The Train

by Sarah Bourne

  ‘Now, sit, sit, everyone,’ said his mother as she swept out of the room only to return seconds later with a tray laden with food, plates, serviettes.

  ‘Sandeep, see to the drinks.’ She nodded towards their guest. ‘Mr Iyer’s glass is empty again.’

  Sandeep, raised to respect his elders and make polite conversation with guests, played his role even as he fantasised about forcing all the samosas into his mother’s mouth at once.

  As the minutes dragged by and Mr Iyer steadily lowered the contents of the Johnny Walker bottle, Sandeep found himself glancing more and more often at the quiet girl sitting with her mother. Even over dinner she hardly looked up, and never met Sandeep’s eye. He found her intriguing. She looked after her mother’s every need without being asked, answered when spoken to but otherwise remained silent. He wondered what she thought of it all, this awkward introduction, and wanted to ask her, wanted to take her away from these parents and their hopes and expectations and talk to her about what she actually wanted, what she dreamed of, what she thought of this charade.

  ‘I’ll clear the table, Mataji,’ he said when they’d eaten all they could of his mother’s excellent dinner. She’d pulled out all the stops and filled the table with several curries, a biryani, chutneys, raita, saffron rice, chapatis. For dessert there was kulfi and gulab jamun in sweet rose syrup. Sandeep needed to move after all the food.

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Abhi in her first spontaneous utterance.

  Sandeep saw his mother and Mrs Iyer exchange a look of smug complicity that made his stomach clench. It made him want to tell Abhi to sit, that he didn’t need her help, but he stopped himself. This might be the only chance they got to speak alone so he ignored the excitement in his mother’s face, the expectant look in her eyes and took a breath to calm himself.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jaw clenched, he started stacking the plates.

  ‘We’ll have tea in the living room when you’ve finished.’ His mother gave him a knowing wink and then raised her eyebrows and glanced quickly at Abhi. Sandeep nodded but didn’t acknowledge her childish semaphore.

  He rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher and started on the pans and glasses which his mother decreed had to be washed by hand. Abhi took a tea towel from where it hung over the handle of the oven and waited by the sink.

  ‘So, Abhi–’ He was suddenly nervous. He hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was until that moment. Now he was fascinated by the way the light lay across her cheek, shadowing it and making her lips seem fuller. Her hair, he now saw, was loose and thick, several strands lying over her shoulder, not plaited as he had assumed when it was pushed behind her back. Her hands holding the cloth were delicate with long fingers, the nails cut short.

  She looked at him for the first time and her face broke into a wide smile. Laughter lines fanned out from her eyes.

  ‘Isn’t this the pits?’

  Sandeep was caught off guard and said nothing.

  ‘I get hauled along to these things at least once a month. I’m surprised there are any single Indian men left to introduce me to but somehow Mataji finds them.’ She shook her head, a small smile on her lips.

  Sandeep sucked in a deep breath. She looked at him. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to be rude – I assumed–’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘I feel the same. My mother has to hoodwink me into coming home these days.’

  They stood in silence for a while, Sandeep washing the dishes, Abhi drying them and putting them on the kitchen table. It wasn’t an awkward silence, one of those that stretches on with neither party able to think of anything to say. It was companionable. The parameters had been set – they would never meet again so there was no rush to know everything about each other, yet anything they did want to talk about would be dealt with on this one occasion only.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ asked Sandeep eventually.

  ‘I’m a pharmacist,’ said Abhi. ‘At University College Hospital. How about you?’

  ‘Accountant. Small but growing firm just round the corner from there.’ He sounded like a recruitment officer and gave a little laugh to show that he also had a sense of humour.

  Abhi laughed. ‘So we’re both good Indian children who have gone into safe professions.’

  Sandeep thought about that. He’d always been good at maths, but he’d preferred the pure sciences. He couldn’t remember his parents actively putting pressure on him to go into accountancy but there had been comments ever since he could remember about going into a profession offering stability and allowing him to earn enough money to look after his parents in their old age. He’d toyed with the idea of studying physics at university, but a quiet, insistent voice in his head had stayed his hand. What would he do with a physics degree? Join the ranks of the overqualified unemployed, it said.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose so, but I’m not unhappy, are you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Sandeep noticed the way the light danced in her eyes when she smiled.

  ‘What else do you do – I mean when you’re not at work?’ he asked, more to stop himself gazing at her than because he wanted to know.

  ‘The usual – see friends, go to movies, get away for weekends in the country or to Paris – I love Paris.’

  ‘Oh.’ Abby had been to Paris before they met. She hadn’t liked it. It was expensive and full of French people who didn’t speak English, she’d said.

  ‘How about you?’

  He was surprised to find he was embarrassed to tell her that all he did was go to Bible study and take his secret girlfriend out for dinner once a week. He’d never been to Paris and the last film he went to was Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy four or five years ago.

  ‘What’s so special about Paris?’ He realised he sounded petulant rather than interested.

  She didn’t seem to notice, or ignored his tone if she did. ‘It’s beautiful – the river, the buildings, the food, the art galleries. The people seem so much more sophisticated than Londoners – I can’t quite put a finger on why.’

  ‘Maybe because they speak French,’ said Sandeep and Abhi laughed. He hadn’t meant it to be funny but he liked the way she laughed, the little creases that appeared beside her eyes. He wondered how old she was, and how desperate her parents were to find her a husband.

  ‘Where’s your favourite place?’ she asked.

  He wanted to tell her it was Berlin, or Dubrovnik. Somewhere that boasted a proud culture, strong people, unusual cuisine. The truth was he hadn’t travelled. The only times he’d been overseas since they came to live in England were the two trips with his parents, back to their village to visit envious relatives. He hadn’t enjoyed them; having lived in the cleanliness and sanitation of London, he thought India dirty and was horrified at the way people lived on the streets and in the train stations. The beggars had given him nightmares, and the relatives always seemed to have their hands out – either pawing at his nice clothes or asking for gifts.

  ‘I like my house,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Milton Keynes.’

  The laughter bubbled out of Abhi. Sandeep stood watching her. She had such even, white teeth. When she leant forward and put her hands on the table to catch her breath, he saw the pale-pink lace of her bra, the gentle swell of her breasts. He felt a stirring in his trousers and looked away quickly. He shouldn’t be feeling what he was feeling. He had a fiancée in Milton Keynes. She loved him, so she said. And he loved her, didn’t he? He realised that this Abhi in front of him was the Devil trying to tempt him. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ he said.

  She looked at him from under her fringe. Those big brown eyes with the hidden depths. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Truly.’

  ‘And you laugh when you meet people from Bristol, or Manchester?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve just never met anyone from Milton Keynes before. It’s the place with the concrete cows, isn’t it?’r />
  ‘It is. But they do not define the place any more than the statue of Nelson defines London.’

  She looked away and busied herself with drying a saucepan. ‘Sorry. I really am.’

  Sandeep felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t like him to be rude but he had to keep this temptress at a distance. He started putting the dried dishes away, making sure, when he had to pass her, they didn’t touch. And yet he longed to touch her, to feel the weight of her hair, the smoothness of her skin. Skin that was the same colour as his, not Abby’s pale freckled flesh. He felt himself flush at the thought of flesh. He’d never seen Abby’s body. She wore conservative clothing, covering herself from neck to knees. He’d seen more of Abhi’s flesh when he’d glimpsed her breasts than he had of his own girlfriend’s. His breath quickened at the memory of those breasts and he was angered by the faithlessness of his body.

  ‘Have I offended you?’

  ‘No,’ he said too quickly.

  ‘I have, haven’t I?’

  Sandeep sighed. He couldn’t tell her the truth. ‘It is I who should apologise. I had a bad day and all I really wanted to do tonight was go home and crawl into bed. I am not good company.’

  He saw an immediate change in Abhi. It was as if everything about her softened.

  ‘Anything you want to talk about?’

  What would he tell her – that he was having impure thoughts about her? He wanted to make her laugh again just to see the corners of her eyes crinkle?

  ‘No. It’ll all be fine.’

  He busied himself preparing the tea tray and took it in to the sitting room where his parents and Abhi’s were talking about MasterChef.

  ‘I think they should cook more Indian food,’ said his mother, and Mrs Iyer nodded in response.

  ‘Perhaps there should be a MasterChef India,’ Mr Iyer slurred. He had a large glass of brandy in his hands.

  ‘Abhi and I were thinking of going for a walk,’ said Sandeep, handing his mother her turmeric and ginger tea.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Good idea, my son. You two young ones must have a lot to talk about.’ She stopped short of winking at him, instead glancing at Mrs Iyer who raised her eyebrows and smiled, complicit in this matchmaking charade. ‘But don’t go far – it’s dark.’

  ‘It’s only half past eight, Mataji,’ said Sandeep. ‘We won’t be too long.’

  He helped Abhi on with her coat, feeling a frisson of excitement as his hand brushed against her arm. His earlier theory about her being the Devil come to tempt him was fast crumbling. How could she be when she was so caring, so easy to talk to, when her hair fell in that particular way over the swell of her breast?

  But he heard Abby’s voice in his head. ‘The Devil hides in plain sight. He is a charmer until he has you and then he rips everything good out of your life, strips you of God’s grace and condemns you to purgatory.’ He opened the front door and was careful not to touch Abhi again as she passed him on her way out.

  The night was mild, the clouds low. To the right was Hounslow, to the left, Heston, Norwood Green and the fields either side of the M4 he had played in as a boy. Osterley House and its grounds, where he used to take his first girlfriend for romantic picnics and frantic fumbles under a cedar tree, was straight ahead along Jersey Road past the posh houses.

  Abhi turned in that direction and he followed. As they walked she asked more about the suicide he had told her about as he made the tea – or rather, his reaction to it. He considered her questions carefully, was as honest as he could be in his answers. The truth was, no one had ever questioned him so closely about anything nor seemed so attentive when he answered.

  ‘I am not surprised you can’t stop thinking about it,’ she said. ‘How awful to feel so desperate you’d want to end your life in that violent way. It’s quite horrible.’

  It was exactly what Sandeep had thought, and yet he hadn’t said as much to her. He tucked it away, though, treating with caution the words she used to fool him into believing she was as good as she appeared to be. If he was quiet she’d trip up, make a mistake and reveal herself to be, as Abby would tell him, a She-Devil.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said when he didn’t respond. ‘I have asked too many questions. You must deal with it in whatever way is best for you. But if I can help, please say the word.’

  The ground seemed to shake beneath Sandeep’s feet and he got the fizzy feeling in his legs again and in his stomach. But this was not adrenaline. He recognised it as the Fall. He’d felt it before. Twice. Once with Tracey and again with Karen. It was a giddy, flying sensation really, not a fall at all and he certainly, at this stage anyway, wasn’t scared of falling. He was soaring on the wings of love, of desire, of hope, and nothing could hold him down.

  He didn’t dare look at Abhi in case she guessed what he was feeling and hated him for it. Or laughed at his adolescent crush. He knew his desire was written in the way his body leaned towards her, the expression on his face, the longing in his eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to think of Abby, his fiancée. This was madness. He couldn’t love her as he did and be falling for another, surely? It must be a trial, a final test before they were joined forever in marriage. Strange, though, how he had never felt this way about Abby, had never had the sensation of being swept off his feet and into the limitless blue sky. Surely that meant theirs was a mature love, not the stuff of movies and teenage romance novels. He smiled, safe in this new insight. He made a promise to himself that when he got through this ordeal he would agree to anything, even living in the country if it was really what Abby wanted. He prayed silently for strength.

  ‘It’s getting late. We should turn back,’ he said after a few minutes during which neither of them had spoken.

  Abhi looked up at the sky. A plane flew overhead, landing lights twinkling. ‘It’s a beautiful night, though, and I was hoping we might get as far as Osterley Park. I used to go there as a kid sometimes and dream about living in that beautiful house, wearing big dresses with bustles, all English-like, and having servants to bring me whatever I desired. Which was usually ice cream – real ice cream, not kulfi.’

  Sandeep took a sharp breath. Had he not imagined the same things? Not the dresses, but carriages with horses and people calling him ‘sir’ and falling over themselves to fulfil his every desire? Bringing him English treats, accepting him as one of their own – even admiring and respecting him?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Abhi looked into his eyes.

  ‘Fine. Yes, fine.’ Sandeep planted his feet carefully to stop himself from taking her hand and running to the house and gardens that had been the setting for their childhood fantasies. Perhaps they had been there at the same time, had seen each other and smiled.

  ‘Once,’ he said, ‘when I was about ten, we went on a visit to India and my cousin had a jar full of fireflies. He used to shake it to make them fly and light up. It was cruel I suppose, but to a boy like me it was magical. He took me hunting for them so I could have my own firefly light and I cried when, after a few hours, they died. After we came home, I found a jar and begged my parents to take me to the gardens of Osterley House to hunt for fireflies again. My father told me they didn’t live in England, but I wouldn’t believe him.’ He looked at Abhi and laughed. He wasn’t sure why he’d told her that story. ‘Silly things boys do, eh?’

  ‘Not silly, no. I don’t think it’s ever silly to hope. It was a little piece of India, and a connection to your cousin.’

  Sandeep felt her words gather round his heart. How did she know these things? It felt like she could see right into his soul and explain to him these feelings that had no name. Perhaps she would be able to help him make sense of his feelings for Abby too. He smiled at her, about to tell her about his finacée, even as he felt a pain in his heart at the thought of saying the words. Her beauty made them catch in his throat and they would not venture forth. He stood, lips slightly apart, silent.

  ‘So what do you think – can we make it to Osterley House
?’ Abhi looked in the direction of the stately home.

  ‘I think we must…’ Sandeep wanted to say I think we must go back, but his mouth wouldn’t form the end of the sentence.

  Abhi grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on. Last one there buys dinner!’

  She let go of his hand and started running. Sandeep stood for a moment feeling the imprint of her hand on his, wanting to feel the softness of her skin again. And then her words sank in, last one there buys dinner. But they had already had dinner so did she mean she wanted to see him again, that they were to have dinner together, just the two of them? He started running after her. He needed to clarify his position. He was engaged to be married, he already had an Abby and didn’t need another one. But as he ran he realised he might not need another Abby, but he wanted one. This one. Desperately. A She-Devil she may be but he didn’t care anymore. If it meant he went to hell, at least he could be with her.

  He slowed to a walk and watched her run. He had never seen anything so remarkable, so perfect. She’d hitched up her skirt and her legs were long. Her hair swung from side to side with each step. She turned, and stopped under a street light.

  ‘Too fast for you, am I? I knew it. Too much sitting in an office and not enough exercise.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you think, is it?’ He started running and overtook her, arms and legs pumping. But after a minute his lungs were screaming and his legs felt like lead. He stopped, leaning over with his hands on his knees, panting. She caught up with him, barely out of breath, and laughed.

  ‘I told you so,’ she said as she jogged past. ‘I win.’

  ‘Wait. We are going the wrong way for Osterley House – we should have taken a right turn back there.’

  Abhi grinned. ‘Okay. We’ll go Dutch. But I would have won if I’d known the way.’