‘Put on something warmer. And not black. You’re too young to wear black. Pick a nice colour. Pink or something.’ Arjun watches his daughter stamp upstairs to change out of her black corduroys and black sweater. Tarani was never an easy child, but that’s nothing compared to how she is at thirteen. She hates the phrase ‘earliteen’. She hates anything he says to her.
He calls up the stairs. ‘And don’t be long. We’re leaving in five minutes.’
Sunila and Murad have gone to Pavi’s and he is to take Tarani with him to visit Haseena. The children have been fighting again. Murad, sixteen, mocks Tarani’s skinny, childish frame and the desperate way she counts the few hairs in her armpits. He wants to tell Murad, Let her be. But Murad has a new, fierce armour that repels everything that doesn’t immediately concern him. Obviously, good manners are no longer necessary.
These days, Murad only has time for his bodybuilding. Arjun has heard the painful squeaking of springs behind Murad’s door and once saw the chest expander protruding from under the bed. Murad is making himself into a different person, one who will never have sand kicked in his face providing he actually makes it to a beach.
Sunila tells Tarani to ignore Murad’s teasing, but she can’t. Her face crumples each time her brother jeers at her. Arjun feels the word-hooks, feels the bleeding below the skin, tries to think of something to say that will heal her. But she has no time for him either. He is also the enemy. She narrows her shoulders against him, squeezes herself inwards so that no one can reach her. She is gradually turning concave. He wants to tell her to stand upright, to push her shoulders back. He has tried to get her to play squash. It would boost her confidence. But she refuses, says it’s too hard.
Tarani comes clumping downstairs disguised as a chameleon: green skirt with an Indian design of elephants and a neon-pink t-shirt under a dull-orange hand-knitted sweater that Sunila gave her two Christmases ago, never worn until now. She lifts her chin, waiting for his disapproval, waiting for him to send her upstairs to change again. But Arjun doesn’t want to see what alternatives she can find.
He clears his throat. ‘That’s a nice skirt. Did Pavitra Aunty give you?’
‘Haseena Aunty.’ The voice is packed with cold anger. And there’s something else, too: the agony of being small and unattractive. His heart contracts for her. She will walk out of the house looking like a carnival clown purely to show him. Her black stockings sag around the knees and ankles. Her shoes, school lace-ups, are unpolished.
‘Come. Sit down.’ His voice is gentle, and he sees her glance at him. He motions to the stairs and she sits, waiting for him to say something. He rummages under the stairs for the bag of shoe polish that only he uses.
He lays out the black Kiwi wax, brush and soft cloth and, beginning with the left shoe, uses a brush to apply the polish. He balances her foot on his bent knee as he brushes and buffs the leather until it gleams dully. Tarani, thin hands grasped together, looks down at her newly polished shoe.
‘See what a little effort can do?’ He polishes her other shoe, ties her shoelaces, collects the brush, polish and cloth and puts the bag away. ‘If you do this your shoes will always look nice.’
She is still sitting on the stairs staring up at him, as though he’s just told her a secret. Her eyes are large and slightly scared. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘All right. Let’s go.’ Underneath all the sulky resentment and rude behaviour is fear? Why? He’s always loved her so dearly. What has made her afraid?
She pulls on the heavy, hairy camel-coloured coat that makes her look, as Murad says, like a yeti. At least she will be warm. He wraps his wool scarf around his neck and pulls on his thick parka and lined leather gloves.
The morning is flint-edged, sun sparkling off the frost on the pavement, hedges and trees. Clouds of their warm breath pulse ahead as they walk to catch the bus. Tarani glances down at her shoes. Sometimes, she kicks one foot out a little further, just to see the polished leather, pretending that she’s kicking the last of the dead black leaves iced onto the pavement. He can’t remember when he did anything that made her so happy. Halfway across the field they spot the bus coming along the Uxbridge Road and race to the bus stop. Tarani giggles as she runs. By the time they climb aboard, he is laughing, too.
He pays their bus fare and she looks at him.
‘Well, you’re getting fast.’ He hands her a bus ticket.
‘I’m not that fast.’
‘I used to run faster than you.’
‘You still can, Dad.’ She rolls the ticket into a tight cylinder.
‘I’m serious. You could run really well if you wanted to. You have the right frame, and you can accelerate quickly.’ Accelerate. He makes her sound like a car.
‘There’s loads of kids in my class who are faster than me.’
‘There are loads of kids. It’s a plural.’ The correction is automatic. ‘Anyway, I could teach you how to run.’
‘I wouldn’t be any good.’ Already she’s turning away from the subject.
‘What’s your time for the hundred?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
One moment she is close, a small child again, reaching for his hand. The next she is gone, her narrow shoulders closing around her. I don’t want you. It is easy to slide from this one moment to recollections of others: the refusal of eye contact, the bare skimming of his cheek with her reluctant kiss, the deliberately ugly clothes, her nail-biting even though he has taken time to show her how to trim and shape her nails.
‘Sit up straight. You’re ruining your posture.’
She jerks herself upright and stares out of the window. He glances at her profile: the thin long nose with its tiny bump. He calls her Big Nose but secretly loves the shape of it. It isn’t one of those forgettable noses. Hers is distinctive, meant for great things. She could be a leader, perhaps even like Indira Gandhi, although Mrs Gandhi is quite ugly. And Tarani is going to be a beauty, despite the bitten fingernails and scrawny legs. She sometimes reminds him of Mughal paintings: long hands with fingertips that curve back, eyes that tilt up at the corners, high-arched eyebrows. He’d shown her the pictures but she turned away, repelled by anything Indian. She insisted, ‘I’m English.’ And his response, ‘You’re Indian. I’m an Indian father and you are my daughter.’ He wanted to show his love, but she stamped upstairs, face frozen in anger.
He glances at her again, her face turned away. She thinks she is inscrutable with her careful blank expressions, forgetting that every little transitional flash of feeling is telegraphed as surely as if she has shouted at the top of her lungs. Poor Tarani, trying so hard to be like Murad. Murad has never had much in the way of facial expressions, so his metamorphosis to unsmiling Sphinx is more credible. Murad, with his belief that his spring contraption will make him popular with the girls; it’s enough to make you weep if it weren’t so funny. If only there were some way to tell Murad that to have girls like you, you just have to be yourself. Surely it’s not so hard to understand. But who is Murad when he is himself? The morose eye-contact-avoiding boy who sits at the dining table? The strangely talkative cousin who entertains Sadiq? Is there yet another Murad whom Arjun doesn’t know?
The rising volume of an exchange between the bus conductor and a tall, thin West Indian woman claims everyone’s attention. The woman refuses to pay the bus fare for her three children who are all, she claims, under twelve. Two of them are old enough to stare back coldly at the curious faces. The passengers hang intently on the argument, some of them shaking their heads in delighted disapproval. Who does she think she is? The oldest, a boy with a strip of dark fuzz on his upper lip, mutters a curse at the conductor and there’s a collective gasp of horror. His mother extends one arm and clips him around the head, dislodging his red-yellow-and-green-striped knitted hat. He makes the mistake of pursing his lips and making some indecent sucking noise. His mother uses her free arm and then her handbag to belabour him, screaming high-pitched abuse. In one athletic movement, he snatches up his hat and is halfway up the stairs when the conductor furiously rings the bell, shouting, ‘Off! Now. All of you.’
The bus halts, the driver craning over his shoulder as the family tumbles off. Arjun sees the boy scanning the bus. He stands there, sneering, in his red-and-black bell-bottom jeans and orange flowered shirt, the halo of frizzy hair sticking up everywhere. Probably doesn’t brush his teeth either. The mother slams her hand into the side of the bus as it drives off. The passengers tut to each other. Arjun is relieved; at least she isn’t Indian. The other people on the bus must see that he isn’t from the West Indies. He is sitting quietly, fare paid, with his quiet daughter who now turns to him with a wide smile.
‘Did you see them?’
Arjun clears his throat. ‘When you are in public places, you must behave appropriately.’
‘They were funny.’
‘They were not funny.’ His voice is low. ‘They were rude and the bus conductor was right to throw them off.’
Tarani’s voice is too loud. ‘But the bus conductor was rude to them. He kept saying they had to pay full fare.’
‘Two of the children were obviously teenagers.’
‘How do you know? What if they weren’t?’
He laughs his false laugh, the one he uses when he doesn’t have an answer. How can he explain the muscular build of the two boys, their cocky adolescent behaviour? He hesitates: but what if she’s right? He glances around, pretending to look up at the advertisements next to the bell cord. There is a smell of righteousness in the air. Here and there people speak up: ‘You were right, Freddie. You don’t want to stand for that nonsense.’ Freddie busies himself with collecting fares.
Arjun, too, would like to say something, but what if he is seen as one of them? Some people don’t see the difference between West Indians and Indians. How ignorant the British are, as Jonti would say.
Tarani has turned back to the window. ‘The conductor was wrong.’
‘He was doing his job. Those people were—’
She whips around to face him. ‘There are boys like that at school. They’re younger than me but they just look older.’
He is stunned. There are black children at her school? He swallows. He must be calm. After all, this is a progressive society. Everyone mixes with everyone else.
‘So, you know these boys at your school?’
‘Don’t be—’ She catches herself. ‘I’m not friends with them. They’re younger.’ She stares at the long cascade of blonde hair of the girl sitting in front. ‘They’re always in trouble. But Janice, she’s West Indian. She says everyone expects them to get in trouble. So.’ She turns away as though everything is now clear.
Tarani has a black friend? He clears his throat again. ‘So, your friend, Janice?’
‘It’s our stop.’ She stands up and pulls the cord.
By the time they’re off the bus and walking through the side streets to Haseena’s house, the idea of Janice has almost vanished with their cold breath, but still he tries to catch up with it. Perhaps Janice is a good student, despite her background.
‘Have you and Janice been friends long?’
‘She’s not my friend.’
Beat.
‘Well, she is my friend. But she’s not with my other friends. We talk sometimes. I like her. She makes me laugh.’
So, a boisterous West Indian girl. Just as he thought. He is anxious. What if this girl introduces Tarani to reggae? He has heard terrible things about reggae and how it makes children want to take drugs. He wants to ask Tarani about drugs. Has she been offered any? Has she seen anyone taking them? He has no idea what they might look like. His medical training has taught him nothing about street drugs.
They arrive at Haseena’s house and ring the bell. Haseena, fresh and beautiful in a simple blue and white sari, embraces Tarani. ‘You are lovelier each time I see you. Isn’t she, Arjun?’
He tilts his head, not yes, not no. He cannot help this tightening of the stomach each time he sees her. They don’t embrace; she briefly touches his shoulder.
‘You’re a real beauty.’ Haseena takes both of Tarani’s hands. ‘Come, I have some things for you to look at.’ She glances at Arjun. ‘Tea is ready to pour in the kitchen. And chocolate biscuits. Help yourself. We won’t be long. Girl-talk.’
Arjun follows a familiar scent into the kitchen. He stands at the doorway admiring the range of neatly hung pots over the stove. How orderly everything is: plates displayed on shelves, mugs hung on a wooden stand. On the table a cardboard box is piled with what looks like underwear. Arjun is momentarily surprised, but the box turns out to hold small, plump, oval- and heart-shaped cushions, delicately sewn in cream and rose-pink satin, with lace trim and pale gold and grey velvet ribbon. How long it must have taken to sew all of these. He examines one. The stitches are almost invisible. It sits neatly in the hand, cool and satisfying to hold. He likes to think of these little cushions going to good homes. The old ladies will love them, pressing their noses against the soft material and thinking of long-ago summers on lawns when not-yet-gone-to-college boys played cricket.
Over two years since Richmond Park. They’ve handled it well, he and Haseena. He’s been careful about not phoning, not visiting. She’s never mentioned that one unfortunate event. But then it’s not as though she has anything to complain about anyway. He never actually did anything. Attractive women dress to attract men. That’s all there is to it. They can’t blame men for paying attention.
But somehow trotting out the old argument isn’t as convincing as it used to be. He slips the sachet back into the box.
He pours tea into one of Haseena’s plain white teacups, props two chocolate biscuits on the edge of the saucer and sits at the kitchen table. He sips his tea and looks over the flat-cropped parallel hedges of lavender bushes streaming down to the end of the garden path. Sunila would like this. Perhaps he can suggest they grow lavender. He imagines them choosing the plants, putting them in the soil together, nurturing the seedlings, discussing soil acidity. In reality, she will want to plant in the sun and he will want to plant in the shade. She will knead in handfuls of plant food, too much for the delicate seedlings. He will want to prune to encourage growth. She will want to snip off stalks for her flower arrangements. Why can’t they see things the same way once in a while?
A high laugh. Tarani. Murmuring of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He sits a little straighter. He wants to compliment Haseena on her hard work and artistry. But as they enter he can only look at Tarani. She is wearing a white, baggy blouse tucked into bell-bottomed blue jeans and shiny red shoes with thick crêpe platforms. She looks at least five inches taller.
‘Isn’t she trendy?’ Haseena twirls a laughing Tarani around. ‘She should be on the cover of a magazine!’
Tarani faces Arjun, a little shy but smiling, waiting for his compliment about how she looks in these ridiculous clothes. Arjun doesn’t want to insult Haseena, who has clearly spent a lot, but he can’t allow Tarani to go about looking like a clown. The bell-bottoms are so wide they’ll trip her up when she walks. The puffy-sleeved blouse hangs on her thin frame instead of fitting her properly. And the ugly, clumping shoes. Surely she can’t expect to walk in those?
‘He’s speechless.’ Haseena looks at him. ‘Come, let me pour some tea, Tarani. How many sugars do you want?’
But Tarani wants a response. ‘Do you think I look trendy?’ She tries out the word on him.
‘I’m afraid I don’t really know what trendy is.’ He tries to be light-hearted, in the spirit of the occasion. ‘The, uh, the blouse is quite nice.’
Haseena puts Tarani’s tea on the table. ‘Come, darling, and have your tea.’ She turns back to Arjun. ‘This is the height of fashion. It’s the look.’ Haseena brings over the plate of McVitie’s. ‘It’s flowing, casual. Free. She looks gorgeous.’
‘Free.’ Tarani throws her arms out and pivots. She staggers in the platform shoes. ‘Oops!’
‘Come sit down, darling, before you twist your ankle.’ Haseena laughs.
‘Or break your neck,’ Arjun offers. ‘Those things are dangerous.’
‘I love them, Aunty!’ Tarani is still heady with being beautiful. ‘I’m getting used to them already.’
‘Haseena, you took so much trouble.’ Arjun examines the trousers that balloon around Tarani’s legs.
‘No trouble.’ Haseena smiles. ‘And the shoes are from a friend. They don’t fit her daughter, so she gave them to me.’
‘They’re groovy. Thank you so much, Aunty.’ Tarani hugs her aunt and sits down.
‘Your mother won’t approve.’ Arjun tries to make it into a joke but Tarani’s face empties.
‘Have a biscuit.’ Haseena pushes the plate towards Tarani.
Arjun clears his throat. Doesn’t Tarani realize people will laugh at her? ‘You’ve been busy.’ He picks out one of Haseena’s lavender sachets from the box. ‘Very nice.’ He smooths out the lace. ‘Tasteful. Delicate colours. Something that people will love to buy. Something they can be proud of having.’
Silence.
Beside him, Tarani makes a sudden movement, knocks the table. Tea slip-slops into the saucers.
The front door is thrown open and they hear high, clear singing. ‘Oh, food, fabulous, food, beautiful, food, glo-ri-ous food!’
Ten-year-old Sadiq, hair sticking up, shirt hanging out, sweater struggling over one shoulder, trousers streaked with mud, enters and flings his arms wide. ‘Thank you, thank you. You’re a beautiful audience. I’m starving. Oh. Hullo Uncle. Hullo Tarani.’ He offers himself to Arjun for a dutiful hug.
Sadiq, so much like Jonti. Arjun smiles. ‘So? How are you, Sadiq? Doing well at school?’
‘Yes-thank-you-Uncle.’ Sadiq throws himself around his mother’s neck and suddenly straightens up. ‘Tarani, you look like a real dolly bird!’
Tarani is startled. ‘Pardon?’
‘You should be on telly. Shouldn’t she, Mum?’ He turns back to Tarani. ‘Top of the Pops.’
‘Me?’ Arjun can see that Tarani is ready for Sadiq to say Just kidding!
‘I mean, some girls are too fat to wear bell-bottoms, but you look all right.’
‘Thanks.’ Tarani pushes her hair back.
Haseena unwinds Sadiq’s arms from her neck. ‘Yes, my noisy rambunctious son, she does look stunning.’ Haseena smooths Sadiq’s startled-looking hair. ‘What have you got in your hair? Car oil?’
Sadiq ducks away and grabs a biscuit. ‘Oh, hey.’ He picks up one of the sachets. ‘Mum made all of these. We’re going to have a shop. Did she tell you?’
‘It’s a small flower shop in Hounslow. We’ve talked on the phone and they’re willing to share their space. We’re meeting them next week,’ Haseena explains as she hands cutlery to Tarani and Sadiq, who go into the dining room to set the table.
He can hear the giggling.
‘Congratulations, Haseena. You and Nawal deserve this.’ Arjun is pleased for her.
‘Thank you, bhai.’
He watches her deft movements as she transfers the curry and rice from pans to serving dishes. He’s watched Sunila do exactly the same things at home, so how is it that Haseena looks so different? Suddenly, like opening a small box crammed with old Christmas decorations, their showy glitter faded and irrelevant, the pushed-down feelings come surging up.
‘Haseena, I’ve never said anything to you.’
She is busy ladling dhal into a bowl. ‘About what?’
‘Richmond Park. I wanted to – I’m so sorry—’ His heart is almost throttling him.
‘Please, bhai.’ Haseena places the ladle carefully on a small plate and turns around. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘But I’ve never apologized to you. All this time.’
She steps forward and for one moment he thinks she will take his hand. ‘It was just a mistake. I don’t even think about it.’
‘But I—’
She holds one hand out, palm flat against an invisible wall. ‘It’s past and forgotten.’ She smiles, turns the palm up. ‘We’re still friends, yes?’
He nods. ‘Yes, of course.’
Friends? This is all?
She picks up the ladle. Straightens the pot of dhal. ‘Any news, bhai? From the hospital?’
He clears his throat. ‘Just tests. You know how they take their time. But I’m fine. I played squash this week. Thrashed some young kid who thought he knew what he was doing.’ He doesn’t mention that his leg wouldn’t allow him out of bed this morning. He had to wait another five minutes before it would agree to move.
Tarani comes back in to ask what else she can do. She takes bowls of food to the table, fills water glasses, folds napkins. You’d think she was enjoying herself. Why can’t she be like this at home?
Sadiq is attempting to juggle with two of the sachets. ‘You can buy one if you like. They’re only five pounds.’
‘What nonsense, Sadiq.’ Haseena catches the sachets mid-flight and returns them to the box. ‘They’re one pound each. And they’re for the sale at the church.’
‘Oh, please, Mum. Just one more try. I can juggle under my leg, look. If I just stand like this—’ He falls.
Tarani is laughing. Arjun, despite himself, is smiling. Their smiles flick across each other, hesitate, almost withdraw, and then the complicit our-family-is-so-bizarre understanding. He feels his chest flooded with relief. She still likes him. He picks up his tea and sips, watches Tarani’s shoulders relax and her body curve into a chair as she talks with Sadiq, laughs at his descriptions of singing exercises.
Of course Tarani will have to change into her normal clothes for the journey home, but let her keep these things. Maybe she can wear them at weekends around the house. He feels himself expand. It is good to allow these little indulgences. He wishes he might reach out his hand and smooth her hair, just a single touch. He sets his teacup carefully in the saucer.