‘What the hell are you doing?’ shouted Sarah.
Satish crouched under the window ledge and then sprang up, aiming a few shots into the street. Cai threw open the wardrobe and hauled out a jumper, pointing his gun at it.
‘Wankers!’ Sarah said, checking the door.
Satish got the record player in his sights and squeezed off a couple of rounds. Cai leapt onto the bed and then sat down hard on it. Satish remembered that: Hutch jumping on the car in the intro sequence.
‘Just get out! Get out!’ Sarah howled at them then, quieter, to Satish, ‘You just bloody get out!’
Behind her, Mandy was corpsing, looking at Satish, and then looking away. The boys retreated a safe distance, then both lifted their guns once more – simultaneous, Satish felt warm with it, and fired one last time. They clattered downstairs, turning to each other as they reached the sitting room, landing there for want of a better place. As he entered, Satish could hear his mother talking.
‘Of course the children will eat them! Satish loves them. Satish, don’t you love your chakli?’
Satish’s mood flattened. He wished he’d stayed to fight with the girls. Most of all, he wished that Cai had. Instead, his friend was beside him, and Satish wondered whether there’d be a price to pay for this later on. He answered his mother with careful neutrality: ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘He does not suppose so. He loves them! Takes them from the kitchen all the time when I am making them. They are a lovely snack.’
Miss Bissett gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sure they are lovely,’ she said, ‘but they’re not British food, are they? Do let’s remember this is a particularly British celebration.’
‘I live here. I am British now. She’s my Queen too.’ There was a shifting in the room. Sima looked at the floor. Above them, Satish could hear movement as Mandy and Sarah’s performance resumed. Even as his abdominal muscles crunched, he sensed that the conversation had moved beyond food and even felt, though this may have been a retro-fitted response, an untrustworthy memory, that his mother had been quite clever. With those final four words, she had occupied the territory of patriotism. Mrs Miller, hostess and mediator of disputes, stepped in.
‘Of course she is, Neeta. You say they’re crispy snacks for the kids? Looking at this list, there’s lots for everyone already, so if the children really don’t like them, there’s plenty more to eat. It’s another reference to the Empire, really, isn’t it?’ This to Mrs Tominey, who smiled noncommittally. In the chair by the window, Satish’s mum looked down at her lap.
‘Are you happy with that, Verity? Lots of English food, like your lovely fruit cake, and some more … cosmopolitan contributions, too?’
Miss Bissett pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m sure that sort of thing is very appreciated in your household, Neeta, but it seems an odd dish to have at a Silver Jubilee party. I suppose it doesn’t matter, really. Add it to the list.’
The ensuing silence was deftly handled by Mrs Miller, who set about filling teacups and recirculating the biscuits. Satish, feeling hot and weak, turned to Cai. ‘This is boring, let’s go back upstairs.’
Later, in the sanctuary of her own kitchen, Satish’s mum was to rail against the lot of them.
‘I’ve taught History, remember!’ she harangued Satish, when his dad had heard enough and retired to the lounge. ‘“Tribute from the Empire” indeed. I know what was going on in that Empire! You need to know, too. Do they even bother to …? Bloody coronation chicken! I will not touch it! Not one mouthful! And you—’ catching Satish as he was shuffling towards the kitchen door, and pointing a wooden spoon at him for emphasis – ‘You shouldn’t either!’
Chapter 6
Satish sleeps late, and when he wakes the house is quiet. He tries to guess the time from that silence, from the quality of light on his eyelids, and the messages his hungry body is sending him. When he opens his eyes, the clock confirms it: ten past eleven.
Hanging up on the wardrobe is the T-shirt Asha gave him for Diwali. It’s another of her attempts to modernise him. He likes it well enough, but he needed it explained. It’s khaki, with a row of medals printed on the chest. On the back, it says ‘Chief’.
‘Chief?’
‘Yeah. The Kaiser Chiefs. You know …’
‘Oh, yes.’ He didn’t know.
‘Go on. Put it on.’
He’d come downstairs in it and she’d howled, hiding her head in a sofa cushion.
‘No, Papa! God!’
‘Asha …’
‘I can’t believe …’ She went over to him. ‘Not with cords. You wear it with jeans! And not like that, tucked in! Pull it out.’
Satish did as bidden. The T-shirt hung sloppy over his hips, but she seemed happier. He wonders now whether Maya left it out for him, or Asha herself. She might be contrite after last night’s discovery of the cigarette: contrite, or sulky. He puts it on.
After breakfast he sets off. The town slips around him, and he passes through it at one remove. The pavements are busy with buggies, and his progress is slow. He stands aside, smiles politely, and tries not to make eye contact because he needs to think. He’s working up a script.
Between the wine shop and the hair salon there’s a cut-through, a covered passageway used for fag breaks by shop assistants and hairdressers. There’s no one there now though, and it’s dark and private. Satish faces away from the street. He leans against a wall and mutters to himself.
‘I’m surprised you thought it appropriate,’ he says. ‘I was surprised you thought … I was taken aback when you …’
On the ground there’s a scattering of cigarette butts. They’re soft underfoot.
‘No, that would be out of the question … To be honest, I was disappointed that you found it necessary to call my home … Well, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that …’
Ridiculous. This is language from a business letter. Why can’t he get this right?
‘Given what you know of the events of that day … Do I really have to remind you that …’ His voice echoes back to him in the confined space. He checks the street behind him; shoppers move across the passageway entrance, framed for a moment in forward motion, eyes forward too. They’re oblivious to him. Then: ‘You and I are friends. What the hell were you thinking?’
When he enters the wine shop, Colette is at the back, squatting down to refill a low shelf. He takes in her tight top, the way her too-short skirt rides up her thighs, and tests himself for a sexual response, as he has to with Colette from time to time. No: she’s never quite stopped being his mate’s kid sister. She’s looking like a child today as well, pigtails wonkily erect at the sides of her head; only when he is closer can he see the lines around her eyes. She rises, her polite customer-service face already forming its greeting, then she recognises him.
‘Satish!’ He’s gripped in a bear hug, her cheek squashed to his chest. He lets her do it, doesn’t respond. After a moment she loosens her hold and looks up at him. ‘You’re really pissed off, aren’t you?’
‘I’m a little surprised, I have to admit.’
‘It was a surprise for me, too. Andrew Ford! After all these years!’
‘How did he find you?’
She flinches and pulls away. ‘Don’t be cross.’
‘Why did you do it? You, of all people, know better than that.’
‘Oh, don’t be cross. Please, Satish.’
He can’t let her get to him. He looks down at the floor: rough wooden boards, a filament of straw. Billy Bragg is playing softly on the shop’s stereo system. The phone call: she told Maya about the photo.
‘You called Maya.’
‘We often talk. What’s the problem?’ She looks up at him. Big eyes.
‘Don’t be disingenuous. You know what the problem is.’
Footsteps interrupt them. It’s Oscar, Colette’s boss, coming from the storage rooms. He inserts his head through the doorway, leaning forward in
to the shop with his hands anchored either side of the frame, his long hair falling over his face. He rocks there, back and forward.
‘’Right, mate?’
‘Yes thanks, Oscar. You?’
‘Yeah, fine. You want a cuppa, Colette?’
She looks him slowly up and down. Satish knows that look, and he pities Oscar. ‘Cheers,’ she says, dismissing him, and he rocks back out of view.
‘Total pash,’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve started smelling his coat.’
‘Don’t change the subject!’ Satish’s voice sounds strident in the quiet of the shop. ‘You shouldn’t have called Maya about it. You’ve placed me in a difficult position.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’ Then, quieter: ‘Does she not know?’
‘You know she doesn’t.’
‘Then I’m sorry. I’ve made things hard for you.’
‘Yes, you have.’ Billy Bragg’s guitar fades, and in the silence between songs Colette reaches up to touch Satish on the right arm, just below his shoulder, and he schools himself not to smack her hand away.
‘I’m sorry. Really sorry,’ she says. Then the shop door bangs open, rammed by a buggy, and a customer struggles in.
The toddler is parked equidistant between two displays of bottles, its mother’s instinctive geometry planting it so both are just beyond fingertip reach. Satish watches Colette as she works. She is asked for recommendations, and as he listens he smiles, despite himself. She’s doing it by the book: two suggestions only, she told him once, an old retailers’ trick.
‘One choice and they feel bullied, more than three and they’re confused. So you go easy on them – two choices, and they’ll buy the one you’re most enthusiastic about, even if it goes over their budget.’ He can hear her patter now.
‘Actually, how about this one? It’s a couple of quid more than you wanted to pay, but it’s gorgeous. Really passionate producer, cracking wines. You get more for your money from Chile, and it’s a perfect match for the food.’
She holds the bottle flat, label upwards. There’s a flourish to her movements that Satish rather likes; she puts each bottle on display, presents it like a temptation. You don’t have to take this from me, she is saying, but look how delightful it is.
He thinks of the lines he hasn’t used: what were you thinking? It’s a decent question. What was she thinking? She’s mercurial but not insensitive. He’s trying to work this out when the question slips away from him, just like that, and he’s staring at a line of bottles, overcome by his lassitude. Diazepam’s great for that, he thinks, it keeps you in the moment.
He can hear the sound of Colette’s transaction finishing, the door opening and closing. He is held by the luxury of inertia. He doesn’t move until he hears her voice.
‘Satish?’ she’s saying. ‘Satish? Are you OK?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He sniffs and shakes his head.
She’s looking at him, holding his gaze a fraction longer than he’s comfortable with. He rouses himself.
‘Why did you call Maya? What were you thinking?’
‘It’d be all right, you know. We’ve all grown up. Everyone’s different now.’
‘It will never be all right. We may have grown up. Whether we’re any different is another matter.’ Then he realises what she’s said, and he can hear his voice go higher as he asks: ‘What do you mean, “everyone”? Who else have you told?’
‘Well, I thought I’d just put out some feelers. See if people were up for it.’
‘Feelers! Who?’
She starts to turn away but he stops her, grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘Who have you told about this, Colette?’
‘Don’t, Satish!’ The fabric of her top snaps out of his grip and she retreats behind the counter. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I know Dad can do it, and Cai might. They don’t count, do they, Dad and Cai?’
‘They do. Who else?’
She rubs at her arms. ‘I haven’t found Mandy yet.’
‘No Mandy?’ And there’s an unpoliced little fall of disappointment.
‘No. But I’ve found Sarah. I don’t know if she could even do it. Satish, she’s got this tiny baby and he’s ill, and she’s desperate about him, you can tell.’
‘Don’t even try it!’
But she does try it, palms up, all trust-me, leaning over the counter towards him to make her point. ‘But that’s what I’m saying. She’s different. Everyone’s different now.’
‘People don’t change.’
‘You have. Think about that.’
‘I’m going. Don’t mention this to me again, please.’
As he turns for the door, Oscar enters carrying a steaming mug, its faded design proclaiming: 1994: First Free Election In South Africa.
‘Tea, Colette,’ he says.
Colette ignores him and shouts after Satish. ‘You have changed!’
The old-fashioned bell at the top of the door tings as Satish leaves. He hears Colette shout out: ‘Living well is the best revenge!’
And he hears something else too, as the door bangs behind him and the next song begins. It’s the opening glissando of Dancing Queen.
Chapter 7
The generations had tussled about the music for the street party. In the end, the adults had made a small concession. During the meal, music from the Fifties, the only appropriate music, insisted Miss Bissett, would be playing on the PA system. This seemed to galvanise the parents; Cai complained to Satish about an interminable Saturday afternoon spent listening to the 78s his dad had hauled down from the loft. But after the meal, when the tables were cleared away, the kids would be allowed to play their own tape. They were invited to make a suitable compilation for the occasion. Thrilled with the responsibility, they held their own Music Meeting the Friday before the Jubilee in Mandy’s sitting room.
David Soul had been an early, controversial choice; Cai had argued the case against by grabbing Mandy’s single, placing it in front of his face and whining, in falsetto: ‘Tomatoes and onions! Ooh, baby!’
‘What’s your problem? He’s Hutch! You love Starsky and Hutch!’ Sarah was fierce in her defence.
‘He’s not Hutch,’ offered Satish. ‘He plays Hutch.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Cai. ‘And he’s not going to be on the tape.’
While Mandy recovered her record from Cai, Sarah loyally jotted the contentious name down, reading it aloud as she did so, a sideways shot Cai chose to ignore. Satish’s sister put in a word for the Dead End Kids (‘Thank you for that suggestion, Sima,’ said Sarah, her pen immobile). Mandy added Abba, and Cai countered with Roxy Music, while the Stranglers were put up against Bony M. When Sarah listed David Essex and 10cc without any reference to her companions, the fragile civility of horse-trading broke down once more.
‘Get it!’
Cai lunged across to Sarah, grabbed the notebook and flung it to Satish. As the girls headed for him, Satish ripped out the offending page and stuffed it in his mouth. His tongue worked against it as Sarah whacked him on the chest, overbalancing him onto the settee, but it was less soluble than he’d expected. Mandy grasped the protruding ends and started to tug.
‘What on earth?’ Mandy’s mum had come into the room. ‘What are you doing?’
The others straightened up. Satish pulled the paper out of his mouth. It peeled off his tongue dryly. Cai murmured, ‘Sorry, Mrs Hobbes,’ and she tutted at them.
‘I’ve done some flapjacks,’ she told them. ‘Ten minutes. In the kitchen.’
When she left, Sarah reached out to rescue her notebook. ‘Splat-eesh,’ she hissed.
‘Spaz,’ he returned.
‘Splatish’ wasn’t making so much of an appearance any more, and when the name did surface Satish found himself almost inured to its impact. Sticks and stones, he told himself. It was a nickname thought up by one of the Chandler brothers during his early months in Cherry Gardens. At first, Paul had called him ‘Diarrhoea’ – a little skid mark on the whiteness of Bou
rne Heath. Then Stephen, the younger and brighter of the two, came up with ‘Splatish’, and the pun had stuck for a long while, lingering until it was finally neutralised. In that sense it was like ‘Paki’, a term used so frequently in the daily hustle of the playground that Satish had been mystified when his casual mention of the term had seen his dad barrelling in to the Head’s office to complain. This tactless intervention, which threatened so much of the painstaking work Satish had done to shore himself up socially, would not be allowed to happen again. His job was to parry the blows, or absorb them. He didn’t need a protector.
Later they sat at Mandy’s kitchen counter, flapjacks in hand, glasses of milk lined up in front of them. Mandy’s mum’s flapjacks came soused in sweetness. Satish had once asked her what she put into them to make them so nice. ‘Golden syrup,’ she’d said. What else? he’d asked. ‘More golden syrup,’ she’d told him.
The can was still out on the side. Satish loved the picture of the lion and the bees, the old-fashioned look of the tin. He reached for it, dug his little finger into the notch around the lid and pulled it along, collecting a build-up of syrup. He popped the finger into his mouth and sucked. Cai was talking.
‘So I’ve got two more to get, Battleships and Rally Cars,’ he was telling Mandy. ‘And then I’ll have four gift cards, and then Satish will get one more, and he’ll give me his gift card. So that’s five, and I can get a free pack. I’m going to get World Record Holders.’
Sima dropped down from her bar stool.
‘I’m going home,’ she announced.
Jubilee Page 5
