Black Bread White Beer Page 10

  The box is one of Liz’s makeshift Tupperwares, an old Chinese takeaway container stained pink and orange with age. Sandwiches or salad have been thrown out for a brown letter envelope sealed with tape. He is unsure whether this is for dramatic effect or for added protection, should the plastic fail to stay airtight for whatever reason. Neither is a good enough excuse. He rips it in a dense, echoing heartbeat, already knowing the identity of the digger – a thirty-something woman masquerading as Sussex hoodies – but still unsure as to what he will find.

  It is a photo of him and Claud taken last weekend at Liz and Sam’s. They are in their good clothes because of a Village Association dinner that the in-laws are holding. Look like a couple of Allsorts. He is wearing the pink grapefruit cashmere v-neck she gave him for Christmas; she is in a turquoise wrap dress bought that day because she wanted to start preparing her wardrobe for roomier gear.

  The afternoon drive down had been a blast. She sang along to Blur, songs from their student days, poking fun whenever he joined in and got the words wrong. Couple of hours of harmless baiting, toasty from the fan heater, and enjoying each other’s company. One of those days when everything is right about their choices and where they have ended up.

  When Liz takes the shot on her digital, a Mother’s Day present from both of them, the sheen threatens to fade altogether. The guests have just been laughing over a joke Sam had made. Something along the lines of how many Poles does it take to change a light-bulb. The seats of Village Association pants moisten with this repertoire. Much of the same stuff has been bandied about all evening, all satisfied in the knowledge that it will never be them forced into this line of work; that no downturn will put them in the position of being seen as the lesser man. Catastrophe doesn’t happen to hard-working, rambunctious taxpayers like themselves.

  If there is tiredness in his face as he listens for the dreaded punch line, something that is guaranteed to be crass and wilful in its humiliation, he does not show it; smiling for the camera like a pro, always ready to leave nothing less than his best impression. It is the immigrant’s millstone: even in the face of this smug, politically incorrect tediousness he will remain all eyes and teeth, determined never to be less than his most exemplary self. He ignores all the good sense that tells him his household is no different, where Puppa will curse all other native tongues and religions other than his own; only that Sussex is an indirect and far crueller beast. Sam can be throttled later on. Claud can be argued with upstairs. Liz’s better glasses can be smashed against patio stones in exasperation for not bringing this rubbish to a halt.

  Claud too can leave her irritation with him for another time. Her hand on his thigh is well aware of the stiffening that ripples through him as Sam continues his end of the pier entertainment. Though neither are facing one another, he knows her well enough to understand her displeasure is twofold: that he could ruin the prospect of a good picture by indulging his frown lines or tightening his lip; and that, after all this time, he is still capable of getting annoyed with what is just some light joking to distract their guests from draining the drinks cupboard before time.

  It is not so much that he has taken offence, more that he should learn not to become offended at all; that he should sit back and take it like the Kolkata bitch he is. Train himself to hide it better from her, at the very least.

  Not even the clarity of a digital print can ease the tension in the photograph, as if they are living, breathing human photo-shoppers, consciously editing themselves when Liz fumbles with the capture button she is still unable to master. It is left to his wife to save him.

  ‘Tracey Jacks! Left home without waning. Tracey Jacks! At five in the morning,’ she whispers in his ear in her best Mockney accent. A throwback to their afternoon of Blur-induced merrymaking.

  He laughs out loud, as Liz clicks, surprised and delighted as a child being sung his favourite nursery rhyme, not just because it is a tune that gives pleasure but because how well she knows him, responds to his need. He is lucky. He should admit it more.

  In the photo, Claud shines as much as he does. They have a baby inside them and everything about their future is radiant and full of good hopes. They have been groomed to be picture perfect; a walking advertisement that a marriage such as theirs can be free of discord and immune to outside interference. Hers is a thick hide, seasoned over a lifetime; his from a six-month crash course leading up to the wedding when he was told by everyone to iron out his flaws.

  ‘You should only marry this girl if she makes you happy,’ said Ma, ‘we never brought you up to think that we would stand in your way. We’re not like those maniacs in the news who chop the hands and heads off their children . . . but, you must not shame this family. Don’t bring any bad behaviour into your marital home; anything that will cause her family to say, “hmm, I suppose that’s how he was brought up. We shouldn’t expect anything different.” If I hear anything along those lines, receive any late-night phone calls from unimpressed mother-in-law, I’ll come down there and beat your shitty arse.’

  ‘What she means is, we wish you all the luck in the world, Amal, but you must watch your back. Her people look like a bunch of backstabbers. Never trust them for an instant.’

  ‘Oh, why couldn’t you have married a simpler girl, if you wanted English, sonny? It’s not been six weeks since the wedding and already I feel the complications. Mark my words, it will get worse.’

  Lodged under the photo is her hospital wristband. He takes his time touching it, gingerly, as if his fingertips will pop into open blisters the moment he makes contact. Everything about the heat, the drama of the hospital seems to have been condensed into this flimsy plastic loop with her identity starkly penned in biro: Brown-Joshi, C. How does fear come in a package so small? What made her want to bury it?

  Then he remembers the collection of cells, and the power of something so minuscule, in that moment understanding everything that the wristband represents. He dry gags a couple of times before expelling a miserly trail of watery spit into his child’s grave. It is not a malicious act. He just cannot think where else he can flob undetected.

  ‘Nothing here,’ Sam calls. ‘They didn’t touch the shed. Got a little distracted putting the workbench away. Threw everything in the other day when it started raining without dismantling it first. Very sloppy job.’

  He pockets the wristband before Sam comes back, grimacing as he pushes it down into his pocket, knowing that this somehow buries the baby deeper than Claud’s first efforts. Out of sight. Non-existent.

  ‘You had any luck there? Look at you, up to your knees in mud, like a sand boy.’

  ‘It’s a Tupperware with a picture of me and Claud in it.’

  ‘She’s back doing the time capsules, is she? That takes me back.’

  ‘It’s normal, then?’

  ‘It is in this house. She’s never been the type of girl to keep scrapbooks or anything like that. You know that for yourself. I bet those wedding photos are still languishing in an envelope in a bottom drawer waiting for one of you to paste them into an album.’

  ‘That’s very true, sir.’

  ‘Look around this garden, Amal. I guarantee there’ll be two of three other Tupperwares within spitting distance. She was always doing them as a kid. Why do you think we don’t have any proper Tupperwares left indoors? She used them all up! Sent Liz mental, until we realized that it was just her way of understanding things. Her favourite sandals got the same treatment once she’d grown out of them. There’s a Duke of Edinburgh’s Bronze Award lying around somewhere too, I think.’

  Sam’s forgetfulness of his earlier indignation shows a fragility of mind that softens his indignation at ‘sand boy’, making him feel protective for the third time that afternoon. Aware he is being led down a path of humanity towards his in-laws, everything about this visit has made it so, he pulls back, resisting the urge to complete the cycle with a reassuring pat on his father-in-law’s shoulder.

  ‘She likes souvenirs, that
girl. Just doesn’t like having them cluttered around.’

  He thinks of their living room, piled with magazines but barren of mementos bar one enlarged wedding photograph taken on the church step.

  Sam studies the picture with pursed lips, the skin cracked with too much beer. His heavy breathing suggests wonderment: how his little girl let herself get knocked-up by a guy who will only bring trouble. The birth of his first grandchild will only emphasize the alienness of its nuclear family; something that feels a little too modern for comfort in this sleepy village. The house was only connected to broadband last year. The latter half of this decade’s social and technological advancement has yet to arrive.

  ‘Good picture, mate. You look very smart, the pair of you.’

  ‘Even with the food stain on my jumper?’

  ‘We need to teach you how to be less messy with the lasagne. It was all over the tablecloth if I remember.’

  ‘No, that was you and your red wine.’

  ‘Ha! Touché! Very good. You shouldn’t worry too much about it being ruined, mate. Liz would’ve made a copy. If I know her, probably three.’

  He realizes now that the corners are already waterlogged from an unseen crack in the Tupperware and bleeding their colour. His fingers are stained with the red-black ink that dominates printer cartridges; wet with it, like soothing water mist from tropical rains, cooling all that is too hot to handle.

  He feels the rush of blood through his ears as the implication reaches him. An understanding that makes him cold with fear at what he must do.

  A quiet voice within him suggests he should say a little prayer because everything about the setting and of Claud’s gesture is the closest he will get to a goodbye. Say a prayer and put your child to bed. Do not think of the toilet bowl about to be pulled from your Richmond bathroom and thrown into a plumber’s skip. Pretend the garden is the place. Put your lips on Claud’s face, and her stomach, and send your child off with a prayer.

  All he can think of is the Serenity prayer taught to him by the patient conversion class priest. All this time he thought he had taken in nothing, and here were the words coming to him perfectly as he silently recites. He ignores the betrayal pangs that indicate an insult to his roots; that he chooses the prayer over something Hindi, a mantra, but he cannot grapple with that now. As a parent he can only put his child first.

  But before he gets the chance to finish, he feels it snatched from his hands again. Sam is forcefully placing it back inside the Tupperware, without the envelope, before laying it in the hole. The only care he takes over the procedure is a final straightening of the box in its resting position, keeping up his job as the protector of Claud’s flights of fancy.

  ‘Stop daydreaming.’

  ‘In a minute, Sam.’

  ‘You can get all misty-eyed later, you sentimental so and so. I need a hand putting this soil back where we found it. Don’t want our girl getting upset, do we?’

  He gently throws a couple of mounds across the box, whilst Sam, impatient, and eager to get back indoors, kicks in his contribution. The covering with dirt is the completion of his prayer, the best he can hope for. He is prepared to lie through dinner if it means stealing more private time outdoors. Let them think he is smoking, growing aggressive tumours in his chest, because of an urgent nicotine fix. Let them think what they like.

  ‘You’re looking after her, aren’t you, Amal? I was worried about how pale she was looking earlier until I remembered how sick Liz used to get in the early stages. You have to be attentive, mate. She’ll be relying on you these next few months. We all are.’

  ‘What do you see when you look at that picture?’

  ‘I don’t get you, son.’

  ‘You were studying it. What did you see?’

  ‘My daughter and son-in-law having a laugh in the living room. What is this?’

  ‘And? What else?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re into all this symbolism crap. Has Liz’s rubbish rubbed off on you?’

  ‘I’m not that easily led, Sam. Coming from an Indian family, remember.’

  ‘Oh yes, your religion. Sorry, your old religion. Ha!’

  His laugh is like a kick to the guts. Sam has always had him down as a perfect fool: malleable, docile, and loaded. He must have split his sides with the prospect of torturing him as he walked Claud down the aisle. His eyes narrow in this continual sizing-up, wondering how best to take him on.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You want to start a fight. I don’t see a half-caste baby if that’s what you’re trying to make me say. I wouldn’t disrespect either you or my grandchild that way.’

  ‘I see the future. Me and my wife looking forward to something life-changing. Frightening, but life-changing. Did you notice how we were grinning with the terror of it?’

  ‘Like a Cheshire cat. Relax a little, Amal. What you’re going through is the same as any other father-to-be.’

  ‘I am relaxed . . . Which is what?’

  ‘Shitting yourself! Ha! Every bloke feels that way with their first. You should talk about these things instead of winding yourself up.’

  ‘Clear off, Sam. Leave me to get on with this. Look how much mess you’re making.’

  ‘Oi! You’re the one badgering me on what I see. You can’t get the hump ’cos you don’t like the answer.’

  ‘That’s only one observation. I want more.’

  ‘You’re a financial analyst, not a forensic scientist. Who gives a stuff what I see?’

  ‘I do. I’m family.’

  ‘That can be rectified.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m just teasing, son. Having a little fun with you! This is just another example of why you should lighten up. You’re always so tense when you come here. I can see it in your face.’

  He fought with Puppa several times in his teens. Puppa, high on rum and a bad night at the tables, sorely overestimating his strength; Amal, rippling with hormonal energy and angry as hell at the domestic upset his father’s 3 a.m. arrivals brought. He wonders now whether he still has the agility and the resilience to hit an old man; to really hurt him.

  He remembers the softness of Puppa’s cheek, that for some reason it felt softer than when he kissed him; pillow soft; his knuckles springing back from the doughy elasticity of his skin. Sam’s genes are far removed from those Indian genomes that mostly shape Joshi faces; round and veering towards chubby. His is square and defined, everything about his obtuseness hanging from razor-sharp cheekbones.

  All the tension he’s ever felt towards Sam has never reached down as far as his fist, his head and heart absorbing both the little nicks and the general aura of benign tolerance which floats his way. But he sees now that it could happen, and entertains the momentary pleasure it would bring. He is under no illusion that Sam would return the courtesy in such circumstances. Amal carries more weight but his father-in-law has a considerable height advantage, a factor that guarantees he will be knocked out with the return punch. Sam is lean and strong. All that guff about the washing machine was motivated by a desire to see him sweat. So even if Sam does manage to have more sense in the heat of the moment, realizes it is not such a great thing to punch your son-in-law with your complete body strength, even a slap and a demonstrative push in the right position would send him staggering into the ugly bird bath.

  How to come back from a descent into physicality? How to face his wife? Is there anything worth bloodying a knuckle for, in the first place?

  What ties him to this house aside from the ring on his left hand and a signed certificate curling with damp in their attic? He thinks of the feuds that have run and continue to run across various strands in his family, most of them originating from far lesser slights. Aunts have not spoken to cousins after allegedly being ignored at weddings; brothers have fought over lost tools, or the wills of those still living; sisters-in-law turn mute over stolen recipes and unreturned saris.

  As a child, their house dog at his paternal grandparen
ts’ in Kolkata, Sunny, needed to be beaten just once by Puppa before he learned never to wolf food from the table again. Perhaps such a lesson is what Sam needs: a firm gesture to end the constant wind-ups, and to ease the stinging still felt in his fingers from having the photograph snatched away.

  But he knows how weak a plunge into fighting will make him: chaiwalla trying to stand his ground three years too late. The time has passed to mark his territory. If he wanted respect he should have commanded it from the outset. Like Sunny, pissing in a corner of their living room on the day they brought him home.

  Sam’s body language too has changed – he has stiffened, his frame defensively hunched, eyes narrowed, lips pursed into little more than a slit. His fingers tighten and slacken into his palm as if warming up. He has been showing signs of developing arthritis in his hands. Amal know this, but only wants to read warfare into his gestures, like re-enacting historical battles they’re so fond of doing in this part of the world. Crusader vs. Raj.

  ‘Where’s this shouting come from, son? They’ll hear us inside.’

  ‘Tell me what you see!’

  ‘Sun gone to your head or something? You’re acting very strangely.’

  ‘Stop detracting and answer the question.’

  ‘Perhaps your blood sugar is low. I’ve some fruit pastilles in the greenhouse.’

  ‘It’s not the damn sugar.’

  ‘Dehydrated, then. I read somewhere that too much tea has a diuretic effect.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘What’s going on, Amal? Is the hole upsetting you? She used to do this all the time, I told you. Nothing to worry about. Just those pregnant hormones flying around.’

  Sam has political qualities, this ability to slip free from arguments, something he has never fully appreciated. Even in the face of a knuckle sandwich lies Sam’s proven belief that he can talk himself out of anything.