by Meera Syal
I did not realise quite how starved we were of seeing ourselves somewhere other than in each other’s lounges until Reita Faria, the reigning Miss India, won the Miss World contest. This is such a distant memory that I must have been very young, but the sense of excitement and pride it awoke in my parents and their friends obviously made a lasting impression. I have a vague recollection of our telephone ringing constantly immediately after the announcement whilst the TV remained on full blast, and then our house being invaded by various Aunties and Uncles all bearing pans of the food they had cooked that evening, ready for another impromptu party. The mantra that went round the rooms stays with me too. ‘And she a doctor as well!’ crowed Auntie Shaila, everyone’s long-held belief confirmed that Indian women were the brainiest and most beautiful in the world. If only Rita Farrier had come along when I was ten and it was Spring, and I could have taken her hand and walked down the main street in Tollington, both of us in saris, her stethoscope flapping around her long brown neck.
Sadly, Rita never made it to Tollington, but even without her, Spring in the village was always welcome, and always celebrated by our only communal, organized event, the Tollington Spring Fete. This was held in the grounds of the grandest house in the village, an exquisite Tudor mansion owned by Mr Pembridge, a local Tory councillor and businessman who did something minimal and managerial in construction. Every year, they would throw open their garden to a number of stalls from all the surrounding villages, the proceeds of which would be distributed by the local churches to a chosen charitable cause. The Pembridges lived at the posh end of the main village road, where the houses gradually became larger and more set back from the pavement. Their wrought iron fences enclosed miles of manicured emerald lawn, riotous flower beds, horse chestnut and beech trees shading an outdoor pool and a salmon fishery. Mrs Worrall told me that the house itself was at least three hundred years old and originally belonged to the Squire of Tollington, whose last remaining heir, a daredevil bachelor, had been killed in the Spanish Civil War. The ironwork on the gates delivered the motto, Semper Eadem, which papa told me meant, Always the Same. And indeed, the Pembridge mansion had not changed in all the years I could remember, remaining an island of grace, tranquillity and unimaginable wealth whilst the village school halted any new intake of children, preparing to gradually close down, and the neon motorway lights began slowly appearing, poking their stiff necks above the horizon.
On the morning of the Fete, most of the village gathered outside the Pembridge gates, talking in hushed whispers whilst they waited to be admitted. Not all of them were wearing hats, but if they had been, lots of doffing would have been the order of the day. The grandeur and elegance of the place affected us all, made even more desirable by its very inaccessibility. For the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, the Pembridge mansion remained out of bounds to us, as effectively as if it had been surrounded by electric fences and a shark-infested moat. Of course, most passers-by would feel compelled to slow down and drink it in, the women all breathy and eagle-eyed, checking for a change of curtains or new shrubs in the herbaceous borders, the men seemingly unimpressed, although their eyes would narrow and nostrils flare at the salmon lake and the blue Rolls-Royce with its numberplate PCC 1. We did catch glimpses of Mr Pembridge easing himself in and out of his car on his sweeping driveway, always in a suit with a carnation as red as his face in his lapel. And sometimes we would catch sight of Mrs Pembridge in the back seat, as they left, we assumed, for a party. She was a thin, bored woman with a head far too big and bouffant for her body, who would acknowledge our stares with a cursory flicker of a smile.
Anita and I were very excited to learn that they had a son so there was indeed a young heir to the manor, and one day he actually rode through the village on a huge skittery horse. Unfortunately, the horse was better looking: Graham Pernbridge had his mother’s skinny frame and his father’s ‘mardy’ face, and when he stopped to ask us the time, he talked like he had a shilling’s worth of gobstoppers in his mouth. He was obviously not a born horseman, and sat like he was waiting for it to explode underneath him. Not long after, we saw him zipping about the lanes in a bright red Porsche, which seemed to suit him better. Paula watched him burning rubber as he took a corner and sighed, ‘One day some lucky cow is going to marry into all that.’
Mrs Lowbridge picked her teeth with a hairgrip and replied, ‘Ar, but she’ll have to marry Mr Plug-Face to get to it. Inbreeding’s a terrible thing, ain’t it?’
Mama, of course, had not wanted to accompany me and papa to the Fete. Nowadays, she seemed to exist in a selfcontained world of nappies, cleaning, cooking and fitful twitchy catnaps, brief moments in between my brother’s incessant, cheery demands. He was not exactly a naughty baby; he didn’t yowl for hours on end like Mrs Keithley’s Nicky used to, to a single note of whining torture which could strip paint and compel church matrons to murder. He did not throw food around or break ornaments or deposit curdy omelettes of sick on the furniture, like most of the other babies that had passed through our doors. In fact, if he had been ugly or maladjusted, at least we would have had the excuse to give him away to the Sunshine Orphanage in Cannock, whose minibus occasionally trundled through the village. We kids always rushed to wave at the vehicle with its huge painted rainbow on the side. I was expecting to see thin, hollow-eyed ragamuffins slouched shivering in the cushioned seats who would gaze at us with longing, and maybe raise a skeletal hand in timid welcome. Instead, they all appeared indecently healthy, even though their uniforms of striped shirts and brown cords were rather naff, and returned our greetings with bored indifference or, once or twice, two fat jerking fingers out the side windows of the bus.
So I did not think I was being too unreasonable when I did suggest to mama, after yet another sleepless night, if she could maybe drop Sunil at the orphanage for a trial period. Her reply was to burst into tears and rush into her bedroom where she locked the door, and did not come out until papa spent ten minutes talking softly to her through the keyhole. He then pushed me into my bedroom and told me to ‘Stay there until you realise what you have just said …’
I was on the point of apologising until I heard Sunil laughing and gurgling as mama and papa played with him downstairs. Eventually papa called me to eat, I decided a grumpy ‘sorry’ was fair exchange for a meal as I was starving. But papa made me feed Sunil before he let me touch my food. It was a near impossible task, trying to get a spoonful of pureed slop into my brother’s anemone mouth. He was teething; two snow white stumps had appeared on his bottom gums and as he grabbed any opportunity to chew the spoon, I could feel the hard edges of two more top teeth grinding against the plastic. Mama and papa I knew were pretending not to watch me, but mama’s eyes were still puffy and I did not want another emotional collapse on my conscience. So I changed tactics; I tried aeroplane swoops, silly voices, pulling plasticine faces, I showed willing as a devoted sister although I knew a funnel and a pair of bellows would have done the trick, and all through my performance, Sunil clapped and laughed and refused to eat a morsel. Wordlessly, mama took the spoon off me and shovelled the food into Sunil’s waiting, open mouth, he ate gratefully, his eyes never leaving her face, they basked in each other’s adoration.
Then I knew what the problem with my brother was, he did not want anyone else except mama. I had got so used to seeing mama moving around with Sunil clinging onto her back that it was like she had grown a hump. He even accompanied her to the outside toilet (underneath a shawl she would chuck over his body, for modesty’s sake), and I had long ago given up my midnight jaunts to my parents’ bed, because inevitably, when I snuggled up to mama, Sunil would be sleeping on her chest, a snuffling milky mass of warm roundness barring the way to her heart. He had to be forcibly peeled off her at nursery every morning, and stopped crying only when one of the carers sang mama’s lullaby to him (mama had written it down in phonetic Hindi and adapted it to the tune of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’). If she tried to put him down, he
would clamp toes and fingers to any available expanse of flesh or material and if she left the room, he would cry, not the petulant, demanding cry of the child deprived of a toy, but great gulping sobs of abandonment and terror which would bring all of us rushing to his side, wondering if he’d impaled his willy on his nappy pin or swallowed something dangerous. But once in her arms, he would become the Sunil the rest of the world saw and loved, a smiling, dimpled, chubby, bite-sized morsel of cuteness, dispensing infant largesse from his throne, my mama.
Sunil’s attachment to mama even withstood a moral assault from Auntie Shaila who declared, ‘The boy should be crawling, not stuck at your bosom all the time, Daljit. If you remind these men how soft and safe it is up there, they will never want to leave.’ And Auntie Shaila was right, Sunil’s need was so great that mama seemed to have disappeared under it. Even her usual schedule of ruthless Spring Cleaning had seemed muted and haphazard this year; mama would start on one cupboard and leave it halfway to go and wash the bedroom curtains, leave them soaking whilst she started on the bike shed, keeping up an appearance of efficiency, but actually finishing nothing properly. Her tearful door slammings and tantrums had gradually disappeared, to be replaced with long, exhausted silences or more frightening blank stares, where she would gaze at me and papa as if we were strangers. Sunil’s surprised eyes would peek over her shoulder as if in parody. Mama barely looked up as papa and I told her we were off to the fete; she was removing all the spice jars from a kitchen cupboard, sheets of old Express and Star newspapers lay ready in a pile. I waved at Sunil who was chewing on mama’s shoulder; he flashed me a heart-stopping radiant smile.
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as Mr and Mrs Pembridge began the long walk from their oak panelled front door to the end of the drive. The various stalls had already been set up, church tables covered with crepe paper and unsteady awnings of candy-striped canvas, everywhere handwritten tags and signs to attract the serious bargain hunters; ‘Kiddies Woollies! Hand-Knitted From Local Sheep!’ ‘Vintage Elderberry Wine…Bottled in Cannock!’ ‘Mrs Horton’s Homemade Cakes…Free Scone With Every One Shilling Spent!’
As you could tell by the unnecessary use of exclamation marks, competition between the stallholders was fierce. Every year, rival villages would battle it out to see who could rake in the most money, therefore ensuring that their local church would get to choose to which charity the takings would eventually go.
Uncle Alan was instrumental in setting up campaigns and fund-raising work for international charities in the parish. However, unlike Mr Ormerod and his Bibles for Africa whist drive, he did not seem keen in bringing the light to the darkest jungles of the Third World. ‘Actually, Mr O,’ Alan confided once to him. ‘I think they should jolly well follow whatever religion they choose. As long as they can feed themselves and work their land with some independence, I feel that we will indeed have done the Lord’s bidding.’ Mr Ormerod looked as if Alan had suggested having a piss in the font and from that point, as much as it must have pained him to snub a man of God, gave Alan a wide berth. I once remember standing waiting to be served in his shop with papa at my side whilst Mr Ormerod conducted a heated discussion with one of the choir ladies about Uncle Alan’s worrying views. ‘I mean, Mrs Lacey, it’s not just about giving them stuff, is it? It’s about giving them culture as well, civilisation. A good, true way of living, like what we have. It’s all very well just saying hee-yaar, get on with it but they’ll just tek us for mugs. They’ll want fans next, radios, cookers. I mean, we ain’t a charity, are we?’
Mrs Lacey nodded her head and then said, ‘I thought we was a charity.’
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ replied Mr Ormerod testily, giving her some change and turning to us with a welcoming smile, completely devoid of irony.
Papa of course related the whole episode to mama when we returned and they laughed till they wept, playing both the characters in the scene, ‘They’ll want cookers!’ giggled mama. ‘Doesn’t he know we were fitting bidets into our houses when their ancestors were living in caves? Oh God!’ and then she went suddenly quiet and looked hard at papa. ‘God Shyam, is that how they see us? Is it really?’
Papa shrugged his shoulders. ‘You take things too seriously, Daljit. They have accepted us, have we ever had any trouble from people round here? You know, like Usha had over in Willenhall, those shaved head boys shouting at them, pushing the kids around?’
Mama got up angrily, ‘Just because it doesn’t happen to us, does not mean it is not happening! And they leave us alone because they don’t think we are really Indian. “Oh, you’re so English, Mrs K!” Like it is a buggering compliment! If I hear that one more time …’
Then they both seemed to notice I was in the room and changed the subject quickly, as I knew they would. I thought of my Auntie Usha, all of four foot ten and as mild-mannered as a mouse, and could not imagine why anyone would even want to raise their voice to her. The image of Auntie Usha being shoved about by anonymous white fists stayed with me for ages and every time the picture formed in my mind, so detailed I could count the creeping hair on the clenched knuckles and the intricate patterns on the hem of her sari, I felt both impotent and on fire. Mama seemed to imply that there was some link between Mr Ormerod’s earnest ramblings and the activities of those unnamed boys, that one was merely an inevitable consequence of the other. I could not understand this then, I simply divided the world into strangers and friends and reckoned if I stayed amongst those I knew, I would be safe. But since joining Anita’s gang, I had become more suspicious of how the familiar could turn into the unknown, and what happened at the Fete revealed how many strangers did indeed live amongst us.
As Mr Pembridge opened the gate, there was a slight swell forward which he stopped, Canute-like, with his upraised hands. He cleared his throat, fingered his collar which looked way too tight and made his neck bulge like a bullfrog’s, and was about to launch into speech when he seemed to discover something was missing. He patted his pockets, and then remembered what it was. He turned round and beckoned Mrs Pembridge from where she was lurking by a tombola stall, to come and stand dutifully at his side. ‘Now, before I open up the ground to you all, I shall, as always, say a few words of welcome …’ The crowd relaxed slightly, people settled down dutifully for a few more minutes of standing, although all I could see mostly was backs and necks, and a glimpse of Mr Pembridge through a gap in the bodies. Mr Pembridge continued, ‘Beryl and I are honoured to be part of Tollington’s proud history, living as we do, um, here, but as you know there are great changes sweeping across our lovely land. A new road is, even as we stand here, burrowing its way into um the land, as I said, and our lovely school is closing down. Do we want to ship our children five miles away? I say no. I say our lovely village is doing quite nicely thank you and a change is not as good as a rest. In this case anyway …’
He tailed off as he realised most people were staring at Beryl who was edging forward clumsily, her high heels sinking into the lawn. She had a sort of shift dress on, muslin with little clocks round the hem and as she clicked her teeth nervously, it sounded like ticking. She shot an imploring look at her husband who beckoned her again, becoming impatient. She eventually piped up, it was the strangest voice, which did not at all go with her body and was never the voice I imagined she would have. It was a miner’s daughter’s voice, all tin and rust and under the earth. ‘Stan, I’ve gorra go in and put me pumps on. Sorry like …’ There was a collective intake of breath. Mrs Worrall, whose massive bosom was the only thing holding me up, breathed out, ‘Hark at Lady Muck! Blue blood, my arse. It’s gin!’
Somebody sniggered loudly behind us, all heads turned to see who was spoiling this ritualistic moment. Sam Lowbridge and various gang members were standing across the road, leaning on their mopeds. He looked different, harder, leaner, and then I realised what he had done. His hair was gone, his sandy shoulder-length locks had been replaced by a spiky crew cut, so close that I could see the pi
nk of his scalp underneath. The rest of the gang had done the same. Before, I had seen them going around in long, baggy green anoraks with targets painted on the back, but all of them were now wearing this uniform of short denim jackets, tight jeans held up with braces, and huge clumpy boots. They looked like a child’s drawing, stick men with exaggerated huge heads and huge feet. Sam returned the crowd’s gaze calmly and then gobbed on the floor, sending a ripple of disgust through the group. Mrs Pembridge meanwhile had reached the sanctuary of her front door and disappeared inside whilst Mr Pembridge battled on, trying to win back his audience.
I could see Uncle Alan chatting animatedly to one of the stallholders. He was flirting with an octogenarian, one of his specialities, and she twittered and giggled under his twinkling gaze. I was surprised that Uncle Alan was not standing to attention like the rest of us; indeed, he seemed completely unconcerned that Mr Pembridge was still struggling through his speech. ‘As I was saying, this is a time when we must stick together in Tollington to defend ourselves against outside forces, if we are to preserve everything we hold dear. You can sign petitions inside against the motorway and for the school, careful you don’t get your votes mixed up everybody!’ He paused for laughter which did eventually come, politely, in a trickle. ‘If I can end by quoting a man I am sure is everybody’s hero here, Sir Winston Churchill, who said We Will Fight Them on the Beaches…Just like our Winnie, we in Tollington must prepare to fight! Thank you and I now have great pleasure in declaring the Tollington Spring Fete…open!’
