by Frances Pye
Terry spun around, her eyes having a hard time taking in what she was seeing. In her world, football games were played on dull, cold days, in dank stadiums. In her world, the fans were young thugs wearing huge boots and kicking the crap out of each other. In her world, people ended up in hospital or even dead when they went to a game.
But this wasn’t anything like the news footage of chasing mobs, of kicks and punches and thrown bottles that everyone was familiar with from the TV. It was more carnival than riot. Okay, the fact that it was a brilliantly sunny autumn day helped, but she had never imagined it would be so colorful. The scarves, the banners, the gigantic homemade hats, the songs echoing around the streets as they walked toward the stadium…No wonder Paul had so loved his previous trip to Stamford Bridge to see Charlton play Chelsea. No wonder he’d been so desperate to go again.
Terry looked around for her son. Just as he’d been doing since he’d first set eyes on her, he was hovering around Sally, the very pretty, very perky fifteen-year-old daughter of Sean’s best friend, Ray. The game was at the Valley, Charlton’s home stadium, and Sean had taken them to meet Ray and his family beforehand. The two had been friends since they were kids. They’d lived on the same street, gone to the same schools, known the same people, dated the same girls. Until Sean had moved uptown. But they’d stayed friends and it was obvious that their differences in wealth and position—Ray was a greengrocer and still lived on the street where he and Sean had been brought up—had never come between them.
Terry couldn’t help smiling. She felt like a lucky woman. A good-natured son, a sunny day out, and a nice man to spend it with.
Sean ran off into the crowd and reappeared a moment later with a red-and-white Charlton scarf. He wound it round Terry’s neck.
“Can’t come here without your colors.”
“Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
“No thugs throwing bottles, no fights, no riot police?”
“How’d you know?”
“It’s what everyone who doesn’t come thinks it’s like. Come on, in here.”
Sean led the way into the ground, through metal turnstiles and concrete corridors, and then they were out, high up, looking down on the brilliant, unexpected green of the pitch. Ray and Sean looked at each other, their sense of community unspoken but clear. Paul took a moment away from Sally to stare around, then turned to Sean and Ray.
“Like coming home.”
“Yep.”
“Every time.”
THREE HOURS later, walking back to Ray’s house through the crisp evening, the trees’ bare branches Etch A Sketched against the sky, discarded newspapers swirling around her feet, Terry thought that it had been a perfect day. Though she wasn’t and would never be a mad-crazy football fan, there was something magical about being part of twenty thousand people who all wanted the same thing. Sean was right. It made you feel you belonged. And when the desired thing happened and Charlton scored, once, twice, then three times without giving up a goal themselves, it was incredible. The sudden rush of excitement, the sense of unity, of kinship with all those other people, of strangers not being strangers but long-loved friends. Best of all, Paul had hugged her. Not once, but three times.
The smell of frying fish drifted through the air. Terry realized she was ravenous. Almost as if she had said something, Ray stopped outside a neon-lit chip shop.
“Okay. Who wants what?” he asked.
“We always stop here, get ourselves some dinner. Take some back for Babs and the kids,” Sean explained.
“Great. I’m starving. I want lots and lots and lots of thick, fatty chips, some pieces of thin, unhealthy white bread covered in tons of butter, and a full bottle of brown sauce.”
“Mam!”
“Chip butties. The greatest treat of my childhood.”
“But…but…,” Paul stammered. For as long as he could remember, his mam had been watching her weight. And failing, veering from her normal all-embracing strictness to occasional extreme indulgence. He would have bet his new Jurassic 5 tape he knew all her treats—ice cream, bacon, chocolate, cheese—but he’d never heard her mention chips, let alone chip butties.
“I’m a cruel parent. I’ve deprived you of one of nature’s best inventions.” Terry grinned at her shocked son. “Paul’ll have the same,” she said to Ray.
“THAT WAS delicious.” Terry licked her fingers with obvious relish. She’d forgotten just how wonderful a meal that consisted of nothing but fat and carbohydrates could taste.
The group were sitting around Ray and Babs’s kitchen table, all happily eating out of paper, all drinking either beer or Coke out of the can. Ray, Sean, Paul, and Sally were rehashing the game, going back over the goals, over the incidents that had amused and pleased and amazed them. And complaining that, yet again, it was Manchester United headlining Match of the Day. All Charlton versus Middlesboro merited was a brief glimpse of the goals and—if they were lucky—a short sound-bite interview with the head coach.
As Babs cleaned up her two young sons and sent them off to play, Terry watched Paul. Watched his intent expression, his enthusiasm for the conversation, his smiling response to something Sally said. And watched as he took his last bite of his chip butty, looked over at her, and grinned.
“Good, eh?” Terry said, grinning back.
“I’m calling Childline. You knew about these all this time and you never gave me any. That’s abuse.”
Terry laughed. “Guilty. It’s true. I can offer no defense.”
“Do you promise to rectify the matter?” Paul deepened his voice to sound like his idea of a pompous, powerful judge.
“Yes, m’lud. Certainly, m’lud.” She didn’t know where to put herself. She had thought the school suspension, her threat to ban him from the Chelsea game, and his subsequent tantrum would have set them back months, but instead it seemed to have cleared the air. Here they were, talking, laughing, teasing each other just as they had before Finn.
Of course, this was today. Tomorrow, things would probably be difficult again. Her son would retreat to his room once more and she would hardly see anything of him for days. But she didn’t care. He was changing. It was slow, but it was there. And she could live for weeks on this one glimpse of the old Paul. Because it proved what everyone had been telling her: that the rude, crude, hateful teenager she’d had to endure the last few months was nothing more than a passing phase. The moment Paul started to joke about the chip butties, Terry had felt mental muscles she hadn’t even known she was clenching relax. It was going to be all right. With a bit of patience on her part and a tad more help from Sean, she would get her son back.
“See that you do,” Paul said mock sternly, and turned back to Sally.
Terry smiled. Having a girlfriend wouldn’t hurt either. The two teenagers could hardly manage to keep their eyes off each other.
forty-six
The smell of frying onions, of garlic and ginger and cumin, of coriander and cinnamon hung in the air as Mara walked up the gravel driveway. She had been surprised to find the gates open but delighted not to have to ring the intercom set outside the grounds; so much easier for them not to let her in if she were a hundred grass-, tree-, and flower-filled yards away rather than right at the front door.
The house was enormous. Built of gray stone, it looked more like a palace than a place where her family might live. There must be five, no, six windows on both levels on either side of the main door. A main door heralded by a grand cupola and imposing marble pillars and furnished with an impressive solid brass knocker in the shape of a mobile phone. Specially made for Shama Mattajee, Mara presumed.
She reached out, grasped the phone, and heard the deep knocking echo through the inside of the house. The door opened almost immediately. Mara’s sister Meera stood in the hallway. She was fifteen years older than Mara and she looked it, her face deeply lined, her sour mouth more turned down than ever.
“Mara.”
“Meera.” Mara held out he
r hand and attempted a smile. She and Meera had never gotten on as kids and Meera had appeared to enjoy rejecting her the last time she had attempted contact, but lots of time had passed, and anyway, she was trying to mend bridges, not keep them broken.
Meera looked at the hand, appeared to think about it, and decided against it. “Come with me,” she said, and marched off across a spacious entrance hall, circling a large, round, highly polished table complete with elaborate flower arrangement.
Mara followed her, staring wide-eyed at the expensive glass chandelier, the broad double staircase, the domed roof. And this was just the hall. It was a very, very long way from the tiny family house she had left all those years before. Meera opened a pair of double doors on the other side of the hall and ushered Mara in before her.
In the middle of a long drawing room sat Shama, surrounded by his dutiful family, all of them arrayed on elaborate brocaded couches and chairs, all facing the door, as if posed for a photograph. Or as if they had been expecting her. Hold on. This was very odd. The open gates. Meera’s immediate recognition and lack of surprise at seeing her. The family waiting.
Mara looked over at Roshan, who was huddled behind their father. He turned away from her but not before Mara noticed the guilty cast to his face. He must have told on her. Said she was coming and when. Protecting himself, just in case she let it slip that he’d talked to her. Making sure that he looked good. Getting ahead in the age-old family race to be Shama’s favorite. Or the closest thing he had to that. His least blamed, perhaps. Least likely to be picked on or bullied.
“What do you want?”
It had been nearly twenty years since Mara had heard that voice, heavy with the assumption of complete authority. She couldn’t help shivering. He had the same effect as always. He had aged, put on weight, lost a lot of his hair, but that was only cosmetic. He was still the father she had always been terrified of. Mara resisted the temptation to slump forward, to avoid looking in his eyes, to make herself as small as possible. She wasn’t going to be bullied. “Hello, Papa. How are you?”
No answer. Mara looked beyond him, at the rows of her family, at her scowling siblings, at strangers she presumed were in-laws and youngsters who must be nephews and nieces, hoping for some sign of welcome. But there was none. Only her mother, older, grayer, withered by the years, smiled at the sight of Mara and stretched out a hand toward her daughter.
It was slapped down by her husband. “I will deal with this,” he said. Mara’s mother shrank back, her smile dying, her eyes leaving her daughter’s face. “What do you want?” Shama repeated.
So it was to be like that? “Didn’t Roshan tell you?” Mara asked.
“I want to hear it from you.”
Without mentioning her time as a call girl—if her father found out about that, there was no chance he’d help—Mara explained her problems, telling him that the Moores were claiming the girls on the basis of Mara’s supposed inability to look after them. She put it all as simply as she could, trying to appeal to a grandfather’s natural desire to see—and hopefully help—his granddaughters. Finally, she came to a stop. She’d done her best. If her father wasn’t moved…but he had to be. He had to be.
“Your…husband?”
Mara nodded.
“Is dead?”
Mara forced herself to ignore the way he’d questioned her relationship with Jake. “Yes. Four years ago.”
“He didn’t provide for his children?”
“As much as he could. We weren’t wealthy. But we were very happy. Jake was a truly good man.”
“Hmm. Happy.”
“We were.”
“Are you bringing your daughters up as Hindus?”
“I…I haven’t talked to them about religion.”
“I thought not.”
“But I would be pleased to start.” Anything if he would help. She hardly had kind feelings toward any religion, but she was sure she could counterbalance any influence she didn’t like.
“Hmm. And how are you intending to support yourself and them?”
“I have my cleaning.”
“Which clearly does not bring in enough.”
“I’ll get myself a real job.”
“You left school at sixteen.”
“I…I could go back. Go to college. I’ve always wanted to. I…I’d like to train to be a therapist. To help people with their problems, their marriages, their children.”
“And I am to pay for that too?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.” She hadn’t. She’d just blurted out her longtime fantasy.
“You will return home, of course.”
“Home? Here?”
“I never gave permission for you to leave.”
“I don’t…the girls…” Mara was stunned. Never, never had she imagined he’d ask that. Yet how could she refuse? She was desperate for his help. She couldn’t turn him down. But she couldn’t say yes. She was an independent woman. Not an unpaid servant bound to obey all orders on the double. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve been away a long time. Surely you wouldn’t want me here?”
“Still disobedient, I see.”
“No, I’m not. I just…I need to think about it.”
Shama stood up. “No need to think. This is what I expected. As always, you want for yourself but do not give in return.”
Mara heard the refusal in his voice. “No. Please, Papa. Wait. I was just surprised. If that’s what it takes, of course I’ll come home.”
Her father carried on as if he hadn’t heard her. “As selfish as always. A disgrace to your family. Getting yourself attacked, shaming your mother and me.”
All the hideous nightmare of the days and months after her rape came flooding back to Mara. Roshan had been right. He hadn’t changed one little bit. He still blamed her for something no one in their right mind could imagine had been her fault.
“You forfeited all right to my help when you ran away. I gave you some time, to think better of it, to come back and ask my pardon, but you did not do that. And now, after almost twenty years, you come asking me to pay for roofs and central heating and colleges and suchlike. To be a family for your children. Well, my answer is no. I did not work hard all my life to support someone who has no idea of duty or loyalty or obedience.”
Mara looked at the old man, in shock. She had prepared herself for his being difficult, for his refusing to help at first, but not for this complete and utter rejection. Part of her longed to march out and away from this nightmare. But she needed his help. Without it, she might not be able to keep Moo and Tilly warm this winter. Might have to send them to Amy’s. And if the girls were already living apart from their mother, with a stranger, that could give the Moores the ammunition they needed, could tip the law in their favor. Mara imagined being able to see her daughters only occasionally, pictured her home without their noise and clutter and laughter, and shuddered. Anything was better than that. There was no point in her trying to cling to her last remaining vestiges of pride. Her father, her quarrels with him, his persecution of her, that was the past. The girls were the future. And Jake would expect her to sacrifice whatever was necessary to keep them.
“Surely you want to see Tilly and Moo? They’re such lovely girls, they’re bright and clever, and pretty, and everything you could want. Please. I’m begging you. See, I’ll get on my knees. See?” Mara lowered herself to the floor. “Forget about me, think about the girls. They’re your blood. Your kin. And they need you.” Mara threw herself to the ground, her face level with her father’s shoes. “Please, Papa. Please. Please. I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Get her up.” Shama snapped out the order at Raj, his eldest son, a small, plump, balding man, who picked Mara up by the waist and lifted her. When he tried to let her stand alone, she moaned and fell forward, all the stuffing knocked out of her. “Rahul. Help him.” Another taller, thinner man raced to do his father’s bidding, propping Mara up on her other side.
“These are my final
words. I will not help you. Nor will I help those children you try to foist on me as my grandchildren. My blood. They have nothing to do with me or my blood. Nothing. These people gathered here are my family. You are a stranger. Now and always.” Shama sat down and gestured to Rahul and Raj. “Get rid of her.”
The two brothers turned Mara around and tried to shepherd her out of the room, half leading, half carrying her. She struggled out of their grasp. Maybe she had collapsed in there but she was not so weak that she couldn’t manage to walk out unaided. She turned back to look at her father one last time. “I feel sorry for you,” she said softly. At last she could see Shama for what he really was. Not the ogre of her childhood. Not even frightening. Just a sad, stubborn old man, a classroom bully still trying to scare everyone into submission.
Before the two men standing on either side of her could stop her, Mara went to her mother, took her thin, heavily veined hand from where it was clenched in her lap, and kissed it. Her mother looked up at her longingly. “I love you too, Ma,” Mara said.
“Get her out of here!” Shama shouted. Mara turned away from her mother, evaded Raj and Rahul’s attempts to grab her, and walked out of the room without looking back. Tomorrow she would worry about the money. Tomorrow she would try to think of something else to do. Today, she was going to feel good about herself. Shama believed that he’d humiliated her, and yes, she’d given away all pretence of dignity when she’d begged him to help, when she lay on the floor at his feet, but she refused to feel ashamed. She had done everything she could to try and help her girls. And whatever her family might think, Jake was proud of her.
forty-seven
“Terry!”
Sean stood in the narrow hallway of Ray’s house, watching Paul and Sally huddled in the corner near the front door, whispering to each other. He was holding Terry’s coat, waiting for her to appear from the kitchen, where she’d been closeted for the last hour with Babs. He had no idea what the girls had been talking about, but, judging by the giggles coming from the two of them, it must have been hilarious.