At the jobcentre, Vijay walked past the boards with dozens of handwritten cards on them, past the men and women who stood staring at them. All those cards, promising so much. He knew how it went now, months of the same. Ignoring the advisers and turning up to apply for jobs even though they made it pretty clear there’d be nothing for him. Even when he somehow managed to get an interview through an advertisement in a local paper, the employers usually took one look at him – and his arm – and told him not to bother.
But what else was there to do? He stood in the queue but let others go in front of him. It was Marie in particular that he wanted to speak to. Nothing to do with her playful laugh or those dark lashes of hers.
‘I think I’ve found you a job,’ Marie said as he sat down at the desk.
‘Oh? What is it this time, managing director of Ford Motors? Prime minister?’ Vijay gave a little laugh.
‘No, really.’
‘What’s it involve?’
‘Customer service.’ She looked down at the desk, lining up her pen with the edge of her notebook. ‘But it’s varied, too, no two days will be exactly the same and you get to spend some time outside.’
‘Sounds OK.’ Vijay wasn’t so sure about the outdoor bit but at least it sounded like a reasonable job. And besides, it would be a bit warmer with summer approaching. ‘What is it?’
Marie leant forward across the desk. Vijay did the same. She smelt of patchouli oil and vanilla. ‘Well, it’s not strictly official,’ she whispered, and for a moment he wondered if it was too optimistic to think that Marie might have something very different in mind. ‘It’s my uncle,’ she said. ‘He’s got this petrol station, you see, down Turnpike Lane way. And he needs an extra pair of hands. Oh God, sorry. I mean, he needs some help and I thought of you.’
‘And you’ve spoken to him about it? Told him about . . . me?’
‘Well, I told him how hard you’d worked before, all the hours you put in. He was very impressed.’
Just then a man in a brown suit came over and stood behind Marie. ‘The queue’s getting longer, Marie. Can you hurry up?’
‘Sorry, Mr Clarkson,’ Marie said, without looking around at him. She rolled her eyes.
‘What are you talking about, anyway?’ he said, looking at the papers on the desk. Did he really have to stand so close and stare at her like that?
‘We’re discussing various options at the moment.’
‘Like what, exactly?’ Mr Clarkson glared at Vijay’s arm.
Marie looked up at him. ‘I really should get on, Mr Clarkson. We don’t want that line getting any longer, do we?’
Just then, the door opened and a couple of men walked in, the smell of greasy bacon wafting in with them. Mr Clarkson’s eyes darted between Vijay and the queue.
‘Fine, but be quick,’ said Mr Clarkson.
Vijay watched him walk away. ‘So what would I have to do?’
‘You know, fill up cars with petrol. They fix vehicles sometimes too, and you can help with that, maybe.’
‘But why would he want to take me on?’
Marie looked at him, the light catching a sliver of a scar across her forehead. ‘Don’t you worry about that, it’s all sorted. So, you in?’
‘I could go and talk to him and then decide?’ Vijay wasn’t sure any of it was quite as Marie said it was, but he’d give it a try. Wasn’t like he had anything to lose.
‘I guess so.’
Marie handed him a piece of paper with all the details.
‘Thanks.’ Vijay stood up. ‘I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.’
‘Yes, I think you will,’ she said, returning his smile.
*
The next morning, Vijay walked onto the garage forecourt. It was lined with pumps, the thick smell of petrol hanging heavy in the air. He headed to a little building to the right with a sign above the door. Inside, a tall man with a bald head stood in the corner behind the till reading a newspaper.
‘Excuse me, are you Frank?’ said Vijay.
‘Yeah.’ A single thick brown hair in his eyebrow poked out like an antenna.
‘I’m here about the job. Marie sent me.’
The man wandered towards him. ‘And where’s the rest of you?’
‘Rest of us? No, it’s just me.’ Vijay knew what Frank meant.
‘No,’ the man sighed, ‘I mean that.’ He pointed at Vijay’s arm. ‘Misplaced it, have you?’ He grinned, pleased with his little joke.
‘Didn’t Marie mention it?’
‘Yeah, she mentioned it, I just didn’t realize you’d be missing quite so much of it.’
‘No need to worry, I’ll work hard.’
‘And how are you going to manage the pumps with that?’ said Frank. They went outside. Vijay picked up the nozzle from the petrol pump with his right hand and showed Frank how we could still manoeuvre the hose with the tip of his upper left arm.
Frank sighed. ‘OK, we’ll see, shall we? At least your English seems all right. Where d’you learn to speak like that, anyway?’
Vijay opened his mouth but Frank got in there first.
‘Actually, spare me the life history.’ Frank crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. ‘Main thing is that you understand this: you’ll be paid less. As there’s less of you.’
This time Frank wasn’t joking.
They talked over Vijay’s tasks. He had to look out for cars to serve at the petrol station and help the mechanics the rest of the time. His boss confirmed when and how he’d be paid; not that there was much choice, any cash was better than nothing.
‘And I can work seven days a week.’
‘Seven? Sunday is a day of religious rest here, mate.’ Frank walked back behind the counter. Vijay suspected Frank took more interest in the rest part than the religion. ‘Right, you can start by making me a cup of tea. Kettle’s over there. Three sugars, whisper of milk. And squeeze that teabag till it’s begging for mercy.’
Frank showed him how to fill a car with petrol and how he wanted cars cleaned, then introduced him to the two mechanics. Gary was tall and had a scattering of acne across his chin. He smiled and nodded before getting back to his work. Woolfy was a broad man who stared at him from under a swathe of thick hair brushed forward across his forehead.
‘Right,’ said Woolfy, not bothering to alter his bored expression.
Frank told Vijay to get started, then wandered off to spend more time with his newspaper.
‘Where you from?’ said Woolfy, leaning against the bonnet of a Vauxhall Viva.
‘Uganda. Africa.’ Vijay took a broom and began to sweep.
‘I was reading about that in the paper. Chucked you all out, didn’t they?’ said Gary.
‘Yeah,’ said Vijay, amused at the idea of being chucked out of a country like a child throws away an unwanted teddy.
‘That Idi Amin bloke.’ Gary rolled back under a beige Ford Fiesta.
‘What happened to you, then?’ said Woolfy.
‘This?’ Vijay waved his arm at him. He briefly toyed with the idea of giving them some exciting tale, how he’d lost it to a man-eating lion, or in an epic car chase across a desert. People always expected a story. But what was the point? No need to make up stories after everything he’d been through recently. ‘Born this way,’ he said, and carried on sweeping. Woolfy’s grey eyes were still on him.
‘What’s Uganda like, then?’ Gary said cheerfully. ‘I was reading about the gorillas there a while back.’
‘A forest full,’ said Vijay, impressed at Gary’s knowledge – most people just saw Africa as one large piece of land and had no idea where anything was.
Woolfy watched him, arms folded.
‘Not had it bloody easy.’ Gary’s voice echoed across the bottom of the car. ‘How d’you manage to wangle this job?’
Wangle. Another new word that might come in handy. ‘Frank’s giving me a trial.’
‘Woolfy!’ Frank shouted from inside the service area.
Woolfy stopped staring at Vijay and picked up a wrench, waving it in the air to show how hard he was working.
‘Where did you live over there?’ said Woolfy.
‘In a house with my family. We had a shop.’
‘And what about the Africans?’ Woolfy put the wrench down; it clinked against the concrete floor. He peered inside the bonnet of the car.
Vijay checked outside. No cars waiting for petrol, but it was still early. ‘Yeah, some of them worked with us. Helped in the house, too.’
‘What, like servants?’ Gary rolled back out from beneath the car and looked at him.
‘Very posh.’ Woolfy didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
Vijay didn’t really think of December as a servant, but that’s what he was, what all the house boys and girls were. ‘No, not really.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We weren’t posh. Most people had help around the house. It’s not like the Queen or anything. No one served us smoked salmon in bed. We didn’t have those butlers who look they’ve got sticks up their arses all the time.’
Woolfy let out a loud laugh and turned towards him. ‘You know what, Veejay? You’re all right. For a Paki.’
*
Vijay turned up the radio on the mantelpiece; it crackled and buzzed with the sounds of the football. The springs in the sofa squealed with surprise as he sat down.
Jaya got up and turned it down again. She settled herself into the wooden chair in the corner.
‘Right, I’ve found a pen.’ Asha walked in. She was wearing a tan A-line skirt, the lowest button undone where her knee met her thigh – particularly bold with Jaya around. She sat down, placing a folded newspaper across her leg so she could lean on it.
‘What will you say this time?’ said Jaya, hands clasped together, her grey sari draped in waves across her lap.
Asha took the lid off the fountain pen and placed it on the bottom. ‘Keep on reminding them that they’ve split up a family. If that doesn’t work, I’ll go and see them myself.’ Her fire stronger than ever.
‘I hope it works this time,’ said Jaya, face full of doubt.
‘It’ll work, Ba.’ Vijay leant forward. ‘With all our letters we’ll wear them down. Or bury them in paper, if nothing else.’
‘Anyway, at least they seem to be taking it seriously now,’ said Asha. Despite the letter refusing Pran entry to the UK, politicians in parliament had been discussing whether they had a duty to reunite families with their heads. Some had already been brought back together, especially those with dependants who relied on the men of the household to provide for them. But every time an official letter arrived at the house, all it said was that each case was reviewed on an individual basis. How could you possibly know what the rules were?
‘We’ll get him back, won’t we?’ Jaya looked from Asha to Vijay. He’d felt disappointment swell in his chest too many times; he felt hers too.
‘Of course we will,’ said Asha, as she began to write.
‘I’ll go and make us some chai.’ Jaya headed to the kitchen.
When she’d finished writing, Asha waved the letter in the air, waiting for the ink to dry. ‘Here, what do you think?’
Vijay read the letter. ‘It looks good. Let’s see what happens.’
Asha blew on the paper, making sure the last of the ink was dry. Her fingers were covered in blue from the leaky pen. ‘I hate fountain pens.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Always hated practising penmanship at school. I’d much rather have been outside.’
‘Me too. Forever being told not to climb the trees in case our heads split open like coconut shells.’
‘That’s one way to get children to behave, I suppose.’ Asha folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. Her smile faded. ‘This has to work. I’m not sure what’s left otherwise,’ she said.
Vijay remembered what she’d said before, how their struggle to get Pran into the country reminded her of all the terrible things in Uganda.
‘Hey, you owe me,’ he said, turning the radio to a music station. Susi Quatro rang out.
‘Owe you what?’
‘Something you love about Uganda.’
‘Do I really? Well, OK.’ Asha sat back and thought for a moment. ‘My Ba’s ginger biscuits.’
‘No, my Ba’s ginger biscuits, best in the world,’ Vijay laughed.
‘The scent of magnolia trees at dusk.’
‘The scent of Papa’s whisky at dusk.’ His voice went quiet. ‘He’d pour a little into the glass, always intending to sip it slowly. Never did, of course. Downed it one. Every single time.’ The burnt-sugar scent of the alcohol came back to Vijay and sadness welled in his heart.
‘Aren’t we lucky to have shared all those memories with people we love?’ said Asha, gently. She must have seen the look on Vijay’s face and he was grateful to her for trying to make him feel better. ‘My Papa liked beer. Didn’t care which kind,’ she said.
As Vijay was about to speak, Jaya came back with a tray of cups. ‘We’ll need to let it cool.’
‘Another one,’ said Vijay, catching Asha’s eye again. ‘Chai, any time of day, in the sunshine, made with the freshest milk.’
‘And eaten with paratha and chutney,’ added Asha.
‘What are you both talking about? You want paratha in the middle of the afternoon?’ Jaya turned to look at them.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Asha.
‘Don’t worry, Ba,’ said Vijay, placing his cup on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s nothing.’
Asha took her chai, smiling at him briefly as she picked up her cup.