Still Lives E-Book

Reshma Ruia

• Herausgeber: Renard Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 505

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'The glow of my cigarette picks out a dark shape lying on the ground. I bend down to take a closer look. It's a dead sparrow. I wondered if I had become that bird, disoriented and lost.' Young, handsome and contemptuous of his father's traditional ways, PK Malik leaves Bombay to start a new life in America. Stopping in Manchester to visit an old friend, he thinks he sees a business opportunity, and decides to stay on. Now fifty-five, PK has fallen out of love with life. His business is struggling and his wife Geeta is lonely, pining for the India she's left behind. One day PK crosses the path of Esther, the wife of his business competitor, and they launch into an affair conducted in shabby hotel rooms, with the fear of discovery forever hanging in the air. Still Lives is a tightly woven, haunting work that pulls apart the threads of a family and plays with notions of identity. Shortlisted for the SI Leeds literary prize Winner of the Reader's Choice Award at the Diverse Book Awards 2023

Leseprobe

Still Lives

reshma ruia

renard press

Renard Press Ltd

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www.renardpress.com

Still Lives first published by Renard Press Ltd in 2022

Text © Reshma Ruia, 2022Cover design by Will Dady

Reshma Ruia asserts her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, or is used fictitiously.

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contents

Still Lives

1. Birthday Wishes

2. A Bank Holiday Drive

3. Llamas in Woodbridge

4. The Best Bagels in Town

5. A Proper Lunch

6. Party Time

7. This Man Is After Beauty

8. A Football Match

9. A Bolt of Gold

10. A Holiday from Life

11. Confession Time

12. A Cricket Match

13. Everyone Laughs at a Rich Man’s Jokes

14. Somewhere Nice and Safe

15. Happiness Can Be a Kind of Death

16. Tough Times

17. Anybody Can Be Happy

18. A Slow, Quiet Poison

19. A History Together

20. Polluting the Gods

21. When Darkness Calls

22. Is This How Life Is Meant to Be

23. You Can’t Go Wrong with Pearls

24. An Atom Bomb

25. Days Filled with Water

26. Her Old Age Will Be Crowded with People

27. Never Let Your Shoes Run Faster Than Your Feet

28. A Pair of Red Shoes

29. The Kindness of Strangers

30. They Are My Friends

31. Mr Atlas

32. Mensch

33. Mangoes in Manchester

34. You Will Always Be My Little Munchkin

35. Better Days Ahead

36. He’s Just A Normal Boy

37. I Hold Him Like A Gift

Acknowledgements

About the Author

still lives

for those who are lost and call manchester home

We are most alive when we’re in love.

john updike

1

BIRTHDAY WISHES

I turn fifty-five this year.

‘You’re getting on, old man,’ Gupta says when I meet him for a drink after work. He sips his orange juice through a straw like a girl.

I look at his grey lips sucking in the juice. ‘There are things I’d still like to do,’ I say.

‘Like what? Don’t tell me you’re still banging on about becoming a…’ – his mouth contorts as he says in a mock French accent – ‘a couturier?’

I push the bowl of peanuts towards him and shrug.

It’s early evening and the Victoria in Chorlton isn’t busy. A boy in a black biker jacket stands fiddling with the shiny buttons of the jukebox by the door, and the woman behind the bar is polishing beer glasses. Her bright pink lipstick is too young for her face. There’s music playing, but it’s new stuff, full of banging drums.

I finish my Budweiser and get up to buy another. When I come back, Gupta is still waiting for an answer. He’s an accountant. He likes to get to the bottom of things.

‘Maybe Geeta is throwing you a surprise party?’ His eyes stay fixed on my face.

‘Fat chance,’ I say. ‘I’ll be lucky if she remembers. Anyway, it’s no big deal. It’s only a birthday.’

‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Forget having a party. Be a rebel and go to Hertz, hire a fancy American car – a silver Lincoln or a Cadillac – and drive up to Scotland. Take a break from the bloody business. Run away from the family. There’ll be plenty of Scotch, and I’ve heard the lasses in Edinburgh are bonnie.’ He clears his throat and grins.

He’s in a good mood because it’s a Thursday, which means he’ll soon be going home to have sex with his wife.

***

Driving home, I overtake a hearse on the M56. There are blurred faces inside the cars that follow. The rain hits the windows, smudges their features and streaks down their cheeks, like a clown’s tears. I think of Gupta’s words. I think of my twenty-five-year-old self, who left Bombay ready to start a new life in America. I’d only stopped in Manchester for a few days to see an old school friend – Gupta – who was studying accountancy at Manchester Poly.

‘Stay a bit longer?’ he suggested when it was almost time for me to catch a plane to America. We were sat at a bus stop eating our fish and chips, our fingers stinking of vinegar, waiting for the 215 to take us to Levenshulme to Gupta’s rented one-bedroom flat. ‘Manchester’s small. It’ll be easy to make money here. To hell with America!’ he said, cocking a finger to the sky. His eyes were lonely, but he had swagger in those days.

I stared at the clouds and the dull brown huddle of buildings around, and thought, He’s right. It would be easy to shine in such a small place.

‘Tell you what, I’ll stay for a bit,’ I said, slapping him on the back. I’d make a few quid and then move on, I said.

Those early days. We were like brothers, Gupta and I, sharing rooms in Levenshulme, whining about the cold and the thin English girls with their bony thighs who giggled at our accents but let us squeeze their breasts at the Bellevue cinema.

Manchester was a mistake. I should’ve carried on to America, got proper training in high-tech design, then moved to France.

‘Why do you want to mess around in America?’ Father had asked me. ‘It’s a godless place. Stay here. Bombay is booming, beta. Even McDonalds is opening a branch in Juhu.’

But I’d made up my mind. ‘I want to try my luck in America,’ I said. I had received a scholarship offer to study textile printing at Delaware college. Over there, anything was possible. India was a dead-end street, strangled by red tape and babus begging for bribes. America was the future, with its shiny, germ-free, dirt-free cities. I thought of my job as a shipping clerk in Wadia & Sons, and told Father I was sick of running errands, answering phones and preparing endless cups of chai for the department.

Father jabbed his finger against my chest. ‘You’ve got a soft Indian brain; it won’t work in America. They will fry you alive, son.’

He was sixty, an old man, and I was his only child. I understood his desperation, so I kept quiet and let him rant. Mother would’ve backed me, told me I was right, but she was dead.

We stood in the queue at the State Bank of India. I watched him draw out his savings. Eight thousand rupees for a one-way ticket to New York via Doha with a longer stop in Manchester. Travel didn’t come cheap in those days.

‘I’ll come back rich and famous,’ I promised him, slipping the notes into my wallet.

Father just kept shaking his head, his eyes hazy with tears. The day I left he broke a coconut for good luck and handed me a silver coin with Goddess Lakshmi imprinted on it. I must still have it somewhere. ‘At least try and be sad,’ he said.

But breaking the journey in Manchester and staying with Gupta was a mistake. I got caught there, stuck in the business of buying and selling second-rate frocks. America became just a name on a map.

***

Turning fifty-five is a big deal. It needs acknowledgement.

So one day, instead of going through unsold stock at my warehouse, I visit a personalised registration plate dealer in Stockport and buy a personal number plate for my car: pk1. It has a nice ring to it. It says I’m a Somebody. I have to outbid a Paul Kennedy by two thousand quid. I don’t tell Geeta how much it cost; I say it’s a birthday present from a grateful customer in Ireland.

‘The Irish are just like the Indians, don’t you think – so kind and big-hearted,’ she says. ‘But there was no need for such a showy birthday present. You’re not a child.’ Her hands dip in and out of a big Pyrex bowl of flour as she speaks.

I’d like her to go outside and admire the car with the new number plate, but she stays put.

‘Later. Maybe later,’ she says. ‘I’m busy baking bread.’ She waves her flour-covered hands proudly.

‘What’s wrong with Warburtons bread?’ I ask.

I know she’ll make a mess in the kitchen, and the bread will burn or stay dense and uncooked in the middle. She’s always been a lousy cook.

‘Amar wants to try home-made bread instead. Miss Connor was going on and on in class about the wonderful smell of home baking.’ Geeta scratches her nose and the flour settles like chalk dust on her nose and chin.

‘Good luck, Delia Smith,’ I say. ‘Just make sure you don’t burn the kitchen down.’

I walk out of the kitchen and go outside to check my shiny new number plate, already screwed on to the second-hand Mercedes. In my excitement, I almost knock next door, but then I remember Mr Peters is English, and doesn’t like being disturbed.

***

Ten years ago, I took out a big mortgage and shifted from Longsight, with its noisy West Indian neighbours, to Bloomsbury Close in Timperley, just south of Manchester. The streets are hush-hush here, and the houses have fancy names like ‘Fairholme’ and ‘Chatsworth’. We have British neighbours – proper ones with English as their first language. I give them a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label every Christmas. Our new house has a small garden where I keep trying, without much luck, to grow a mango tree.

‘I don’t like it. It’s too far away and too lonely.’ That’s all Geeta could say when the woman from Bridgfords first showed us the house.

‘Far away from what? India?’ I asked, as the agent waited on the front step, arms folded, a thin smile on her lips. She’d told us earlier that we’d be the first Asian family in the neighbourhood. ‘That’s progress, don’t you think?’ I said with a grin. I pointed out the electric gates and the garage to Geeta. ‘What more do you want? We’d even have an en suite. No more going down the corridor at night searching for the loo.’

Geeta still shook her head. ‘It’s too big – I do love the gates, but I’ll miss…’ She hesitated before saying she’d miss Mrs Ahmed, our neighbour in Longsight. They did their weekly shop in Rusholme together, and always stopped for a gossip and a samosa at Pundit’s afterwards.

‘We’re moving here for Amar,’ I reminded her. ‘There are better schools in this area. He will get more attention at Willows Grammar school if he’s lucky enough to get in. And you can invite Mrs Ahmed here. Show off the en suite.’ Once I brought our son into the equation, she agreed straight away.

The first time Gupta came around for dinner in our new house, his mouth hung slack in envy. ‘Lucky bastard,’ he whispered. His eyes were like hamsters, running across everything. ‘You’ve landed on your feet, all right, PK. A detached house in Timperley, pukka English neighbours and just ten minutes to the motorway.’

Mrs Ahmed dropped in a few times, too. Geeta switched on all the lights, flung open the doors and showed her the en suiteand the Italian black leather sofa from Arighi Bianchi in the lounge, her eyes flashing with pride. Mrs Ahmed soon stopped coming.

‘People are so busy these days,’ Geeta said with a shrug. ‘It is this country. It gives you no time to breathe. Everyone is just huffing and puffing, puffing and huffing. She has no time for me any more.’ Her lips trembled as she said this.

***

One day, soon after I bought my number plate, an invite arrives.

ben lawton requests the pleasure of your company at a golfing dinner at mowbray hall

‘Why have they invited you?’ Geeta says. ‘You don’t even play golf.’

‘Why shouldn’t they invite me? I was their biggest account for ten years. You should know this.’

She looks at the stiff, cream-coloured invite as though it were a bomb. ‘A whole weekend? What do they think, you’re just sitting around doing nothing?’

It’s a Wednesday morning and I’m sitting around doing nothing, in no hurry to leave for work. Geeta, dressed in her weekday uniform of a blue velour tracksuit, is slicing an apple, head bent low and mouth open in concentration. Breadcrumbs cling to her top.

‘Are there any mangoes?’ I ask. They are my favourite fruit.

‘No Alphonso mangoes this year, only the sour Pakistani ones. I didn’t bother buying them. There’s drought in Gujarat – at least, that’s what Zee TV said,’ she says without looking up. ‘Ravi won’t get them till next month.’

Ravi is the Indian grocery store in Rusholme where Geeta does her weekly shop on her way back from the temple.

‘Besides, Amar likes apples,’ she says, smacking my hand as I lean forward to grab a slice. The slices are neatly arranged in a semicircle on the plate.

I check the cuckoo clock above the sideboard. The hour and minute hands have gone missing over the years, lost in our many house moves. Only the bird remains, chirping out the time in a sickly, syrupy tune. I want to replace it with a digital clock, but Geeta won’t let me.

‘How come Amar’s not left for school?’ I ask, knowing her excuses will be ready.

‘He’s not feeling well,’ Geeta says. She gets up to fill the kettle. ‘Poor thing. He’s got a terrible headache, so I told him to take the day off.’

‘Second time he’s done this. Last week it was a toothache. He’s nearly fifteen, not some old codger.’ I say this loudly so Geeta can hear me above the hissing kettle.

‘Calm down – he’s only a kid,’ she says, buttering a slice of toast and pushing the plate towards me.

I look at the invite again and check the dress code.

‘I’ll need a new suit. The one from Debenhams is looking a bit shabby.’

‘What’s the point wasting money on a new suit just for two days? I’ll get your brown one dry-cleaned and we’ll buy another one in the January sales,’ Geeta says.

The tracksuit bottoms are too tight on her. Her hips flare out as she bends down to open the sideboard where she stores her Haldiram snacks. She pulls out a Tupperware, grabs a fistful of salted cashew nuts and shoves them in her mouth. The salt leaves a faint silver dusting on her lips.

I catch my reflection in the kitchen window and suck in my stomach, run a quick hand through my hair, slap my jawline. It is still firm, and I have a full head of hair. It’s going grey, but I’m in good shape for a mostly sedentary Indian fifty-five-year-old man. Geeta’s different; there she sits, quietly giving up on herself, letting the careless pounds weigh down her five-foot frame year after year. Her once wide-open and alert eyes are now small and heavy, hooded with fatigue. Her mouth is set in a thin, anxious line. I want to help her, but I don’t quite know how.

***

Geeta mentions my invite to her older sister Lopa, who is in Bombay. She phones dutifully every Sunday at 8 p.m. Indian Standard Time. There are letters, too, that she writes – maybe once a month – where she can gush about the misery and glory of her English life.

‘Yes, didi, the business is doing well…’ she says that day, glancing at me. I turn the newspaper page so she won’t think I’m eavesdropping. ‘Yes… he’s so busy with all the orders… not so cold in Manchester now… he’s been invited to an exclusive dinner at the Mowbray Hall.’

The way she says it, you’d think Mowbray was a household name in Bombay, like Buckingham Palace or Harrods. I like the little white lies Geeta feeds her didi about the business doing well. I wish I could believe them myself as I drive up to my warehouse in Grotton day after day, year after year.

A few days before the golf do, I nip into Moss Bros on King Street and treat myself to a new Italian suit with a crimson silk lining. I want to look successful. Back at work, I ring Ben, my accountant at Coopers, the one responsible for the invite.

‘Glad you can make it, PK,’ he says. ‘What’s your handicap these days?’

‘I haven’t played for some time, but it’s in single figures.’ I make sure Margaret, my secretary, doesn’t hear me. I haven’t touched a golf club in years, and she knows. But she’s in the corridor making photocopies. I’d moved the stationery cupboard and the photocopier there on her advice. It stops the girls pilfering little things like staplers and printing paper.

‘I’ve got some bankers coming up for the weekend,’ Ben continues. He knew I was looking to buy some Italian cloth-cutting machines. ‘Someone quite important is coming too,’ he adds after a pause.

‘Prince Charles?’ I joke, but there’s a dull ache at the pit of my stomach. Bankers mean numbers, which means doing sums, showing profit and loss margins, explaining why my sales figures are quietly tumbling down like a house of playing cards.

Ben laughs. ‘Not quite. But someone who might be more useful to you – Cedric Solomon, schedule permitting, of course.’ His voice turns reverential.

‘How did you manage to rope Cedric Solomon in?’ I sit up straight and say Cedric’s name loud enough for Margaret to hear.

Cedric is the god of my rag-trade universe. He had swooped into Manchester from nowhere and was busy swallowing up the high street, buying businesses that were teetering on failure and loss-making labels that were still on the shelf past their sell-by date. He polished them, baptised them with sexy new names, and kerching! I hated his appetite and his guts.

‘Cedric and I were at school together,’ Ben says. ‘He’s doing it as a favour really. He’s a busy man, you know.’

I put the phone down and turn to Margaret, who’s now standing by my chair, holding invoices for me to sign. ‘Cedric Solomon is coming to the golf do,’ I say.

‘That’s nice.’ Her guarded voice gives away nothing. ‘You could talk to him about the denim jackets. We over-ordered. He might want to buy the excess stock off us?’ She pulls a hanky from her rolled-up M&S sweater sleeve and blows her nose. The damp walls of the warehouse have given her a year-round sniffle.

‘I’ve been trying to fix a meeting with him for years.’ I light my first cigarette of the day. ‘Just imagine – what if Cedric likes our stuff… who knows what might happen! We could even crack JCPenney and sell in America – he has enough contacts there.’

I shut my eyes and think of the possibilities. America. It’s where I should’ve been right from the start. Americans loved value for money, and my clothes were just that – Italian flair at Chinese prices. All I needed was a backer, someone like Cedric Solomon who’d put up the funds for the stock. And once the stock was gone, I could wrap up this business and go back to my first love, designing clothes – proper clothes that carried the style and cut of masters like Yves St Laurent and Pierre Cardin. Who knows, I could even have an atelier in Paris.

Solomon was shrewd. He’d take a chance on an old pro like me. I’ve worked in fashion long enough – not the glossy French sort like Dior or Chanel, which is what I really wanted, but the cheap, cash-and-carry variety, specialising in rip-offs of designer gear. I call it my Homage Line. A service to Joe Public. I alter a pocket here, a zip there, and sell it wholesale to retailers – mainly small-time shop keepers – who sell it on to the customer.

I became a hit at the right time: women were reading magazines and watching films and spending more on clothes. They wanted to look like film stars. They couldn’t get to St Tropez, but they could wear an LBD to a Salford pub and play at being Audrey Hepburn for a night.

Three years after moving to Manchester, I took out a loan from the Bank of Baroda and expanded the business for a song, soon getting the hang of selling skirts and T-shirts to punters hungry for cheap stuff from the Far East, long before the likes of Primark and Peacocks. I was the first to do it, no question about it, flicking through magazines like Vogue for ideas and kitting out the masses on the cheap. They were the golden days. The phone never stopped ringing. The faxes never stopped rolling. The air stank of money.

‘I told you we’d be all right,’ I said to Geeta after an enquiry came from Mrs Shrimpton, the chief buyer at BHS. She’d nodded happily, her fingers busy knitting booties, her body apple-round with our first child.

I sent Father a photograph of the warehouse, along with a newspaper cutting from The Grotton Evening News. There I was, right on the centre page, standing proud in front of the red-brick two-storey warehouse. I was‘the new face of immigration in England – an employer bringing jobs to deprived areas, not a scrounger on social benefits.’

‘Don’t tempt fate,’ Father wrote back in his simple villager’s English. ‘Luck is like fruit: leave it hanging on the tree too long, it will ripen and rot before your eyes.’

He was right.

At fifty-five, the tide’s turned. I own a warehouse the size of two football pitches, but most of it lies shrouded in darkness, musty with unsold stock. New-generation Asians and Jews working out of sweatshops on Cheetham Hill are busy churning out tatty copies off the catwalk. They are always a step ahead, with their websites and smooth-talking salesmen.

Entire weeks pass before the phone rings with an order, and when they do, it’s always a tiny one from places like Doncaster and Belfast – places I wouldn’t even spit at before.

‘Why should the girls break their backs over twelve wraparound skirts for a family store in Bognor Regis?’ I say to Margaret, but she’s a trooper who won’t give up the fight, going around the warehouse switching off lights, sending off for Italian brochures, doing all that she can to keep Malik Textiles from sinking.

Each day I watch the girls leave the warehouse on the dot at five. The days of overtime and last-minute orders are gone. My world is changing. The profit margins on my dresses are shrinking, the big chains are going direct to China and Bangladesh and the local market is crowded with competitors, smarter and younger, snapping at my heels.

‘Malik Textiles is no longer the leader of the pack,’ I tell Margaret after my chat with Ben.

‘What can you do? It’s the way of the world…’ she says, shaking her head slowly from side to side like a wise Buddha. Margaret’s from Scotland. They’re used to expecting the worst.

I could tell Geeta all this, but I don’t. She has worries of her own. I can read them in the lines that score her forehead like cuts from a knife.

***

This summer was particularly bad. Manchester rains chased away the sun yet again. I sit at my desk, surrounded by two container loads of unsold cotton frocks. There are days I want to set a match to the whole damn warehouse and run away to some far-off place.

I phoned my father the day we lost our biggest account.

A ten-year partnership ended in a two-line fax from the head buyer at Croakhams. I found out they were going direct and opening a warehouse in Guangzhou.

‘Don’t fool yourself into thinking things will get better,’ Father rasped over the phone. ‘They just tick-tock along until one day you wake up and the whole thing explodes in your face. Boom – just like a bomb.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘I told you, you should never have left Bombay. You should have been here for my old age. It’s the gods punishing you now for abandoning your country and your father.’

I slammed the phone down.

He died a month later. A sudden heart attack felled him near his flat in Bombay. A passer-by found my number in his pocket.

***

‘Here, come closer. Give me a hug, at least,’ I whisper to Geeta that night. Talking to Ben has made me hopeful. I slip an arm around her waist, my fingers sinking into the softness, trying to find a spark somewhere between my wandering hand and her slumbering flesh.

‘I don’t know why you’re bothering with this trip,’ Geeta says, moving to her side of the bed. ‘You won’t be there to watch Amar play his match.’

‘Something good will come out of it. I can feel it. I can network and make some new contacts. Who knows, I might even be able to start designing again.’ I smile into the darkness.

‘What’s the point? I’ve seen your wonderful designs. They’re too…’ She frowns, struggling to find the right word. ‘They’re too airy-fairy. They’re not meant for normal women. Just stick to what you know best. At least it pays the bills.’

I want to tell her that perhaps there’s more to life than just paying bills. That although we are growing old there’s still enough time left to fulfil our dreams, even dream new ones. I turn to her, but she is asleep.

I dream of Mother that night. I dream of her dying days when, too frail to come out of her room, she called out my name from her bed. I was young and selfish, too caught up in my world to care.

‘Come, son, tell me about college.’ She wanted me to sit with her and tell her about my day. Did I like economics? Just how many girls were running after her handsome son? I pretended not to hear as I sat cleaning my cricket bat or putting Brylcreem in my hair. I hated the hospital smell of her room and the thin, skeletal feel of her fingers that tried to curl round mine.

The day she died, the windows of her room were wide open. The cawing of crows crowded the silence. Mother’s body lay rigid in bed, a blue checked blanket pulled up to her chin. I stood by the door, watching as Father knelt on the floor, his head clumsily resting on her pillow, his knees splayed out beneath him. He held her hand. It was the only time I saw them touch.

Dear Lopa didi,

Hope the monsoons start soon in Bombay. Did Jijaji’s shop get burgled again? The mango season must be in full swing. Poor PK – he wanted to eat one today, but of course I didn’t have any. You know how he loves them. He’s worried these days. Walks around like an old man, which I suppose he is. It was his birthday last week. He’s fifty-five! I even baked him a cake. He thought I was baking bread. Unfortunately I didn’t get the oven setting right, so it was a bit undercooked. Never mind – we still ate it. He went and bought himself a personal number plate for his car. God knows how much it must have cost. You didn’t ring to wish him happiness. Maybe you were busy. One piece of good news is that he’s been invited to an important golfing weekend. He is going to meet people who may help with the business. Let’s see. People promise you the world and then laugh and say they were just kidding. I hope PK doesn’t get too disappointed – it’s not good for his health, all this worrying.

Any plans of coming to Manchester? I will ask again, but I know it’s not as simple as that – how can you leave the kids, your in-laws and Jijaji and just catch the Air India flight.

Look after yourself, and I will write again soon.

Lots of hugs to the kids,

Geeta

2

A BANK HOLIDAY DRIVE

It’s a May bank holiday, and I’m home with the family. I watch Geeta move about the kitchen. She wants me to put up some shelves in the garage. To store her pickle jars, she says.

‘Why don’t you keep them in the fridge like a normal person?’ I say.

Geeta stops slicing onions and gives me a look. The onions have made her eyes red-rimmed and watery. Every now and then her arm goes up and she wipes away the onion tears with the sleeve of her tracksuit top.

‘They won’t fit in the fridge. They’re the jumbo-sized ones I bought from Costco last week. They were on offer – six for only six pounds ninety-nine. I just had to get them!’ she announces proudly, like she’s won the lottery.

Everything about Geeta is jumbo-sized these days: the food she piles on to her plate; the clothes she wears; the grocery bags she brings home, crammed with two-for-one offers.

‘I’ll fix the shelves after lunch,’ I say, and go back to reading the Daily Mail.

Amar sits at the kitchen table, listening to our bickering. He’s pretending to do his maths homework. His tongue sticks out in concentration and his eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep. His cheeks, round and smooth like a girl’s, gently puff out as he chews the end of his pencil.

‘Amar’s starting to look a lot like you, Geeta,’ I say. I don’t mean it as a compliment. I stopped believing long ago that my son will one day grow into some strapping six-footer with a jaw line that sends girls into a swoon.

‘You think so?’ Geeta stares at him, her eyes brimming with love, knife hovering over the chopping board, smiling as though I’d reminded her of something pleasant. ‘He has definitely gone towards my side – look at those cheeks and eyes, just like his nanaji.’

‘And the double chin and the tummy’s definitely yours,’ I almost add – but I don’t. It would be cruel.

***

I should be grateful that I have a son. I remember the day Amar was born. A Sunday afternoon. I was setting off for the pub. It was the final game of the season – Manchester United were playing Chelsea. I was almost out of the door when Geeta’s waters broke. She slid to the floor, legs folding under her, her head hitting the corner of the IKEA chest as she fell. A thin stream of colourless fluid trickled down her leg, staining the front of her white nightie.

‘Please, God, please don’t let me lose this one!’ she whispered, her fingers holding her belly like a protective net.

‘We don’t need God. We need a bloody doctor, Geeta,’ I shouted, throwing a towel on the back seat of the car and bundling her in.

‘Don’t use the good towels – they’re for guests. Use the old one from our bathroom!’ Typical Geeta – practical even while on the verge of death.

She sat clumsily in the car, knees pushed up against her belly, moaning softly as I jumped through red lights all the way to St Mary’s hospital. Sunday wasn’t a good day for dying or giving birth, but at least the car park was empty.

The locum, Dr Adebayo, a Nigerian man with a caring smile, took charge of the delivery.

‘Now, Mamma, just you stay calm,’ he said, as he spread Geeta’s legs with his small, feminine hands. All these years later I still haven’t forgotten the doctor’s turquoise ring, the way it glinted on his little finger, and how taken I was by this trivial, absurd detail.

‘Can’t we get an English doctor? Or at least a lady doctor?’ Geeta pleaded with me, her face scrunched, small and frightened.

The labour lasted eight hours, and I didn’t let go of her hand even once.

‘A baby boy!’ Dr Adebayo announced, tugging at the stethoscope that hung limp around his neck like a garland. His forehead was hot and shiny. ‘Happy, Mamma? You see, I’m not so bad.’ He raised his eyebrow and wagged a finger at Geeta.

Faint with relief, I rushed out of the ward, found the nearest off-licence and bought a bottle of Bollinger champagne to thank the doctor, demanding that the sales assistant wound a bright red ribbon around its neck.

‘I’m a father – a father at last! Don’t you get it?’ I shouted at the woman at the cash register, but she couldn’t care less.

‘The baby’s a little on the small side,’ Dr Adebayo said, when I handed him the bottle as a thank-you. He drew the white plastic curtain around Geeta’s bed, snapped open his briefcase and slipped the bottle inside, just as the midwife arrived to check the baby’s heartbeat.

‘He only weighs five pounds, but he’ll live. He’ll live,’ Dr Adebayo repeated, patting Geeta’s cheek. His blue ring shone like a bolt of colour against her sucked-in, washed-out face.

‘He’s breathing? Make sure he’s breathing!’ Geeta said, tugging at my arm, her eyes fixed on the tiny towel-wrapped bundle the nurse was holding. The doctor gave her a wink.

‘Don’t worry, Mamma, he’ll live to be a hundred!’

‘He’s a gift from God,’ Geeta said when we were finally alone, with the baby lying like a floppy rag doll against her breast. Geeta’s eyes were shut, her hands clasped together and pointing towards the hospital ceiling, as though God had set up home there and would shake her hand and say, ‘Well done you, you’ve produced a living child at last!’

It was the first pregnancy she’d carried full term and not lost.

I was afraid to touch the tiny, twig-like limbs and the face with its blunt, blurred features. I was worried that the pressure of my fingertips would dent and bruise the baby’s blue-brown skin. How taken was I with this small creature then, little knowing what lay ahead of us – the exam failures, the continual illness, the tendency to shrug and slouch through life. All that lay waiting for us. But that Sunday, holding my newborn child in my arms, I saw him like a gift from God, like Geeta said.

And although the promise of those early days has faded through the years, I can never forget the drama of Amar’s birth. A wave of love leaps up inside me as I remember this. Maybe it isn’t too late. I can still turn Amar into something special.

‘Let’s have a party for your birthday this year, Amar.’ I lean forward to ruffle his thick head of hair. At least he’s inherited something from me.

Amar stops his pencil-chewing and looks at me, his eyes shining.

‘Fifteen’s a big age,’ I say. ‘And we’ve never really had a proper party for you.’

‘Can we go to Blackpool? Can we take the whole class?’ he says.

‘Why the whole class? Why not just one or two of your closest friends?’

‘Because then they’ll like me and want to be my friends.’

Geeta listens while she stirs ground almonds into his milk.

‘That’s going to cost a lot of money, Amar,’ she says, handing him the milk. The rides are expensive, and we’ll have to hire a minibus. It’ll easily come to five hundred pounds.’

I know she wants me to overrule her, to say, What the hell, it doesn’t matter, we’ll take the whole class – money isn’t an issue when it’s your only child who arrived after three miscarriages.

But I stay quiet. I’d sacked four girls from the hemming floor just the previous week, and it hadn’t been easy. One of them had worked for me for nearly six years. Margaret gave them the news at lunch, telling them the business needed to restructure. She used the right words, but they still cried as they picked up their kettles and rolled up their David Beckham posters. They left without saying goodbye. It’s not a good feeling to live with.

‘Can I at least take one friend? Please, Daddy? Please! A new girl has just joined our class. She’s very nice.’ Amar’s voice goes high.

‘We’ll go as a family, just the three of us. Make a day trip of it,’ I say.

‘Let’s ask the Guptas to come along. I’ll make potato cutlets and get a roast chicken, and some Coke.’ Geeta is smiling now. The deep-set frown on her forehead disappears momentarily.

These are happy times, family times, I tell myself as I sit with my family, planning Amar’s birthday. But my eyes keep going back to Geeta, to her untidy ponytail and her tracksuit, to where bleach has made a funny white patch on the sleeve.

When exactly did she become this way? When did the woman in chiffon saris and ironed satin petticoats disappear inside the person hiding in shapeless box-cut clothes and Adidas trainers? It was as though, in leaving Bombay, Geeta had left behind her old self, like a snake shedding its skin.

The rain stops. Through the kitchen window I see Mr Peters, our next-door neighbour, out in his garden, bending low over his rose bushes, gardening shears in hand.

‘Shall we go for a spin? Go up to the Lakes, Geeta? It’s been a long time.’ The suggestion comes out unexpectedly, surprising me.

‘I’ve got work.’ Geeta points to the pile of laundry on the ironing board and sighs. ‘These are your shirts for next week.’

‘We went all the time when Amar was young. What was the name of that ice-cream place he loved?’

‘Marcello’s,’ Geeta says straight away. ‘It was just across the road from the lake, next to the chip shop.’ She has the memory of an elephant where Amar is concerned. ‘Amar’s favourite was mint-chocolate-chip.’ A soft, faraway expression clouds her eyes. She looks at Amar. ‘You got a tummy ache. Remember that, Amar? You ate too quickly.’

‘Why don’t you go, Mum? Go for a spin with Dad?’ Amar says. He doesn’t want to come along. He wants to stay behind and catch up on his schoolwork.

‘It’ll be a good outing, Mum. You’ve not been out all week.’ He likes it when we go out together, leaving him alone with the television and the packets of Walkers and chocolate bourbons.

‘All right, all right, we’ll go,’ Geeta says, putting the clothes back in the laundry basket. ‘But we’ll have to be back by dinner time. I don’t like you driving in the dark.’

‘Of course we’ll be back,’ I say. ‘Why do you have to make a drama out of everything?’

I put the Daily Mail down on the table. The news isn’t good. Cedric Solomon has just bought out another competitor in Leicester. I read the article twice and look carefully at the photograph. Cedric is standing with his wife at some charity dinner, smirking at the camera, one arm thrown carelessly around her shoulder. Lucky bastard. I run my fingers over their picture, my thumb tracing the outline of his wife’s mouth. Was she always smiling? Was life that good?

***

Leaving Geeta to finish her chores, I light a cigarette and go into the garden to check on my mango tree. There are brown blotches on the branches. The wet weather isn’t doing it much good. Mr Peters spots me over the low hedge and waves. I wish he’d come nearer the hedge so we could chat about his wife – I’d heard she’d been diagnosed with cancer. But he carries on with his gardening.

‘The English are so bloody uptight,’ I say to Geeta when she comes over to stand by my side. I point out the brown patches on the mango tree.

‘It probably needs a strong pesticide,’ Geeta says.

We stand watching Mr Peters.

‘Poor man,’ she says. ‘I sent Amar over with some chicken soup for his wife.’

She’s done that before, sent over Tupperware filled with paneer and dal.

‘It’s no fun being old in this country,’ she continues. ‘Their kids never drop by. I bet they’ve not had a hot meal in years. Can you imagine Amar ever doing that to us?’ she says. ‘I’ll just go and pack some alu-chutney sandwiches for our trip. We can have a picnic by the lake.’

‘Let’s just go, Geeta,’ I say. ‘Why do we have to drag food into everything? There’re plenty of restaurants there.’

‘OK, calm down! You’ll be the first to complain if there are no snacks in the car. I’ll just go and put something warmer on.’ She goes upstairs to get ready.

It was going to be good for us to be out in the open, getting some fresh air. In the old days, Geeta would sometimes feed the ducks, throwing fistfuls of peanuts to them as they strolled boldly between our legs, until one day a polite warden came over and told us that in England ducks were fed bread, not spicy peanuts.

I go to the utility room to look for my wellies. They are lying dirty in an old Iceland carrier bag behind the mop bucket. I am buffing off the worst of the mud with a brush when Geeta comes in wearing a bright pink sweater over her tracksuit bottoms.

‘Why don’t you wear some jeans instead?’ I suggest.

‘I’ll be more comfortable in my tracksuit. It’s a long drive,’ she says, taking the wellies from me. She stands at the sink, rolling up her sweater sleeves. Her gold wedding bangles slide over her Marigold gloves as she washes my wellies.

The rain starts again. The gutter over the garage sputters out a jet of grey water. Mr Peters appears outside the window, buttoned up and warm in his green Barbour jacket and tweed flat cap. He’s walking his dog – an ugly black mutt with a stubby tail – which starts barking as it passes our house. Geeta’s convinced he’s allergic to Indians.

The rain is falling heavily now. Geeta sighs as she looks up from the sponge and wellies to watch the streams of water flowing down the outside of our windows. ‘Shall we even bother going now? It’ll soon be dark and the sun’s not coming out again today.’

I know what she’s really thinking: Will Amar be OK left on his own for so long? What I’m thinking is, What will we talk about during the two-hour car journey? Amar? The Guptas? The trip to India she keeps hankering after?

‘Why don’t we go somewhere nearer?’ I suggest. ‘What about Dunham Park? That’s not so far. The coffee shop there does good carrot cake. We’ll be back in no time.’

***

The car park is empty except for a red Ford Fiesta that’s parked right at the other end near a large bush.

‘The rain has kept the crowds away,’ I say, reversing the car into the empty slot next to the Fiesta.

Geeta shakes her head. ‘Why don’t you park nearer the entrance? It would be less of a walk then.’

I turn off the ignition and tell her it’s safer to park next to another car. Hooligans from Wythenshawe are always looking for lone cars to break into and steal the radio from.

Loud music booms from the parked Ford. The young couple inside are kissing; the girl has her eyes shut. Her hands stroke the man’s back. I glance at Geeta, who lets out a little giggle. She leans forward to get a better look, her head almost touching the dashboard.

We watch without saying a word. The girl suddenly raises her arms, and the man pulls off her white T-shirt. She’s wearing a red bra. He eases off the straps, and I see his mouth go down on her breast. I hear a moan. It’s Geeta. Her forehead is beaded with sweat. I’m about to say that we should get out of the car when the man spots us.

He turns off the music, rolls down the window and leans over the girl, his mouth twisted in anger. A small, shiny stud glints in his right ear. ‘What are you staring at? Bloody Pakis. Get the fuck out!’ He has a thick Scouse accent.

There’s no other noise but for the rain and the occasional distant sound of car tyres hitting a puddle. My fingers grip the steering wheel, unable to move.

‘Don’t call us Pakis. We’re Indians. Is that understood?’ Geeta shouts back, her face alive with anger.

The man says something else, but I don’t understand. He curls his fingers in the shape of a gun, takes aim at our heads and shouts, ‘Bang, bang! Get lost, scumbags!’

I hear a click. Geeta is locking the car doors. ‘Come on, PK. Let’s go home. This country’s going to the dogs.’ She grabs my arm. But I stay frozen, unable to start the car.

The girl stares straight ahead. Her bra is like a frilly collar around her neck. She’s made no effort to cover herself.

‘Come on, start the car. What are you waiting for? Do you want to be beaten up?’

I start the car, the steering wheel slippery beneath my hands. My foot feels as heavy as a stone as I press it down on the accelerator.

‘What’s this world coming to?’ Geeta says as we drive away. I stay silent. ‘Young people these days have no shame. Why can’t they do all this nonsense at home?’ She wipes her forehead with an old tissue.

We stop at a Pizza Hut on the way home, and Geeta orders her usual: Margherita with extra cheese, extra red onions and extra jalapeños. She gets a medium ham and pineapple for Amar. I order a coffee. I’ve lost my appetite.

When we get home, Geeta walks in holding the two pizza boxes aloft as though she’s returning with a prize.

Amar’s standing at the kitchen sink. His shoulders go rigid when he hears us enter.

‘What are you doing?’ I shout, and go up to him. He’s holding a bleach bottle and is trying to prise open the cap. ‘Drop that immediately!’ I snatch the bottle from his hand. ‘This is serious stuff – it’s not meant for kids. Geeta, have you seen what he’s doing? Don’t leave this stuff lying around.’

Amar’s bottom lip quivers as he tries to explain he was only trying to see if he could mix it with Ribena and make a new drink. ‘Like a chemistry experiment,’ he says.

‘It’s poison, Amar. It can kill you.’ Geeta pats him on the cheek. ‘Don’t do this again, OK?’ She kicks off her trainers and sits on the sofa, her legs folded under her. Picking up the remote and switching the channel to her favourite Indian soap, she pats the space beside her. ‘Come on – let’s sit and have the pizza.’

I’m not sure whether she means me or Amar.

I start flipping through his school notebook.

‘You’re home early,’ Amar says. He’s joined his mother on the couch and is helping himself to pizza.

‘It was raining heavily,’ I say. I ask him about his unfinished homework. He mumbles something about a girl called Alice, who’d rung him for a chat.

I tell Geeta that I’m going to lie down.

‘You must’ve caught a chill,’ she says. ‘Shall I make you a ginger tea? And some cheese on toast if you don’t want pizza?’ She’s already forgotten the incident in the car park.

‘I’ll take some paracetamol,’ I say, expecting her to come upstairs and talk about what we’d seen, hoping to find, somewhere inside her, a hunger for something bigger and brighter in life. But her eyes are calm and untroubled.

She goes back to her channel hopping and pizza eating.

Amar follows me up to my bedroom, asking if I’m angry with him about his unfinished homework. I shut the door in his face and go into the bathroom, pulling off my newly cleaned, unused wellies.

I flick down the toilet seat cover, light a cigarette and sit, staring at myself in the mirror above the washbasin. I will be sixty one day. My body and mind will start giving up on things. I think of the couple in the car and wonder if they’re married. I wonder how sex in a car would feel. I unzip my trousers, slip my hand in, and imagine how sex in a car with someone more glamorous than Geeta would feel.

Dear Lopa didi,

You won’t believe what happened the other day. PK decided we should go to the Lakes – the Lake District is just outside Manchester. We used to go there a lot when Amar was little. It’s almost as beautiful as Kashmir. Anyway, our plans changed, and we went to a park near our house. It was a miserable day, raining as usual, and a young couple in the car next to us started doing hanky-panky in broad daylight. It was most embarrassing. This kind of thing would never happen in Bombay. But worse than that was that they called us Pakis. We are just one big brown blob to the people here. They lump us all together and can’t make out who is Indian, Sri Lankan or Pakistani. Poor PK – he was very upset. He went straight up to the bedroom and slammed the door shut. I wanted to speak to him, but Amar needed me. Instead I ended up scolding Amar. Can you imagine – he was trying to drink a bottle of bleach. That boy has no sense. But maybe he will be a scientist when he grows up. He is so curious, like Einstein.

How is Jijaji? Is he travelling to Ahmedabad a lot for work? I saw on TV there were some riots. Tell him to be careful – the politicians are creating mischief between Muslims and Hindus. And your mother-in-law? Why don’t you get a massage lady to sort out her back? You shouldn’t be doing it on top of all the other work you do.

Love to the kids,

Geeta

3

LLAMAS IN WOODBRIDGE

I drive to Mowbray Hall on a rainy September afternoon. The drive is long and I wish Geeta was next to me, with a thermos of ginger tea tucked between her plump thighs, and the sharp, tangy smell of her alu-chutney sandwiches filling the car.

Mowbray Hall floats up at the end of a long driveway, shiny and grand, like a Bollywood film set. I stop the car and admire the view. Marble horses spit water from oversized fountains, and the sloping lawns are a billiard-table green. A herd of deer graze in the distance, their silhouettes sharp against the pearl-grey sky. It’s so different to the hot, muddy landscape of my early life, where the only view from our Mahalaxmi apartment window was of rusting television antennae pricking the Bombay sky and restless vultures circling over the Parsi cemetery in Kemps Corner.

I park my freshly washed Mercedes and go in, wheeling a five-year-old Samsonite after me. The girl at the reception desk looks up and smiles. A small dark mole sits just below her left eye. She’d be attractive but for that. I don’t want her to notice the scratched leather of my suitcase, so I hide it behind my legs. She’s wearing a black and white polka-dot blouse and a black skirt that shows off her size-eight waist. Her polyester clothes are definitely made in China or Turkey.

‘Prakash Kant Malik,’ she says slowly, reading my name carefully as she hands me a badge. My name sounds foreign and wrong in her pink English mouth.

‘Don’t worry about it. Just call me PK. It’s easier,’ I say.

A large gilt-framed mirror hangs on the wall behind the girl’s head. I pass a hand through my hair, pull my shoulders back and stand tall.

The girl asks me to follow her. Drinks are being served in the Oval Room. Her high heels ring out on the marble floor as we walk past portraits of kings and queens; their little hands clutch their swords and poodles, their mouths stitched tight. They look overdressed and unhappy.

‘They look miserable, don’t they,’ I say softly.

She giggles and slows her pace. ‘You’re right. They look totally pissed off.’

I’ve made an impression. I see it in the way she plays with the bow on her blouse.

I hear Gupta’s words in my mind, his voice low and vicious: ‘A bloody charmer, that’s what your husband is,’ he’d once said to Geeta. ‘The girls fly to him like bees to a honey pot.’ I’d made the mistake of inviting him to my office Christmas party, back in the days when my office parties were at the Midland Hotel and I could afford a proper four-course sit-down dinner for everyone, with a disco afterwards that played Abba songs, and fifty-quid Lewis’s vouchers for the staff as a bonus. I invited everyone, even the lads who collected the rubbish from the warehouse.

Gupta had sat upright in his chair all night, watching me swing the office girls round the dance floor. He saw them press themselves against me, their big hairdos brushing my face, and he ran to Geeta telling tales, like a snitch.

But Geeta stood up for me. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, putting Gupta in his place. ‘PK is the boss – he’s just doing his job. What can he do if they insist on having a dance?’ She’d thrown me a smile and patted her pregnant belly. The smile said, ‘I don’t care who you dance with. I’m the one who’s carrying your baby.’

A full-blown rose, that’s what Geeta was in those days, flushed with happiness, ripe with our first-born child, the one who came out stillborn, his body a mess of bone and blood. It was a boy, the nurses told me later.

‘Mr PK? Are you all right?’ The girl touches my jacket sleeve, and I’m no longer dancing with my staff at the Christmas party. I’m back at Mowbray Hall, cap in hand, begging for a loan from Cedric Solomon.

***

A group of men are huddled around the fireplace. The fire’s real; it’s not like the fire-effect gas one in my lounge that’s switched on twice a year, once at Diwali and then again at Christmas. The number of empty bottles on the table and their loud voices tell me they’re already merry. I’m glad Geeta isn’t with me. This isn’t her world – nor mine, for that matter.

Ben spots me. ‘Hi, PK! Good to see you. Was the traffic bad? The M6 is a bloody nightmare this time of day.’ He’s in a navy-blue kilt that’s tight around his paunch. I can smell the wine on his breath. We shake hands.

‘What’s with the kilt?’ I say. ‘I thought you were from Doncaster?

‘My party piece.’ He grins. He pushes a drink in my hand. The glass feels warm against my cold skin.

‘So, is the big man here?’ I ask. ‘Is Cedric here?’

‘Cedric couldn’t make it. A trade delegation… China or something. Gone with the Chancellor,’ Ben says. ‘He’s sent his wife instead, as a consolation prize.’ He giggles and dabs at his mouth with his handkerchief, as though getting rid of a stubborn stain.

My mood nosedives on hearing this. I’d missed Amar’s football match for no reason. It had taken four calls to the school’s PE teacher to ensure he got a place on the team. My eyes scan the room. ‘Who are these other geezers?’

‘I’ll introduce you. I think one of them looks after small businesses,’ Ben says, patting the pleats of his kilt.

‘My business isn’t small,’ I remind him as we join the others.

The men are chatting about golf, something to do with fairways and getting a birdie. Their synthetic ties and cheap shiny suits indicate that they are only paid employees. I quietly finger the sleeve of my new cashmere-blend suit with its crimson silk lining. Six hundred quid it had cost me, and I was too proud to ask for a discount.

‘What’s your handicap?’ It’s a fellow with ginger hair and a long, thin neck that sticks out of his collar like a javelin.

I don’t care what my handicap is. I want to talk business.

‘I’m the MD of Malik Textiles,’ I say, projecting the name loudly. I want him to recognise it right away.

He looks blank.

‘Malik Textiles,’ I repeat. ‘We supply ladies’ dresses to Harrods.’ This is not strictly true, but he’s not to know that I had only sent samples for their consideration and never got paid for them. I’m tempted to tell him how I’d sent Jane Fonda one of my designs to wear to the Cannes Film Festival. I remember it well. It was a blue velvet gown with hand-stitched Swarovski crystals that we couriered in from Vienna. In the end, she went for a big French name, not a Manchester desi like me. She did write back and say thank you, though.

‘Do you work for Cedric Solomon?’ he asks.

‘Similar line of business, but I have nothing to do with him,’ I say. The wine is giving me a headache.

I step outside and ring Geeta to find out whether Amar has scored in the match. It’s only the B team, so he’s bound to have played well. The phone rings out. I hope Amar hasn’t screwed things up. He’s been restless all week, even wet his bed. And all because of a stupid football match. I try Geeta’s number again and then go back inside to join Ben and start networking. The evening has to go somewhere.

***

A woman is talking to Ben. She turns round when I walk in. I see a mouth that is red and ripe, and a pair of light-coloured eyes. She’s wearing a close-fitting silk dress with a swirly black and pink pattern.

Ben introduces us. She’s Cedric Solomon’s wife, and her name is Esther. ‘As you know, Cedric’s away in China, but Esther kindly agreed to join us.’

‘I’m the plus one without the one,’ she says, and throws up her hands in mock despair. ‘Anyway, I’ve always wanted to see the gardens here. They were designed by Capability Brown, I believe.’ She offers me her hand.

My fingers close around the giant ruby on her right index finger. I want to say something clever, but all I can come up with is a pathetic, ‘Just call me PK.’ I’m glad my shoes are clean and my suit is new.

‘Interesting name,’ she says with a smile. ‘One day you’re going to tell me the story behind it.’

‘I saw your photo in the Daily Mail,’ I hear myself say.

Ben raises an eyebrow and grins. ‘Cedric and Esther are always in some newspaper or the other,’ he says.

The fur-trimmed cream shawl wrapped lightly around Esther’s shoulders slips a little, and I see the heavy curve of her breasts.

‘I like your dress. It’s Pucci, isn’t it? A reworking of their nineteen-fifties bestseller,’ I say, ignoring Ben.