by Sarah Bourne
Now, thought Sandeep. Now is the time I must tell her that I am not a free man, I cannot have dinner with her. But his voice had deserted him again and all he could do, when Abhi took his hand, was hold it and revel in her touch.
‘So, how many introductions has your mother actually organised?’ Abhi looked at him as they passed under another street lamp, and Sandeep had to take a long breath and remind himself to keep moving even though he suddenly felt like he had lost all his bones and was turning to putty.
‘A dozen, maybe,’ he said in a voice that sounded strange to his own ears; strangled.
‘Only a dozen? You’re getting off lightly. You must be my thirtieth.’ She laughed, showing straight white teeth and the tip of her pink tongue. Before he could stop himself, Sandeep imagined it licking his skin. He groaned. No, no, no, he must not think these things. He must not want these things. But he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to.
The gates to Osterley House were locked and Sandeep was disappointed they weren’t going to be able to see the house after all. Abhi, however, had other ideas.
‘We can climb over them, they’re not high.’
Sandeep looked around. They may not be high but there must be CCTV cameras around, or security men with dogs.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Abhi climbed over, jumped down on the other side and started walking along the drive.
‘It’s illegal – we could get into a great deal of trouble–’
‘Oh, come on. Live dangerously.’
Sandeep’s heart quickened as he climbed the gate and caught up with her. He wanted her to take his hand again but she was walking fast and hardly seemed aware of him at her side. Now there were no street lights and the clouds were obscuring the moon and stars, the trees either side of the path dark silhouettes against the charcoal night. Their footsteps were loud on the gravel, competing with the sound of Sandeep’s pulse in his ears. What if they were discovered? He might lose his job. Or worse, Abby might hear of it and wonder what he was doing late in the evening walking through Osterley Park with another woman.
Not just any other woman. Abhi. Beautiful, kind, intelligent, daring Abhi. He wanted to laugh out loud, to raise his eyes to the heavens and thank the goddess Parvati that he was with such a woman. Even if it was only for this night and nothing happened between them he would have the memory of it, of her, always.
He paused – he’d wanted to thank Parvati. Not God, not Jesus, but Parvati. And in that moment he realised that whatever happened in the future, his recent foray into Christianity was no match for the religion of his past, his family, his culture.
The drive looped to the left round the end of the lake and across the grass they could make out the dark bulk of the house. Without a word they left the path and stopped in the shadow of some trees.
‘I suppose we’d be pushing it a bit if we went all the way to the house,’ said Abhi.
Sandeep agreed, glad he didn’t have to be the one to point it out. ‘We could sit here for a while, though, if you’d like?’
He took his jacket off and lay it on the ground. They sat, Abhi with her back against the tree trunk.
‘I had my first kiss here,’ she said.
‘Who was it with?’ Sandeep felt a pang of jealousy he knew was irrational but left a sour taste nonetheless.
‘A boy called Arun. It was awful. He was so good-looking and such a dreadful kisser. It put me off for ages.’
Sandeep laughed, relieved.
‘I didn’t know you lived near here,’ he said.
‘We don’t know much about each other, do we? I was brought up in Hanwell. Mum and Dad still live there. I moved out a couple of years ago in spite of their protests.’
‘So where do you live now?’
‘Battersea. I share a house with two friends.’
Sandeep wanted to ask about her life, every detail, but what was the point? Tomorrow, after work he would go back to Milton Keynes and see Abby who would hold her breath when he put forward an opinion in case he got it wrong and she had to correct him. He often felt her tense beside him, as if readying herself for an apology or an excuse. He had never sat with her in a park talking about first kisses and childhood dreams of ballgowns and servants and ice cream.
‘What do you want out of life, Sandeep?’ Abhi interrupted his thoughts.
This was the time. He must tell her he had what he wanted – a good job, a good fiancée, a community that welcomed him. But when he thought about those things and about Abby, his heart sank. His job was mundane, his church community hadn’t been terribly welcoming until Abby showed an interest in him and Abby herself was more interested in pointing out his shortcomings than in finding out what made him tick. She had never asked him what he wanted in life, although she had told him what she wanted. What they wanted. And he had gone along with it because he was grateful to her for saving him from loneliness. He saw it all now. They didn’t love each other. Now he even doubted his interest in her religion. He had sought out a religious community because he had been raised to believe in something outside of himself, but he’d never really had a faith, had never really come up to the mark. He spent a lot of time trying, praying he would one day feel the hand of God, or hear His words, but it had never happened. He finally realised that he was Abby’s project and had gone along with it because he needed to be accepted, to feel a part of something. It was a harsh assessment, he knew, but suddenly he saw it for what it was. And now he had to tell her. He would have to sit her down and try to explain it all. He cringed inwardly. The thought of hurting her caused him physical pain but his eyes had been opened here tonight and they wouldn’t be closed again.
‘You have a strange habit of going quiet on me,’ said Abhi. ‘Have you got a secret?’
Sandeep sighed and clamped his mouth shut against the words that leapt to his lips. He wanted to tell her all that he had been thinking but he couldn’t even look at her. He didn’t want to be disloyal to Abby who had been a good friend to him, who wanted to marry him, and whom, if he hadn’t met Abhi, he would have spent his life with.
‘Hey, you there.’ Abhi put her hand on his arm, softly.
He turned to her and her mouth was on his, her tongue parting his willing lips and he responded, his whole being aching for her. He wrapped her in his arms and felt their bodies soar through the night sky, dipping and weaving amongst the stars.
‘Better than Arun?’ he asked when they landed on earth again.
‘Just let me double-check.’ She smiled and leant in to kiss him again.
7
Iris
The sudden stop made Iris’s heart beat fast so she forced herself to focus on her gnarled hands in her lap to distract herself. When had they got like that? She minded more about them looking old than she ever had about going grey or getting wrinkles. Hands were meant to be busy, useful. Not these ugly old things. She used to have such beautiful hands – long tapered fingers, nails always painted, even when the children were small. Reg had loved her hands, said they were one of her best features. Them and her big blue eyes, her cooking, her flair for putting people at their ease, her ability to stretch his meagre income as a clerk for the water board and provide for the family. She sighed. Reg had been a good husband, she couldn’t have asked for better. They’d scrimped and saved and bought their own house and paid it off as quickly as they could, neither of them comfortable with owing money to the bank. Yes, they’d had a good life together. She felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes and wiped them away with her finger. She missed him, that was for sure, but she had Charlie now and most of the time she was happy.
She looked out at the field they had stopped in. The grass was long and tussocky, ready to trip anyone walking through. She thought about how her slender ankle had snapped when she lost her footing on the street outside her house. One minute she was fine and steady, limbs intact, and the next, she was lying on the pavement clutching at her leg, clamping down on her lips so she didn’t scr
eam out loud. While she was in hospital she’d wondered why the council had men going about with noisy leaf blowers, swooshing the autumn leaves into piles where they waited until a lorry came along to vacuum them up – or until someone tripped and fell on them. When had brooms and wheelbarrows gone out of fashion? She still had bits of metal in her leg from where they screwed it back together, and it ached something awful in the cold weather. No good dwelling on it though.
She turned her attention to the field again. There wasn’t much to see. The farmer had taken the cows in for milking and now there were just a few birds picking at the ground hoping to catch a worm or an earwig or whatever insects lived in fields. She closed her eyes for a moment, and suddenly there were silent tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a gentle voice.
Iris’s eyes flew open and she saw a young Chinese woman looking at her. Disorientated momentarily, she blew her nose to give herself time to think.
‘Yes, thank you, dear. I think so.’
The woman didn’t look convinced. There was a frown line between her eyes. And now Iris saw she wasn’t so young after all – she had light crow’s feet developing, and creases either side of her mouth. She’d have jowls in a few years. Shame. She was a pretty little thing now. She put her hand to her own face without thinking, felt the soft skin draping over her cheekbones and jaw. Ageing was a cruel trick.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, dear. Don’t mind me. I’m just a silly old lady feeling a bit sentimental, that’s all. I’ll be right as rain in no time.’
She wondered if that was true. Would she be all right? She had no idea anymore. She’d thought her life was sorted, but the last few days with her daughter had thrown everything into the air, and she didn’t feel she had any control over where it would all land again. It was a new feeling for her, and terrifying. She’d always known what she wanted and worked out how to get it. It was another thing Reg had admired in her – perseverance. Now she worried she was getting senile. It was her worst fear, going doolally and everyone laughing at her behind her back and resenting her for having to do things for her because she couldn’t remember how to do them for herself. Like getting dressed and wiping her own bottom after she’d been to the toilet. She wouldn’t let that happen.
‘Take deep breaths,’ the woman said.
Iris realised she’d been shredding her tissue. She looked at the mess in her lap and swallowed a wave of fear. Surely one of the first signs of senility was not knowing what you were doing, and she hadn’t even remembered getting a tissue out. She looked and saw her panic reflected in the Chinese woman’s deep-brown eyes.
An announcement came over the tannoy: ‘We are sorry for the delay which is due to unforeseen circumstances. At this time we cannot say how long it will be. We will keep you posted. Sorry for any inconvenience.’
Iris shook her head. ‘How awful. What a terrible way to go.’
‘Yes, very sad.’ The Chinese woman looked at the floor and back at Iris. ‘My name’s Mei-Ling, by the way.’
‘Oh, that’s a pretty name.’ It was also a strange name, thought Iris. She liked the fact that England was multicultural, it made things interesting and colourful, but sometimes found it difficult to get her tongue round the different names. ‘I’m Iris.’ In saying her name, she felt she’d anchored herself back into her life again. She smiled. ‘Thank you, dear. You’re very kind.’
Mei-Ling inclined her head. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You have – you’ve made an old lady smile.’ Iris took her hand but didn’t know what to do with it. It felt too intimate a gesture for what had passed between them and yet to shake it would seem awkward. She let it go again and looked away, embarrassed.
‘I’m glad,’ said Mei-Ling quietly and sighed.
Iris waited.
After a few moments, Mei-Ling said, ‘I’m going to see my parents tonight to tell them I’m expecting a baby, their first grandchild. And at my age and in my circumstances, probably their only.’
Iris peered at her more closely. How old was she? She only looked to be in her mid-thirties. People had babies well into their forties these days. She’d even read about an Italian woman who’d had sextuplets at sixty-two, which was immoral, as she would have told anyone had they asked for her opinion. Which, of course, no one had, because what would an old woman know?
‘I’m sure they’ll be pleased.’ Iris would have liked grandchildren.
‘They wanted me to have a large family so that in their old age they’d be looked after, and surrounded by noise and laughter.’
Iris didn’t know much about China, except it was communist. And big. And until recently people were only allowed to have one child, which seemed like a shame to Iris. Children needed brothers and sisters to round the sharp edges of selfishness off them. There’d been a girl at her school all those years ago who’d been an only child and she never shared her lunch with anyone, or helped with homework.
The other thing she’d learned about China was when her daughter flirted with Buddhism in her late teens – she’d said something about the Chinese making the Dalai Lama leave Tibet when they decided it was part of China rather than its own country. She’d gone on to give her a long lecture about Buddhism. Laura would have called it a discussion, but Iris knew a lecture when she heard one. Discussions meant two people were talking.
‘Well, one grandchild’s better than none,’ she said.
Mei-Ling gazed into the distance, and Iris turned and looked too, almost expecting to see two elderly Chinese people in the cow field. Instead, there were now police vehicles, a fire engine and an ambulance, lights flashing, and people in boiler suits wandering around looking at the ground.
‘I’ve let them down.’ Mei-Ling shrugged.
‘I’m sure they’re proud of you.’ Iris wasn’t sure of anything of the sort, and kicked herself for saying something so trite. She had a rule – if all you can offer is a platitude, better not to say anything.
It seemed Mei-Ling hadn’t heard, however, because she was still staring into the middle distance, a sad expression on her face. ‘I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’ She smiled.
Iris nodded. ‘Maybe it’s because a life has ended here today. It focuses the mind, doesn’t it? We spend our lives avoiding death but it comes to find us and we can no longer pretend our lives will go on forever.’ She was talking as much to herself as to Mei-Ling.
‘You’re right – death is so final. We should make every moment count. Make those we love happy.’
Iris was unsure how the conversation had got to this point, but it certainly wasn’t the first time it had happened. The ability she had to put people at ease often led to strangers telling her their life stories. She was a good talker, but a better listener, and enjoyed hearing about lives and ideas that were often – usually – so different from her own. Reg used to say MI6 should employ her because everyone told her their secrets, and she would never have to resort to torture. She just waited and listened. Fully. Completely.
‘What do you do, dear?’ she asked.
‘I’m a social worker in a mental health unit part time, and a counsellor in a private practice,’ said Mei-Ling turning back to her. ‘Although you wouldn’t know it, would you, when you hear me go on.’ She smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. ‘I’m meant to be the one who does the helping, not the one who needs help.’
‘Everyone needs to talk sometimes, dear. It’s human nature. And sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than talking to your best friend. And certainly better than talking to your family.’ She shuddered involuntarily.
‘Not so good for you, either?’ asked Mei-Ling.
‘Not so good, no.’ Iris still wasn’t sure exactly when things had gone wrong with her daughter, but they had certainly gone from bad to worse on this visit.
‘You don’t have a Chinese accent,’ she said, not wanting to talk about her family troubles.
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Mei-Ling smiled. ‘When I started school I didn’t speak a word of English. There were other immigrant kids there too, but we all wanted to be normal, to be seen as white, I suppose. So within the first term, most of us were speaking English with English accents. Those who didn’t were the ones who got picked on. I sometimes felt guilty when I saw them being bullied, but I also thought they were stupid and pig-headed for not trying to fit in. Later, I felt guilty I did nothing to defend them.’
‘What could you have done? You were a child yourself.’ Iris thought how sad it was that children could be so cruel. She was also glad Mei-Ling didn’t have an accent; she had a hard time understanding the Chinese woman who ran the shop at the end of her street. Or was she Vietnamese?
They fell silent for a while. Iris started thinking about what Mei-Ling had said about her circumstances. She studied her new friend as the younger woman searched for something in her bag.
‘My son’s gay,’ said Iris. ‘He hasn’t admitted it, but he lives with his partner. He must think I’m blind or stupid. Or maybe naïve. When I go over there there’s two toothbrushes in the bathroom, one big double bed in the main bedroom, narrow little singles in the other two rooms, no personal belongings in either. Why can’t he just be honest? I like his friend, Luke. He’s an interesting man, and very caring. Always cooks my favourite dinner when I go. Barry – that’s my son – he pretends Luke just happened to be over, and Luke goes along with it.’
Mei-Ling nodded. ‘Perhaps he thinks you would be shocked, or reject him.’
‘Is that what your parents would do if you told them? Is that why you’re concerned about their reaction to the baby?’ Iris looked at her closely.
Mei-Ling took a deep breath but didn’t look away. ‘I’m not–’ but she didn’t go on. Then her face relaxed. ‘How did you know?’
‘I have a Gaydar – isn’t that what they call it these days?’ Iris laughed. ‘Gaydar, what a silly word. Anyway, you didn’t do anything to give it away, so don’t worry, I’m sure your mother and father won’t have guessed. As a rule, parents are very good at not seeing what they don’t want to in their children.’ Iris patted Mei-Ling’s hand. In fact, when her own children were younger she’d prided herself on intuiting what was going on in their lives. Now she wondered when she had stopped being able to read her daughter. Or had Laura just got better at keeping things from her?
