by Helen Harris
After a moment, she could hear voices in the stairwell; Sylvia’s carrying tones and someone else who, oddly, wasn’t Jeremy. Smita craned to listen; it was the downstairs neighbour, cranky old Mrs Castellini; Sylvia and Mrs Castellini apparently engaged in an animated conversation about the unusually cold spring weather. Not a squeak out of Jeremy; what was he doing, why didn’t he hurry her up? And how come Mrs Castellini was being so matey with Sylvia when she was always so hostile to them?
Smita could imagine Jeremy standing on the stairs, doubtless seething, red in the face, probably carrying all his mother’s luggage too but still not managing to open his mouth and tell her to get a move on. Smita waited; oh, this was so typical. She could hear Mrs Castellini recalling the long hard winter of 1963 – snow lying in London for two months, the Thames freezing over – and Sylvia outdoing her with 1947; she had only been a small child but she could still remember it quite clearly, the snow that had fallen in January and stayed on the ground until Easter. In sheer exasperation, Smita closed the door quietly and went back upstairs. She may as well carry on with making the lunch until Sylvia finally deigned to make her way up and greet her.
A few moments later, she heard Jeremy push against the front door, assuming it would be open, exclaim and unlock it before coming into the flat calling loudly “Smi? Smi? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she called back. Now her hands were covered with green flecks of chopped coriander. Too bad; she came out into the high glass atrium, holding her hands up so Sylvia could see how hard she was working on her behalf and greeted her, she thought very warmly, “Hello Sylvia, how are you? How was the flight?”
Sylvia was out of breath from all the stairs – and all the talking – and instead of answering, she barged forward and seized Smita in a smotheringly close embrace. As if, Smita thought resentfully, she was trying to make up with the scale of the hug for the slightness of her feelings.
Afterwards in the kitchen, Jeremy whispered to her – Sylvia was paying a lengthy visit to the bathroom to freshen up – “Couldn’t you at least have come down and opened the door to her?”
Smita was indignant. “But I did,” she whispered back. “I did. I stood there for ages waiting for you both to come up. But she was taking so long, nattering away to Mrs Castellini, that I gave up and came back up here to get on with the lunch.” She glared at her husband. “Why did you bring all her luggage here instead of dropping it off at the hotel first?”
“It took forever to get here,” Jeremy whispered back, “and anyway she wanted it this way round.”
“Oh,” Smita said nastily. “Of course.” Then, relenting, she asked, “Apart from the weather, what on earth was she talking to Mrs Castellini about?”
“Mrs Castellini was offering her condolences,” Jeremy whispered. “Actually she was rather nice.”
“How did she know?” Smita whispered.
Jeremy looked a little uncomfortable. “I happened to have a chat with her a few weeks back. I told her that my father had died.”
Smita was amazed and rather put out. She whispered, “I thought we weren’t talking to them until they agreed to redecorate the common parts.”
Jeremy shrugged. Before he could continue, they were both alarmed by a sudden squawk and a loud thud from the bathroom. They exchanged glances. Jeremy ran over to the bathroom door and called loudly, “Mum? Are you ok?”
The door opened and Sylvia hobbled bravely out. “My, your tiles are slippery!” she exclaimed, rubbing her hip. “I nearly fell, you know. Thank goodness, I managed to grab onto the towel rail and save myself.”
Smita made a mental note to check the towel rail for damage and, sure enough, when she slipped discreetly into the bathroom a little while later, the towel rail was visibly lopsided and there were cracks running across two of the tiles to which it was fastened. Smita was livid. Sylvia couldn’t care less of course. Why, she hadn’t even noticed. She hadn’t been in the house for five minutes and already she was wreaking havoc. There was naturally no point in complaining to Jeremy. He would just say it was an accident and thank God his mother hadn’t been badly hurt. So Smita contented herself with writing “Call tiler” in large legible handwriting on the To Do board in the kitchen and she hoped that Jeremy would notice it pretty soon.
He settled his mother comfortably on the cream couch and brought her a drink. Smita would rather he had seated her anywhere else for she would surely spill her drink but at least to start with Sylvia opted for tonic water only so Smita was grateful for that.
She carried on preparing the lunch, resentful that she should be working away in the kitchen when she felt so terrible while Jeremy sat across the room with his feet up, talking to his mother. If she was honest with herself, she would rather be in the kitchen than talking to his mother, but still.
Lunch seemed to be an ordeal for all three of them. Smita could only manage some rice and, while Sylvia made a great display of appreciation, in actual fact she only picked at her food which made Smita feel even more resentful, considering all the effort she had gone to. The only one who ate heartily was Jeremy, taking big demonstrative second helpings of lamb and rice and dal. Smita knew he was doing it partly to placate her and partly because, with his mouth permanently full, there was no way he could be expected to take part in the conversation.
Nobody seemed to have a great deal to say. Sylvia whose chatter normally drove them both to distraction was distinctly subdued; her bereavement and the overnight flight, Smita supposed. She herself was feeling so dreadful – and depressed now too – that it was an effort simply to keep up appearances and Jeremy who might have been expected to jolly things along seemed to have decided to opt out and eat himself into an early grave.
In order to fill a particularly long silence, Sylvia told them for the second time the not terribly interesting story of the Russian gentleman who, it turned out, was no gentleman at all who had helped her with her case. Even though Jeremy and Smita had agreed many times before that if an old person started to repeat herself, it was a kindness to point it out to her, there was no response from Jeremy beyond a non-committal noise and leaning across to take a couple more spoonfuls of raita.
Smita would have made the effort, would have contributed something if only she hadn’t been feeling so unwell and, of course, if the only topic worth talking about was not totally taboo. She stuck to doing the hostess thing, offering food and afterwards tea and pretending to listen politely to whatever her mother-in-law had to say.
The meal was, all in all, a ghastly strain and Smita was glad when Sylvia said to Jeremy, soon afterwards, “When it’s convenient, would you run me over to the hotel please dear? I simply have to have my forty winks, I’m afraid.”
To Smita, she said brightly in the hall, “Thank you for a lovely lunch, dear. I’m sorry you went to so much trouble when you weren’t feeling well. I hope you get over your bug quickly. And maybe in a couple of days, when we’re both more ourselves, I can invite myself over for a cup of tea?”
“Of course,” Smita answered through gritted teeth, “of course you can.”
When the door had closed behind Sylvia and Jeremy, Smita went wearily back into the front room and started to clear up. Jeremy had told her to leave it all for him but she preferred to have a job done to her liking. She wondered whether Sylvia really had no idea what the matter was with her daughter-in-law or whether, not having been let in on the secret, she was just being coy. She decided that Sylvia really had no idea; she was so self-centred and so obtuse, it was hardly surprising that she hadn’t worked it out. Well, if Smita had anything to do with it, she wasn’t going to find out in a hurry either because Sylvia simply couldn’t help herself; she would immediately tell the news to every single person she met. At the realisation that her mother-in-law was now part of this too, Smita allowed herself a few hot angry tears.
In the car on the way to the hotel, Sylvia apologized to Jeremy. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the life and soul
of the party. All this has rather knocked the stuffing out of me, you know.”
“It’s OK,” Jeremy answered, without looking at her. “No one expects you to be bubbly at a time like this.”
He negotiated an apparently nonsensical junction in silence. Outside the window, a blurred city slipped past.
After another pause, Sylvia added, “I’m sorry Smita’s not feeling well. I hope she gets over it quickly.”
Jeremy seemed to be giving her a strange look.
“It’s not anything serious, is it?” she asked in alarm.
Jeremy appeared to be having difficulty controlling his emotions. He was sweating profusely – although maybe it was just all the curry he had stowed away at lunch.
“Honestly,” he said, apparently indignantly, “have you really not got a clue what’s the matter with Smi?”
“No,” Sylvia replied in genuine bewilderment. “No, I haven’t.”
Jeremy went extremely red in the face and Sylvia wondered how on earth she had angered him this time. She was so tired, her mind was in so many different places that at first she didn’t really take it in when Jeremy exclaimed, “Can’t you guess? She’s pregnant!”
“Ah,” said Sylvia. A moment later, she jolted wide awake and cried, “Jeremy! That’s marvellous news. Congratulations!”
If Jeremy hadn’t been driving, of course Sylvia could have hugged him or at least given his arm a good squeeze. As it was, she had to limit herself to a cascade of exclamations and questions. But it was too late; however much she exclaimed and however many eager questions she fired at him, she already knew that Jeremy would never ever forgive her for that first pause when she hadn’t been listening properly. He wouldn’t accept that it was due to fatigue and distraction; he would believe that it was because deep down she didn’t like Smita. She didn’t like Smita and consequently she wasn’t really all that thrilled that they were having a baby because it would surely cement their marriage.
So Sylvia jabbered away, being as overjoyed and effusive as she could manage in her exhausted state, while sneaking sideways looks at Jeremy’s quizzical expression and finally she said the one thing which must surely make Jeremy feel sorry for her, “Oh, isn’t it such a shame that your father isn’t here to hear the news? He would have been so thrilled.”
To which Jeremy responded, turning deftly onto the forecourt of an immense hotel, “It’s a great shame. He would have made such a wonderful grandfather.”
Did Sylvia hear a reproach? She busied herself gathering her belongings and decided, if it was a reproach, that she would not hear it. How could Jeremy possibly know what sort of a grandmother she would make? Goodness, a grandmother; she had not really thought about that before.
She hobbled into the hotel lobby behind Jeremy, feeling suddenly indescribably old. Her feet and ankles were still swollen from the flight and her shoes hurt. While Jeremy dealt with the details of her booking, she sat down in a deep leather armchair, her head reeling. It was all too much, frankly; first, she had without any warning become a widow and now, equally suddenly, she had been told she was going to become a grandmother. She felt she was losing all sense of who she actually was. She was sitting in an anonymous hotel whose name she didn’t even know in a city where she had no wish to be and outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lobby, instead of the English spring which she had happily anticipated, it seemed to be the bleak midwinter.
“Are you ok?” Jeremy asked, stooping over her.
She must have closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m fine,” she replied resolutely, “just tired.”
She struggled to get to her feet out of the enveloping depths of the armchair and Jeremy had to offer her a hand and help haul her up.
They did not speak in the lift because they had to share it with a tremendously fat Middle Eastern-looking man in a white towelling bathrobe. He filled the lift with the potent reek of chlorine and Sylvia drew a little passing comfort from this sign that somewhere in the hotel there was a swimming pool – and maybe a sauna too – warmth and another element into which she could escape. All her life, she had used swimming as an escape from all sorts of things.
Jeremy unlocked the door to her room and instructed her how everything worked – the curtains, the television, the minibar – as if she had become completely incapable. Then he said rather awkwardly, “Ok, well I’d better be getting back. I don’t want Smi to have to do all the washing up. Now you have a good rest, won’t you. I’ll give you a ring in the morning and we’ll take things from there.”
Only then, as he was on the point of leaving, did it occur to Sylvia to ask, “How far along is she Jeremy? When is the baby due?”
And, pink and pleased in spite of himself, Jeremy answered proudly, “Nearly ten weeks. The baby’s due in October.”
Sylvia started. “Ten weeks?” she repeated. “But that’s exactly when –” her voice broke off.
Jeremy looked uncomfortable. “I know. Dad. The timing was really weird. Quite hard on Smi actually. We found out the day after the funeral.”
Sylvia dabbed at her eyes with a handy hotel tissue. “Well it’s marvellous news anyway,” she mumbled, “Marvellous. I’m so pleased for both of you. Please make sure to tell Smita I said so.” She was frankly sobbing now and she knew she was due another wooden embrace from her son and another staccato little pat on the back. When it came, she responded by squeezing his other hand energetically. Then she pulled herself together and said bravely, “Now run along Jeremy. Smita needs you.”
The hotel room was silent and still. It was on the cold side too but Jeremy hadn’t shown her how to turn up the heating. Bed was the place to be. Why in Dubai it would be nearly bedtime. She would feel a lot better tucked up in bed; she would shut her eyes and shut out London. Sleep would do her the world of good.
It was in Hong Kong that Sylvia had first discovered the secret pleasures of the siesta although of course in those early years of married life sleep had nothing to do with it. Sometimes, on the steamiest days, Roger would nip home from the office on the pretext of a business meeting or a long lunch with a client. In broad daylight and with the thermometer showing simply unbelievable temperatures, they would sneak into their huge bedroom with the rotating fans, away from their snooping maid and close the blinds. In the sultry half-darkness, they would get up to things they would never have dreamt of in London. Most days of course, Roger couldn’t get away from work; he really did have business meetings or long lunches with clients. Or so he told Sylvia.
How odd it felt to be having a siesta with cold rain lashing at the window. As soon as Sylvia lay down, she felt wretched; the hotel bed seemed huge and she felt unutterably alone in it. She could almost feel a howl beginning deep within her. She did hope that she wasn’t going to start that frightful wailing again as she had when they first brought her the news in Dubai. She had no idea she could make a noise like that. It was a noise straight off the television; the sound of Arab women mourning their lost loved ones at a funeral. Sylvia had not even realised straight away that the noise was coming from her. How mortifying it would be if, in spite of herself, she started to make that noise again here. People would come running down the hotel corridor, they would bang on her door. If she didn’t answer, they might let themselves in with a skeleton key and, seeing the state she was in, they would doubtless summon Jeremy. She would be in trouble again.
She wrenched her mind away from Roger and firmly she thought of her grandchild. Conceived in January, revealed in February, he would be born in October. There was not even a shadow of doubt in Sylvia’s mind that he would be a boy. The extraordinary timing, that he should first make his presence known in the same week in which his grandfather was laid to rest, could not be mere coincidence. Not that Sylvia was the least bit believing. While she might have had mindless inclinations towards church when she was young, all those years she had lived in India and in the Middle East, seeing the ravages of religion close-up had thoroughly put her off it. You simply c
ould not witness everything which she had witnessed during her sixty-two years and still go on believing in a God. But the timing of her grandson’s conception seemed to send a signal; one way or another, the little boy was coming to take his grandfather’s place. Here she was, on the verge of howling one minute and counting on her fingers to calculate the time of his arrival the next. Sylvia shivered with excitement – and a little bit with cold from the chilly sheets.
So not everything was over. Until now, when she tried to look ahead, she could only foresee lessening, withering. She had imagined this next, last stage of her life would be terribly bleak and would require great bravery. Yet here was something completely unexpected which had already – ten weeks after Roger’s death – filled her with a great rush of excitement and anticipation.
Sylvia had never given much thought to being a grandmother, never having been – if the truth were told – all that motherly. But now that it was going to happen, she understood what a marvellous thing it would be. All the thoughts which she knew she would have later – about how English the little boy might look and how Indian and about Smita’s suitability as a mother – she pushed to one side and focused only on the imagined child. She could not see him at all clearly but she could see herself taking him to the zoo in Regent’s Park and to the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, all the same things in fact which she had found such a crashing bore when she had first done them years ago while home on leave with Jeremy. What was striking – and baffling – was that, this time round, she felt thrilled at the prospect of doing them. She would need to keep a close eye on Smita and Jeremy of course; they would neither of them make ideal parents. Their flat was nightmarishly unsuitable for a small child too with all those sheer drops and all that glass. Sylvia thought her way around it, making a painstaking inventory of all the things she would have to tell Smita to change. It was a long list and it grew rather boring after a while.
When she woke up, it was night time. For the first few seconds, she had no idea where in the world she was or what sort of time it might be. The luminous digital alarm clock showed 20:20. But Sylvia felt wide awake and adventurous as if it were already morning. She knew that Roger was dead but, for a moment, the disorientation distracted her from her grief. She looked out at all the little lonely lights of the city twinkling in the dark – she hadn’t drawn the curtains – and she wondered what on earth she was going to do here. Then she remembered she was going to have a grandson.