‘It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s two minutes away.’
‘No, I’m late. You don’t understand!’ Aleisha threw herself into the car, and Zac drove her home in silence. All Aleisha could hear was the drumming of her pulse.
PART VIII
BELOVED
by Toni Morrison
Chapter 27
ALEISHA
THE WHOLE HOUSE WAS darkness. All the curtains were closed. Aleisha felt her way up the wall and found the light switch. There was no one around.
‘Mum!’ Aleisha called. Thankfully there was only silence in return. Leilah must be asleep; maybe she hadn’t even noticed her lateness.
She dumped her stuff in the living room, pulling the latest library book, Beloved, out of her bag and bringing it upstairs with her. She became aware of a noise, a creaking of floorboards. Was Leilah pacing? Her door was ajar.
Aleisha walked cautiously towards it, and she could hear a low, groaning sobbing sound. Her heart sank. She could feel it solidify at the very pit of her stomach.
‘Mum?’ Aleisha said again, not expecting a reply. She gently pushed the door open. Her eyes adjusted gradually to the darkness and she saw a shadow huddled in the corner of the room, rocking backwards and forwards. She turned the light on.
Illuminated, Aleisha could see her mother’s room had been destroyed. It was as though someone had gone through every drawer searching for something. Her clothes littered every blank space of carpet, her alarm clock, which hadn’t been used for years, was on the floor, face up, glass cracked, and every cupboard door was wide open.
There was Leilah, slumped in the corner, her head in her hands. She was crying; her shoulders moved slightly, shaking.
The room was hot. Filled with stale air, Aleisha could smell Leilah’s day. Every moment of it. And she could tell it hadn’t been happy.
She stood there, frozen, watching her mother cry, not moving an inch closer, too afraid to find out what it was this time, knowing deep down it was all her fault.
Eventually Leilah spoke. Quietly. So quietly that Aleisha wasn’t sure she’d caught every word, until their meaning eventually sank in:
‘He never came home.’
‘Who didn’t?’ This had happened before. She was talking about Dean. The day he left, with his bags, his things all boxed up, and he never came back. And now Leilah was reliving it all. Remembering it as if it were today.
‘Aidan,’ Leilah whispered. ‘He didn’t come home.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Aleisha snapped. ‘You were probably asleep. He came home just after I left for the library this morning. I’ve been out longer than I should have been. It’s my fault. I should have been home hours ago.’
‘No, Aleisha.’ Leilah looked up now. Her eyes were red, but alert. ‘After you left, he never came home. I waited. I was awake all day. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to pick up the phone to tell you but I didn’t want to call. In case he wanted to get hold of me. I couldn’t find my mobile. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Mum, don’t worry,’ Aleisha said softly, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
‘I don’t know what to do.’
Aleisha’s heart began to race again. Her mind was jumping forward a million steps and she had to pull herself back, had to try to think rationally. Aleisha knew there would be an explanation. There had to be. Aidan wasn’t the type to be out of the house for a long time. He always had a reason. Either that, or it was all Aleisha’s fault – she probably misread his Post-it notes, or misheard what he’d been saying. Did he have an extra shift at the mechanic’s? Or maybe there’d been a big delivery at the warehouse?
She had to calm Leilah down, otherwise she’d trick herself into panicking too. This had to be just a stupid misunderstanding.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and called Aidan. It rang. It rang. It rang. That was a good sign. It was on, and he wasn’t rejecting the call as soon as he saw it. The automated voicemail lady said, ‘Please leave a message after the tone.’
‘Aidan, where are you? Mum says you haven’t been home all day. Call me when you get this.’
In the kitchen, she made Leilah a cup of cold water. When Leilah was feeling restless, or scared, or angry, or stressed, a cup of ice-cold water often did the trick.
When she brought the glass up to Leilah, her mother hadn’t moved an inch. She didn’t take the cup from Aleisha, so she instead rested it carefully on the wooden floor beside her.
Leilah was unreachable.
Aleisha wandered out, needing some air, and went into Aidan’s room instead.
It was a complete mess. Aidan usually liked everything so tidy.
On his bedside table: a half-drunk energy drink. A pint of Stella. A stack of Martina Cole novels gathering dust – they had always been his favourites.
Then she spotted his phone, tucked underneath a pile of receipts on his desk. It was charging. She pressed the home button and it illuminated: 100 per cent battery, four missed calls: Al. Some text messages. Some more missed calls: Guy. Claris. Whoever that was.
Aidan never left the house without his phone. He always kept it on him on vibrate, even against the regulations at the warehouse, in case Mum called. In case Aleisha called. In case something happened.
She argued with herself, with the booming thought in her head that something wasn’t right. She knew Aidan was sensible; Aidan would never have left the house without his phone if he didn’t plan on being back soon.
He’d be back soon. Of course, he would be back soon.
Chapter 28
MUKESH
MUKESH WOKE WITH STIFF knees, an aching hip, and a stiff back. Today the pain was much worse, like the darkest depths of winter. He should have taken himself to bed at a reasonable time, but he’d become wrapped up in the story of the March sisters, excited to open the book, to step into their world, to find out what all the fuss was about. The warmth of the family – it felt as though they were inviting him in as a beloved guest too. After everything over the past few days, the fall-out with his girls, the reconciliation, the tumble that hurt his hip, his confidence taking a knock, that’s exactly what he was looking for.
Little Women was undoubtedly the book. It was the book he should have asked for at the library when he didn’t know what book to read.
As soon as he met the March sisters and Marmee, he knew why Naina and Priya had loved it so much. The girls – Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy – they were fun, imaginative, they lived in books and outside books. They cared for one another, looked after each other. And everything about Little Women spoke of Naina. Every page burned with her legacy, her spirit sprinkled through the sentences. Sadly the sisters’ dad was away at war, and their mother Marmee was looking after them all on her own, in America, Massachusetts – and beyond that, she was looking after and caring for so many other people too, helping out with the war effort, treating her neighbours with kindness and warmth, as well as bringing food for families who needed it at Christmas, helping her neighbours and friends. If Naina had still been here, she would have been just like Marmee; so happy to put her own needs and comfort second to that of others. With each page, he just imagined Naina, everywhere, around him.
He wanted to tell her that reading had helped him find something to pass the time, some way to connect with others, a reason to get out of bed and out of the house.
Naina would have got on with her life, like the matriarch of the March family, but Mukesh, ever since Naina left, he had shut himself away. He had let his daughters look after him, content with his discontented life. Mukesh took a deep breath. Until now, he thought to himself. Was he more like Marmee now than ever before? Yes. He was. He knew he was different. He was doing so much better now.
His stomach rumbled, the words about the Marches’ great big Christmas feast running from the pages into his fingertips and spreading through his body. He could smell the food, the piles of roast potatoes, the sweets and cakes too. He was thrown back to the Diwali dinner
s Naina had used to make: stacks of sweets, gulab jamun, barfi, mithai, everything he could ever want. They hadn’t had a Diwali dinner like that since she’d been gone. If they did celebrate together, it was usually just takeaways now. But, he resolved silently, today he was going to make a feast for his family – Priya and Rohini were coming over tonight for dinner. He was cooking for three. He thought of the March sisters, of Marmee – they oozed positivity, despite everything they were going through; they proved again and again that where there was a will, there was always a way.
He took a deep breath, and pushed himself up from his chair. He was going to make dosa. He could do this.
And the brilliant thing was that now he believed it too.
I’m so proud of you Mukesh, Naina whispered. Now, you better get shopping!
He didn’t need telling twice.
Mukesh made his way up the hill – it took him longer than normal, but not as long as he expected, considering his aches and pains. When he reached the high road, there were hordes of football fans with blue and white coloured scarves around their necks, and blue football shirts on. He only ever saw this many white faces in Wembley when there was a football match or a concert or something, walking everywhere, cars tooting them to get out the way. Mukesh kept as close to the buildings and the shops on his left as he could, trying to keep away so as not to be trampled down, though they just seemed to be singing cheerfully and waving and sploshing beer cans around, signalling a blue and white team win. When he finally found refuge in the shop, Nikhil greeted him.
‘What do you want today, Mukesh?’
‘I’m making something different! Dosa!’
‘Dosa! Are you sure you are ready?’
‘Mhmm,’ Mukesh sounded more confident than he felt. Dosa was his favourite meal. Naina used to prepare it for him every other Friday night. And when the girls were teenagers, always out gallivanting in the evenings, she would make it just for the two of them. When she made it for the whole family, she never had a chance to sit down and eat with them, as she could only make one dosa at a time. ‘Naina used to make the very best dosa you ever tasted and I really want to make them too. It won’t be the very best, but I hope I might make it quite nicely.’
‘Yes, Nainafoi made me them for my packed lunches sometimes.’
‘Did she?’ Mukesh beamed.
‘If she had leftovers. And if Mum needed help when she was working nightshifts.’
Naina always used to say making dosa was easy, but Mukesh knew she was wrong. Easy for her was like Everest for him.
‘Let me get all the ingredients for you. Wait here.’ Nikhil left his spot behind the counter and began to rummage around the shop at breakneck speed. Just watching him whizz by made Mukesh feel tired and out of breath. His heart was racing and he didn’t know if it was because he was stressed watching a youngster move so quickly, or because he was really absolutely completely awfully nervous about making dosa for Priya and Rohini.
He ran through the steps in his mind, as clearly as he could. Did he know how to make dosa? Did he know how to make it properly? As the images in his mind’s eye began to whirr through his brain, suddenly, looking around the shop, the products shimmied their way off the shelves, closing in on him, the bright colours of the different packets, the reds, the pinks, the blues, all blurred in his vision.
‘Nikhil!’ Mukesh called.
‘Yes, Mukesh?’
‘Mane paani joie che?’
‘Yes, one second. You need water right now?’
‘Ha, please, beta.’
Mukesh clasped his hand to his chest, his breathing laboured. Nikhil, in a flash, had pulled him up a chair that had been hiding behind the desk, and just as swiftly brought him a stainless-steel cup of cold water.
‘Bas.’
Mukesh sipped slowly.
He tried some of the yoga breathing that Vritti swore by. In, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out.
And eventually, breath by breath, he began to feel better. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t Nikhil’s. It was Naina’s. Reminding him he could do this.
Mukesh watched as the clock turned five. They weren’t here yet.
Mukesh watched as the clock ticked to five fifteen. They weren’t here yet.
Mukesh watched as the clock tocked …
The doorbell rang. Here they were!
Mukesh stood up more quickly than he could physically manage. He’d left his stomach on the chair, and his body walked off without it.
He opened the door, wiping his sweaty-nervous palms on his trousers.
Priya ran in, clasping To Kill a Mockingbird to her chest. His heart lifted like it was as light as air.
‘I love this book, Dada! I love Scout so much. I wish I could do adventurous things like her, sometimes.’
‘I thought you would, beta.’ He leaned over to kiss the top of her head as she wrapped her arms about him. ‘Besides, you have different kinds of adventures. All kinds!’
Priya squeezed him back, before running in to settle herself down on her usual chair, to continue reading. Naina had set this in motion, step by step, in small, intangible ways. Priya was reading a book he knew all about. He knew the world Priya was in right now. There was something magical in that – in sharing a world you have loved; allowing someone to see it through the same pair of spectacles you saw it through yourself.
Rohini put her arm around his shoulders, tentatively, pulling him back to the moment. He could tell with one eye she was scouting out the house, looking for the bits she could quickly tidy, and the bits she could add to her ‘nag list’ too, but as she began to open her mouth to speak, she closed it again with a sigh. ‘Hi Papa,’ she said. ‘How are you? I have bought some ingredients to make dinner.’
Mukesh shook his head. ‘No. It’s fine, Rohini, beti. I am making dinner. I have got all the ingredients.’
Rohini raised her eyebrows, visibly impressed.
Nikhil had googled the recipe for him and had written it out on the back of used and forgotten receipts. He’d stapled them in the correct order and they now sat on Mukesh’s kitchen counter. He’d already managed to make the filling, potatoes fried with jeera, methi, hing and raai, so softly cooked they were like a delicious stodgy lovely paste to pop in the middle. He felt like a chef: ‘Here’s some I made earlier.’
The sambal (he had cheated and had bought a sachet from Nikhil who said he wouldn’t tell anyone) was bubbling away, and the batter for the dosa themselves was already mixed. (He’d used a sachet again, but no one had the time or strength to actually grind the urud themselves. That is what Nikhil had said and Nikhil had let Mukesh in on a secret: even Naina had used the sachets as soon as they had been invented.)
‘All I need to do is fry the dosa!’
‘Dosa!’ Priya jumped up and down. It was like she was a 7 year old again.
He had managed it; he had achieved the impossible: he had made a dish that wasn’t comprised of mung beans or okra. It truly was an achievement. Rohini was stunned. She watched, in awe, as Mukesh almost successfully made the pancakes (almost, because he was a little impatient with them and they were a bit misshapen, soggy, broken up … but they tasted just the same).
‘Can I help?’ Rohini said, rolling her sleeves up.
‘No, no,’ Mukesh said. Rohini sat on the edge of her chair, as though poised to step in at any moment. But she didn’t, and Mukesh was pleased. She had grown too, it seemed. She was trusting him.
The three of them sat down together. Mukesh took his plate last. It was a new thing for him. He was being the mum, he was being Naina, Marmee too, and he loved it.
‘This is delicious, Dada,’ Priya said. ‘But I think I would have liked it even better if the filling was in the pancake and not next to a pancake mound. And also, if you were sitting with us while we ate it!’
‘I am your waiter and your chef.’
‘Papa, this is lovely. Well done you. The sambal is particularly brilliant. It tastes quite different to Mummy
’s though.’
‘Do you remember what Mummy’s tasted like?’
‘How could I forget? Yours is pretty good though. Better than mine.’
He sort of wanted to tell her that he cheated a tiny bit, but it was a secret he would take with him to his grave. It was okay to do that kind of thing now. He didn’t have so long to wait.
After dinner, Mukesh expected Priya to take herself off to her favourite reading spot after clearing her plate away, but instead she came back to the table and sat down.
‘The mockingbird – you know when Atticus says it is a sin to kill a mockingbird, does he mean it is a sin to kill innocence or innocent people?’ Priya asked.
‘Erm …’ Mukesh felt his heart pound – he hadn’t actually spoken to Aleisha about this. ‘I think so.’ He said it softly, as though saying it too loudly would expose his uncertainty.
‘That makes sense! Because soooo many innocent people are hurt, or treated wrongly, in this!’ Priya’s face was defiant. ‘It made me so angry!’
‘Ha, Priya. You are absolutely right.’
‘Tom Robinson,’ Priya declared, and Mukesh nodded, his face solemn. ‘Boo Radley.’ Mukesh nodded again. ‘Dill and Jem! It’s brilliant, Dada,’ she said, still clutching the book. ‘I wish we could both talk to Ba about it too. I wonder if she had read it!’
As Priya continued to effuse about the book, Mukesh realized that Priya had paid a lot more attention to the minor characters, whereas he’d been more swept up in the main part of the story. It reminded him of Aleisha. Youngsters were very observant.
‘I think you can read whatever you want to into anything. That is the point of books,’ Mukesh said hesistantly, hoping he was channelling a little of the Atticus Finch wisdom.
And Priya nodded. ‘Dada, you’re to-tally right! Ba used to say that too, but these books are more complicated than the ones we used to read together.’
‘She did? Ba was very wise.’
Rohini watched them as she scrolled on her phone, typed out some emails. She smiled.
The Reading List Page 25
