The House of Hidden Mothers

by Meera Syal

  ‘I know,’ Shyama agreed. ‘That was my biggest worry, more than any of the legal or medical stuff. If someone had turned up when I was lying on the delivery table and said, “OK, hand her over because she’s not really yours” … I think I’d have killed them first. But then, it must feel different, if it’s not your baby.’

  Shyama moved the cursor to a headline entitled ‘Your Legal Rights’ and quickly skimmed through it.

  ‘Basically each surrogate signs away all legal and parental rights after the birth. Even if the child decides at eighteen they want to trace their birth mother, all they will be given is a name. No address, no other contact details.’

  ‘Right, right, could I …?’ Toby took over the mouse and clicked on the legal section, while the promotional film continued playing uninterrupted in the background.

  Shyama remained silent for a moment as he read, watching the mischievous woman being replaced by another smiling face, this one with an impressive overbite which gave her the air of a friendly rabbit.

  She found herself holding Toby’s other hand, running her fingertips over his calluses, reading the Braille of his bones. Toby planted an absent-minded kiss on her head, a fatherly kiss that made Shyama imagine the shadowy, unformed child whose creation they were discussing. That old saying, ‘Oh, that was before you were born, when you were still a twinkle in your father’s eye!’ came to mind. Is that when a child really began – when the yearning began? When the planning and speculating and plotting the ovulation calendar began? Then times had changed. It wasn’t a twinkle any more. It was an obsessive, hungry gleam. She saw it in her own face now, reflected back at her in the dark edges of the computer screen. Toby, still reading, tapped the mouse as he began speaking.

  ‘It’s a very normal worry, according to this. But they are saying – here it is – the surrogate will only be given the choice to terminate if there is a problem with the pregnancy and in consultation with the intended parents. And there’s a scale of compensation for us if the mother miscarries, or there’s something wrong with the … foetus so they have to terminate the pregnancy for medical reasons. I mean, they seem to have covered every eventuality.’

  ‘And if she changes her mind?’ Shyama pressed him. ‘Doesn’t it say—’

  Toby anticipated her response, nodding his head. ‘Yup, she doesn’t get paid. And in this clinic, she may even be asked to repay some of the money that has been spent on her medical upkeep, because “for your protection, we would regard this as a breach of contract”.’

  ‘For our protection,’ murmured Shyama.

  ‘Well, it’s not likely, is it?’ continued Toby, still fixated on the screen. ‘They couldn’t afford to pay anything back – that’s why they’re doing it in the first place, isn’t it?’

  Shyama nodded. She knew it was ridiculous to shy away from the bare fact that this was a business transaction, fundamentally. Money made it possible, money was the incentive. Supply and demand, the basis for all successful trading. India had fertile poor women; Britain and America and most places west of Poland had wealthy infertile women. It had begun with companies moving their call centres towards the rising sun, so what was wrong with outsourcing babies there too, when at the end of the process there was a new human being and a woman with financial independence? It was a win-win situation, wasn’t it?

  Toby’s voice sounded gentle when he asked, ‘So, how much is this actually going to cost?’

  He braced himself. He’d already spent an hour poring over his accounts before sitting down to watch this with her. At the last calculation, they had enough between them to fund one more cycle of IVF, though, of course, they now knew this would be a complete waste of money. What he hadn’t told Shyama was that he had gone up that day to see his brother, Matt, who now ran the family farm. It was the first sickie he had ever pulled in his life. He had hopped on a train from Stratford, startled at the monolithic shopping mall that seemed to have sprung up when he wasn’t looking. Beyond it, the London Olympic Park, the red twisted strands of the fabled Corkscrew Tower just visible, like a monument to an abandoned fairground. Within two hours, he had been at the family table, scarred oak stained with a thousand cups of tea, asking his big brother for money. When Toby refused to tell Matt what the money was for, Matt stared at him for a while before asking, ‘You’re not in trouble, are you? Or … sick? Or …’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to worry about.’ Toby returned his gaze steadily. ‘It’s a … business investment. With Shyama. I’m just asking for a loan against my share of the land. So if I can’t return it, you keep whatever acreage it adds up to.’

  Toby’s phrasing implied a demand more than a request. Matt’s curiosity was outweighed by the prospect of clawing back the fields Toby had insisted they left for livery horses. Daft idea, Matt had told him so at the time. Hosting Pony Club events and having the lane clogged up with four-wheel-drives when parents dropped off their little darlings to tend to their horses was not his idea of farming. He’d barely nodded his head before Toby was up and heading towards the door.

  ‘I have to get back at the usual time. Shyama doesn’t know I’m here.’

  And that was the only apologetic note sounded in the whole of their brief meeting.

  He’d met her a few times, this Indian bird of his brother’s. Not bad looking, but far too old for him. He watched Toby heave open the courtyard gate, only then wondering whether he should have offered to drop him off at the train station. Well, he hadn’t asked. He rarely asked Matt for anything, so this must be important to him. ‘Not my business,’ Matt had muttered to himself as he drained the dregs of his tea. ‘Just hope she’s worth it.’

  ‘How much?’

  Shyama shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘Basically the couple – you and me – we would decide the exact fee with the … surrogate and the clinic, but it’s around … between six and nine thousand pounds, on average.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Toby’s face broke into a beam of relief. ‘Blimey, that’s not much more than two rounds of IVF! We can afford that easily, can’t we?’

  ‘Six grand? That’s immoral.’

  Shyama and Toby swung round to see Tara standing in the doorway, a mug of tea in each hand.

  ‘Can’t you knock?’ Shyama said, her embarrassment making her sound angrier than she felt.

  ‘Firstly, can’t you shut your door, Mother? It’s wide open. And second, I brought you both some tea. So you can toast my new manufactured sibling together. Enjoy!’

  Tara dumped the mugs on the dressing table and made for the door.

  Shyama called after her, ‘Tara! We were going to sit down with you and discuss this! Tara?’

  ‘You’re going to do it anyway, so what’s the point?’ Tara’s voice cracked with unshed tears, she was trembling with the effort of holding them back. She wanted to run straight down the stairs and into the street and keep running, just as she had done when she was eight years old and had found out that her father would not be living with them any more.

  ‘Tara? If you don’t want us to go ahead with this, we won’t.’ Toby had stood up.

  Tara paused in the doorway, her fists clenched.

  Shyama turned her Punjabi-mother death-stare away from her daughter and focused its full beam on Toby. Tara’s antennae were finely tuned to her mother’s silent moods, and this was very interesting, seeing her mother’s obey-me-or-die ray harmlessly bounce off Toby’s broad shoulders. Tara had perfected her own filial armour over the years: she had learned to deflect any maternal manipulation and had even reached the stage where she was able to saunter away whistling a happy tune. But it always gave her a stomach ache. Toby seemed calmly unaffected. For the first time, Tara looked at him with some respect.

  ‘So, if I said to you right now that I’m not happy about this, you’d stop? Really?’

  Shyama opened her mouth to answer.

  Toby got in first. ‘Yes, really. This whole thing is about creating a family. Not just for us. So you will have
someone else when we’re gone. I know there will be a hell of an age gap and it may not mean much now but, well, your mum’s an only child. I know she never wanted you to be one too.’

  Both women regarded Toby with amazement: for Tara, it was the longest speech Toby had ever made to her which didn’t contain the words ‘manure’ or ‘feed’. For Shyama, it was the first time that Toby had ever presumed to speak on her behalf or interpret her feelings for her daughter’s benefit. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

  The silence was broken by a sudden bestial lowing coming from the computer screen, from a slippery just-born baby being held up by Dr Passi, her distinctive soothing tones unmistakeable behind her green surgical mask. She cradled the mewling child expertly in the crook of one elbow and with the other hand smoothed back strands of hair from the rabbity mother’s glistening brow. The woman lay prone, eyes glazed with exhaustion, her glance flicking to the baby and then away again quickly. Jump-cut to another room where a white couple stood expectantly in their green hospital gowns. As the door opened, they grabbed each other’s hands, their surgical gloves emitting a muffled squeak. Dr Passi moved towards them. She might as well have been invisible, however, because both of them had their eyes fixed on the child in her arms.

  ‘Congratulations! You have a healthy baby boy!’

  The baby was fair skinned with a faint fuzz of coppery hair. There was clearly nothing of the woman who had just given birth to him in his genes. The couple moved forward as one. The woman reached out and took the baby, who fitted perfectly into the cradle of her arms, his cries fading slowly to whimpers as he sniffed the air, mouth open, rooting for milk blindly.

  Toby had witnessed this many times before, in musty stables and dark, rain-sodden fields, and it never ceased to amaze him how a baby mammal of any kind took its first breath and immediately began its furious fight for survival. That’s all we are, he thought, this human animal with its glorious, unstoppable greed. A muffled sob sounded next to him. Shyama was fixed on the screen, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘Look at them,’ was all she could say.

  Joy was too short and stale a word for what illuminated the faces of the two newborn parents: a religious wonder, the relief of laying to rest years of pain and worry, the hope of a rewritten future.

  Shyama looked up at Tara, still in the doorway, and whispered, ‘That’s how I felt when I had you.’ She held out her arms towards her daughter.

  Tara took a step forward, then paused. At that moment, she loathed herself almost as much as she loathed her mother.

  ‘If you want to go ahead with this, I’m fine with it, Mum. Really.’

  Shyama and Toby watched Tara leave, listened as she headed up to her loft room, waited for her door to close before they dared to exhale. Consequently they both missed a few moments of the film, turning back just in time to see Dr Passi handing the rabbity mother a cup of tea. She was now sitting up in her dorm bed, her hair brushed, wincing slightly as she took the china cup and saucer awkwardly; they trembled slightly in her hands.

  ‘So, you have done so well you will be back with your own children the day after tomorrow! We have already called your husband to collect you. Isn’t that good?’ Dr Passi’s translated words scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  The mother nodded, and took a small sip of tea.

  ‘They were so happy. You have done a wonderful thing. You should be very proud. We are all proud of you, Gowri.’

  Her name was Gowri. She was too busy concentrating on her tea to register the two circular patches blooming on her sari blouse as her milk finally came in.

  Up in her room, Tara locked her door, opened her window and rolled a cigarette, flicking off the light before she lit up. If she sat on the left-hand side of her window-sill, her feet resting on the balcony, she had a perfect view of her grandparents’ ground-floor flat. This proved very useful as it gave her plenty of time to dispose of tobacco and alcohol products should either of them decide to wander over.

  At first, Tara had kept it from her college friends that she lived in a clichéd Asian extended-family set-up, since most of them were in shared digs, enjoying the obligatory drunken parties and messy communal cook-ins. But they inevitably came to know of her living arrangements, and she was surprised by their reaction: it turned out that most of them were planning to move straight back in with their parents as soon as they graduated, realizing that even if they were one of the lucky few to actually find a job, they would still not be able to afford to rent in London. Many of their parents were already planning loft conversions or digging down into their cellars to accommodate a generation of dependent children who might never leave home, stuffed indefinitely into reclaimed attics or subterranean dens, waiting to pay off their debts.

  ‘Lucky cow. Think of all the money you’re saving.’

  ‘Food and laundry on tap? You’re laughing.’

  ‘You’ve got an en suite? You will never know the grim shame of having to smell other people’s shit every morning.’

  That was Charlie. He was the department wit, or so he thought. He had cultivated a floppy fringe and what he assumed to be a snappy cheeky-chappie patter which had most of the girls in stitches. Except for her. When Tara deigned to respond to him, she generally wiped the floor with his sorry arse. That was the huge advantage of being an angry young woman: sarcasm came as easily as breathing. Although lately, the line between irony and sincerity was becoming increasingly blurred. When Tara had heard the chorus of moving-back-home stories, she’d muttered, ‘Well, what do you know? We’re all Indian now.’ And was confused to see her friends all nodding their heads sagely in agreement.

  It had started in her mid teens, this blurred boundary between what was said and what was meant, and she traced it back to when she had first gone online. Having moaned at her mother for months, she had finally been given her own computer, one of the last in her class to have one. (And even then, only after her father had sent her a particularly generous Christmas cheque to make up for missing her birthday that year.) The glee at having her own Facebook page soon wore off as she found herself having to learn what felt like a complicated new language. Not just the myriad abbreviations, they were easy enough, but how to negotiate the layers of insult and innuendo that accompanied this collective faceless community. After every cruel barb exchanged online, every throwaway comment about X’s fat thighs or Z’s general sluttiness, all you had to do, apparently, was add ‘LOL’ and a smiley face and claim you were only having a laugh. It was a joke! Older and more net-wise now, Tara had learned to filter out and block the teasers and the trolls, but she wondered if she had lost something else along the way: how to read a face for sincerity, how to vocalize a line that rang true.

  A quick glance at her laptop screen confirmed a number of friends were trying to get hold of her: several missed messages on her Facebook page, a few more on Twitter, informing her that the gang were already gathered at the uni bar for someone’s birthday. Trending right now: a school shooting in France; an ex-footballer’s new underwear range; a dog from Canada who saved a baby from choking by performing a canine version of the Heimlich manoeuvre; a female movie star’s slow public decline into insanity. A world of invitations and possibilities just waiting for her to log on and jump in, and if she didn’t hurry, they’d simply carry on without her, forget she even existed.

  A light snapped on in her grandparents’ kitchen. She recognized the slow lilting gait of her grandmother carrying out her usual night-time rituals of wiping down the surfaces and checking that all the electrical appliances were off. Behind her, as always, was her grandfather in his kurta pyjamas, a sheaf of files under his arm, just there for the company, the routine. She remembered that she had promised to pop round to collect some papers they needed to scan and email to their lawyer in India. If she left now she would catch them before they settled down in bed to watch the news on the Hindi satellite channel. Tara grabbed her coat and handbag and made her way down the stairs. As
she paused outside her mother’s bedroom, she wondered who her tears had been for – the couple who had gained a baby, or the woman who had given one away. Certainly not for her own daughter. She called out briefly, ‘Popping out – back by twelve. My phone’s on.’

  She didn’t quite hear Shyama’s muffled reply.

  Outside the house, she rolled another cigarette before running towards the approaching bus that would drop her right outside her uni bar.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EVEN THOUGH SEEMA cried constantly, Mala could not stop eating. The more Seema sniffed and dripped, the more food Mala piled on to her plate, as if she could concentrate better whilst chewing. If she could have eaten the plate itself, she would have done. It was so wafer-thin that when she held it up towards the light, she could see her fingers on the other side. Around the edge was a regular looping design, which on closer inspection revealed itself to be a chain of tiny elephants, each holding on to the tail of the one in front with its trunk. The detail was so clever and delicate, the folds and wrinkles of their hide hanging like just-washed winter blankets, their sad rheumy eyes, the tender pink tips of their trunks. How many hours must it have taken to paint even one, Mala marvelled, before she dumped another handful of colourful pastries over the pattern.

  It was clear that Seema had not had many visitors, if any, since her return from the capital. The eager desperation with which she had unpacked boxes of expensive sweetmeats had embarrassed Mala, until she took in the obvious trophies around the room: a new sofa and armchairs in a floral pattern, all with polished wooden legs that reminded Mala of Bee-ji’s arthritic bowed knees; a nest of tables, daddy, mummy and baby size, all fitting inside one another, all with smoky-glass tops and lethally sharp corners. Four new lamps over-illuminated the room, one in each corner, with heavy-fringed shades in which a couple of fuzzy moths already fluttered helplessly, trapped in the silken fronds. The new fridge freezer sat against a wall, emitting a low-pitched, absent-minded hum, like a simple relative who had come to visit and been forgotten about. And the purchase that really made Mala draw breath, although she had been trying to look unimpressed: up on the wall, with several wires hanging from its frame, hung a huge thin television screen, like a window into another world, still dark and waiting to be opened.