober green.

  ‘You’re going to college?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Dressed like that?’

  Again, she inclined her head.

  ‘Okay.’ He had smiled suddenly, with understanding. ‘I see. You look nice.’

  Tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  This morning the three children were glued to a cartoon. Too much TV, she thought. They watch too much.

  ‘Priya, Amardeep, Jasmeet – shall I read you a story? Some rhymes?’

  Jasmeet, who was standing quite close to the TV, shook her head, bewitched by what was on the screen. Amardeep shouted ‘No!’ very decisively. Priya, looking torn, came across and settled on Sooky’s lap, sliding around on the silky material. She picked out her favourite book of nursery rhymes.

  Sooky read ‘I do not like thee, Doctor Fell’ and ‘Sing a Song o’ Sixpence’ . . . Her mind wandered as she did so. The image of Nirmal’s burning necklace wouldn’t leave her mind. She knew it wouldn’t leave her mother’s, either. Meena didn’t weep a great deal; she just seemed winded, wordless, as if whatever was going on inside her had to be worked out in silence.

  For want of a nail, a shoe was lost . . . Priya was rocking to the rhythms on her lap, pointing at the pictures.

  For want of Khalistan . . . Off toddled her mind again, then stalled. What was it all for – Khalistan? For safety, for a place we Sikhs can call our own.

  For want of Khalistan, a temple was occupied.

  For want of government control, a temple was desecrated . . .

  For that desecration, a Prime Minister was gunned down.

  For the murder of a Prime Minister . . .

  For that murder, thousands more . . . And angry demonstrations and hatred and more anger . . .

  And even before that, death upon death in the spiral of violence leading up to it: Hindus killing Sikhs, Sikhs killing Hindus . . . Horror upon horror, for want of, for want of . . . what? Her mind looped and bucked, could not cope with more.

  ‘Come on.’ She stood up decisively. ‘We’re all going to the park. Turn off the TV.’

  To her amazement they obeyed. Auntie obviously sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. ‘We’ll get some fresh air, and then this afternoon,’ she told Priya, ‘your friend Amy is coming round!’

  Joanne expected Sooky to answer the door, but instead it was opened by her mom. In that instant she realized that she had no idea what to call her. She had forgotten Sooky’s actual surname, apart from the Kaur bit.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said awkwardly.

  Sooky’s mom looked different: tired and thinner. Of course she would, Joanne thought. There’d been so much bad news. She was dressed in pale mauve today. But she raised a faint smile, said ‘Hello’ and stood back to let Joanne in. She pointed to the front room and said, in English, ‘Wait here, please.’ Joanne realized that she probably understood quite a lot.

  The room was very tidy, no toys scattered on the floor. Joanne heard Sooky’s mom call up the stairs, ‘Sukhdeep!’ Then words she couldn’t understand. She thought what a nice voice the woman had, smooth and gentle.

  A moment later she heard Sooky coming downstairs, telling Priya to hurry.

  ‘Hello!’ She appeared, smiling. ‘Sorry – I had to change her clothes. She got in such a mess with her lunch.’

  Amy went up and solemnly kissed Priya’s cheek, and Joanne saw Sooky’s mom, who had come into the doorway, give another slight smile.

  They settled with cups of tea, but this time Sooky’s mom did not stay in the room. Sooky said she had gone up to sit with her sister-in-law for a bit, with her kids up there too. Roopinder’s mother was due to arrive later.

  The two of them sat on the floor close to their daughters and some toys. Sooky talked about the baby and how cut up her brother was about it. She seemed relieved to be able to tell someone. Then at last she said, ‘Now, tell me about you. How’s your husband – and everything at home?’

  Joanne sighed. ‘Well, it’s okay. I mean okay in the sense that there’s nothing angry or violent about him, not like before. I suppose I just never thought he would take so long to get better. To tell you the truth, I’m really glad to have somewhere to get out to today. I have to get out sometimes. The thing is, he can’t cope. He follows me round everywhere. All he really wants is for me to sit on the sofa with him, hour after hour – as if the sofa is an island and everywhere else is a sea full of man-eating sharks or something!’

  Sooky laughed at this.

  ‘I can see why his mom was keen to get him out of her house. We’ve hardly seen her since! I suppose eventually he’ll go back to work, but it’s going to be a slow business. He’ll have to go back part-time at first, I think.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘It’s his business.’ Joanne took a sip of the sweet, milky tea. Sooky offered her ginger biscuits and some spicy snacks. ‘Ooh, I’d rather have those.’ Joanne pointed at the bowl of spicy bits. ‘Thanks. Yeah, it was his dad’s little business – he inherited it sort of thing, so he’s his own boss.’

  Sooky’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘He’s really been in a bad state, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Joanne softened. She had been talking rather jokily, not showing her real sympathy for Dave. ‘Poor old sausage. I love him to bits really, even after all this. It’s terrible seeing him the way he is, but I think he’ll get there. I just feel like everyone’s mother at the mome
nt. How’s your mom? She looks really worn down by it.’

  ‘Yes – well that, and my brother. At least it’s taken Raj’s mind off politics for a bit. The thing is . . .’ she said reflectively, ‘one thing I really realize through this is how much my brother loves his wife.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice, although . . .’ Joanne whispered, ‘I thought you didn’t get on with her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. She wasn’t very nice to me at all. But somehow everything feels a bit better. You know, she asked me to go to the doctor with her when she was worried and now she’s different – a bit softer – just nicer.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  Sooky grinned. ‘Let’s hope it lasts when she’s back on her feet.’ She nodded at the girls. ‘Look at these two!’

  Amy and Priya had pulled out a cardboard box full of odd silky bits of clothing in a variety of colours. They were piling them all on, wrapping things round them and giggling wildly at each other, and this set their mothers off laughing too.

  ‘Heaven help us in ten years or so,’ Joanne said.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Sooky laughed. ‘Teenagers!’

  Their eyes met, each warmed by the thought that in ten years’ time they would like still to be friends.

  Sixty-Four

  Margaret went to every single one of the Second World War reminiscence sessions at the library that autumn. They stopped running in mid-December, with promises of more in the New Year.

  Alan was there at every one too, and between them they made new friends in the group. There was a little party at the end of the last one, with people bringing nibbles along and the librarians made some mulled wine.

  They barely had to discuss it. Instead of going to the library, Margaret went out anyway the next week and met Alan at the pub.

  All those weeks they had met twice, three times some weeks and talked endlessly, gone for little walks in places where it felt safe: around the block from Alan’s works, or in the dark around Kings Heath. They shared all their memories of their evacuation experience. It seemed to Margaret that they shared everything, finding out more and more about each other’s lives. Anything she needed to say she could, to Alan, and he listened. He never dismissed her or turned away. Fred had never been able to talk or listen much. He was locked deep into himself. He didn’t like talking about feelings in any way. Margaret, who had already had plenty of practice in denying her emotions, continued to do so throughout her marriage. But now everything was different. It felt like a huge discovery.

  ‘I just never knew,’ she said to Alan one day as they walked along arm in arm. ‘I never had any idea it could be like this. People talk about love and all that, but I sort of thought they were just pretending. All those feelings everyone goes on about in the films and that . . . Now I know they’re real!’

  ‘Oh, love,’ Alan would say, sounding as pleased as punch. He leaned round to kiss her. ‘I know just what you mean, though. It feels like a miracle to me, finding you at my time of life!’

  Margaret walked round in a haze of happiness. She wore her new clothes, found herself speaking out more, even sang around the house. Singing – me! she thought. The only songs she knew were a few hymns from going to church in Buckley, and she hummed the bits she couldn’t remember the words to. There were songs they’d learned in the school there too: ‘Greensleeves’ and the one about Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all. And a few Beatles numbers . . . She made sure no one else was in when she started warbling away.

  She knew Joanne and Karen had noticed. Joanne had been over a few times with Dave and Amy. The lad seemed to be getting himself together again, she saw to her relief. Maybe Joanne going off like that had shocked him out of it? Who knew? Nothing was ever simply right and wrong – not like she was brought up to think. There was always more to things.

  And every day she dreamed about Alan, about being in his arms, while she cleaned the house and made Fred’s tea and all the things she’d always done – well, not everything. Not that. She and Fred had twin beds now. There hadn’t been any of that to speak of for years. Not that she’d got to the stage of that with Alan, either. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. Sometimes she burned with it, and knew he did too. But there was nowhere much to go, and much as she loved kissing and cuddling with him, that was another stage. It meant facing up to things, and Margaret was old-fashioned enough to believe that that was something you did only when you were married. And getting married to Alan would mean owning up to everyone. It would mean trouble, it would mean divorce – oh, heavens above! It was so much nicer just to go on as they were. And being the gentleman he was, Alan never pushed it. She was the one who was already married, after all. He didn’t want to be the one to force anything.

  ‘I’d do anything for you, Margaret,’ he’d say sometimes. ‘Anything at all. Even if I have to wait forever.’

  The last time he’d said it they were standing out in the dark, arms round each other. She was smitten with guilt. Surely she should be prepared to go through all these things for him? All the things she’d spent her life condemning in other people: marital break-ups, affairs, stepping out of line. What would her daughters say? What about Fred? She trembled inside, her heart sinking. She was far too much of a coward for all this.

  It was the week before Christmas. That Thursday was the last time she would be able to meet Alan for some time – at least until Fred was back at work after the holiday.

  The tree was up in the front room and Karen had bought a wreath for the front door. She’d come home with some fancy new decorations and hung them round the house, as well as paper streamers. Karen, Margaret realized suddenly, seemed full of it too. She had started talking about a man called Geoff whom she’d met on her course.

  When Joanne called in, Margaret brought out some chocolate decorations for Amy to tie on the Christmas tree, keeping just one to eat. Margaret smiled, seeing her granddaughter’s wide eyes as they decorated the tree.

  ‘Have you written your letter to Father Christmas?’ she asked her. ‘Sent it up the chimney?’

  Amy frowned, puzzled.

  ‘You’d have a job in our house, with the gas fire in the way!’ Joanne said.

  ‘Oh, I expect he’ll be happy if you just leave him a note in the fireplace with a mince pie to eat,’ Margaret said. ‘Father Christmas likes pies. And a carrot for the reindeer.’

  Amy was tickled by this. ‘Carrot!’ she giggled. ‘Mommy put carrot!’

  ‘Oh, I s’pose so,’ Joanne agreed.

  ‘She’s talking more now, isn’t she?’ Margaret said. Amy had recently had her second birthday.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Joanne said.

  Margaret thought Joanne looked rather pale and strained.

  ‘Things all right, are they, love?’

  As Joanne turned, Margaret saw her surprised look. Was it such a new thing, Margaret wondered, that she should notice something about her children, should think to ask? Where had she been all these Valium-stifled years?

  ‘Not too bad,’ Joanne said. ‘I mean, it’s not bad like it was before. He’s all right – he’s being really good. He just needs me a lot, that’s all.’

  Margaret was at a loss for what to say. ‘I expect it’ll pass,’ she brought out eventually. Joanne seemed reassured by this.

  ‘Yeah, I expect so.’ She looked directly across at her mother. ‘What about you? How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Oh.’ She was about to be evasive – they didn’t have these conversations normally – but pulled herself up. ‘I’m not too bad, really. I’ve cut down on the pills, slowly. Very slowly, but I’m on much less than I was. I never feel a hundred per cent – but much better, yes.’

  Joanne smiled and Margaret saw her little girl as she had been, pink-cheeked, sunny. She experienced a pang of deep sorrow. How much had she missed in all this numb time?

  ‘That’s great,’ Joanne said. ‘It must be really difficult after all this time. But you look better. Dad seems a bit happier too.’
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  ‘Does he?’ Margaret said. Guilt washed through her. What the hell had being married to her been like for him? Married to zombie-woman. Maybe that was why he was the way he was.

  Later that afternoon, once Joanne had gone and before the others got back, Margaret sat by the fire in the front room with a cup of tea. She put on the Christmas-tree lights and it all looked lovely and cosy. Karen, organized as ever, had already wrapped a few presents and laid them under the tree, and the gold stripes in the paper glowed with the colours of the lights.

  Margaret sat and looked round her. She had lived in this house since just after Karen was born. Every inch of it – the lay of every board, every bulge in the walls, the squeak or rattle of every door handle – was almost as familiar to her as her own body. She thought back to when the girls were small, getting them to sleep of a night, having them play outside in the garden; paddling pools and leaf-sweeping and snowmen; Fred coming in from work; and meal upon hundreds of meals when they all sat round the table in the back room. Then Christmas, each year with the tree in the same spot in the window, lights gleaming welcomingly as you came home and saw it shining behind the nets.

  For the first time she faced up to what she was doing. Alan! Could she and Alan go on like this, meeting up, courting – for that was what it was – and never decide anything? Was that the right thing to do? Or should she own up, tell Fred, leave all this, her home, everything she was used to?

  She was so filled with panic that she couldn’t carry on sitting. She leapt up from the chair and walked back and forth across the little room.

  ‘I’ve been in a dream world,’ she said out loud.

  She thought about poor old Fred. He hadn’t been a bad husband. He’d earned his wages, brought them home and not drunk them away, like some. He’d just been there. That was all. Not much more, but not less, and he had always been much the same, whatever she had been like. Even if there was nothing much left between them, he didn’t deserve to be left, to be betrayed with broken promises.