“I know. I saw the moving vans. Anyway, my stuff’s always pretty much packed up.” She rubbed fiercely at a patch of dried paint on her sleeve. “Tariq’ll come and get me soon. He always comes around this time of day.”
Richard looked around restlessly, as if he’d expected something else. “Where will you go?”
He’s already uncomfortable, she thought. He doesn’t want to be here. She stared at his pale blue shirtfront, immaculate in the sunshine, and turned away, to where the empty fireplace sat, and the dingy glass jars she’d used for brushes and white spirit, ready to be thrown in the rubbish. Sorry, different worlds, and all that. Best you were on your way then, she imagined him saying. She bent over the duffel bag to pull the zip shut. It was overfull with extra things that she had somehow accumulated along the way.
“Tariq will think of something. He’ll sort that out. He knows lots of people,” she said. She wrenched on the zip until it started to move, jerked it across the top of the bag, and found the zipper teeth gaping open behind it. Nothing was working. She swore to herself and tied the two handles of the duffel bag into a loose reef knot.
“Your mother says you can come home,” Richard said. He was standing next to her, and when she straightened up he reached for her hands, but she snatched them away reflexively. He sat down on the bed, close enough to touch.
She folded her arms, feeling like a child caught out in a sulk. “When did she say that?”
“Just now. She wants you home straight away.”
“Was Dad with her?”
“No.”
Just more of the same. She felt sick. “I’ll wait for Tariq, yeah. He won’t be long.”
Richard just sat. When he finally spoke, he said, “I know that things are not sorted out yet with your family. Not fully. Let me take you there and if things don’t work out, if you don’t feel comfortable, I will help. I promise.”
“There’s no point. Mum’s just trying to force it.”
“You won’t be on your own. I’ll be there and I won’t leave until it’s all settled.” His arm came around her shoulders, and she closed her eyes and tried not to think of any kind of a future with him.
Was this embrace gora politeness or pity, or something else, which perhaps mattered as much to him as it did to her? She felt adrift in his Western world of dating and girlfriends: she had seen, lived, the fluid dishonesty of those relationships, so much a matter of mood and whim as to whether the bond would be acknowledged or betrayed. A recipe for misery.
“I thought I could manage without my family, but I can’t,” she said. He squeezed her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into his warmth and certainty.
“Remember, they know you can’t stay in the Abbey and they don’t want to lose you.”
“And if they forgive me, if they take me back, what will you do then?” She spoke as coolly as she could, but there was still a quaver in the last word.
“I’ll visit you. I’ll ask your father’s permission to see you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. I’ll visit on weekends, with Tariq or your parents chaperoning, and we can get to know each other better.”
“You know about all that, do you?”
“I’ve done my research—Google’s quite a resource.”
“You’re going to go all Desi on me?”
“No. But I’ll respect your family’s concerns. And my intentions are honorable, as they say. I won’t do anything to compromise you.”
“Huh.” What did he think he was doing, alone in a room with her, touching her, talking to her about these things, with no family here and they not even betrothed? And what did he think he had done the other night, coming to see her at that hour?
She looked at him with a deadly seriousness. “Why aren’t you married already, to some deb?”
“I never wanted to settle down.” His arm dropped down, but before she could twitch away, he took her hand. “But I’ve realized I’m more like my brother than I thought,” he said quietly. “In that respect.”
What did he mean? She thought of the short, fair-haired man she had seen outside whistling to his dogs and, on one occasion, dancing with an imaginary partner, the animals looking on.
He squeezed her hand, as if making sure she was paying attention. “But my life is in London.”
With her other hand she drew an arc around the room. “This, here, what you see: it isn’t how I am. I can’t go on like this, without my family, without being a part of them. And I can’t hurt them again either.”
They were both silent, and Rohimun thought of her old life: the good parts; the learning and the painting, before the pressure got too much and she became too lonely.
“I miss London too,” she said. “But not like it was for me before, yeah. I want to be able to come home. And I want to do my own thing now. Not portraits.”
“Isn’t that a portrait?”
She turned to her painting on the easel. “No. Or, not like I’ve ever done before.”
“I’ve seen some of your other works.”
“Where?”
“In galleries around town. One in a friend’s house. They’re good, but this, what you’ve done here, is . . . special. Magical.”
She turned toward him, and he bent his head toward hers, but there was the sound of footsteps, and he let go of her hand and reached for the duffel bag.
Tariq appeared in the doorway. He spotted Richard and glared at them both before saying, in a surprisingly mild tone, “Time to be off, yeah.”
Richard walked toward Tariq, and greeted him in a voice of such calm authority that before her brother even knew it, he was shaking Richard’s hand and agreeing, with a dazed expression, that yes, driving back in Richard’s car would be best, save carrying everything. Rohimun watched as Tariq pulled the camp bed out from under the great bed and started to dismantle it.
Richard was now busying himself with folding out the flat-packed cardboard boxes that he had brought with him and, despite her protests, was filling them with the empty jars and dirty cloths and all the other detritus of her painting.
“You’re still going to be painting, aren’t you? That’s not going to stop.”
When it came to the painting itself, she lifted it so that the easel could be folded away, but then could not think where to put it. Richard took it from her and placed it on the mantelpiece. Its colors echoed the green in the room’s draperies and the dark reflected shadows of blackened oak.
She shook her head at the bubble wrap in Tariq’s hands.
“You can’t do that: you can’t put anything on top of it. It’s oil paint—it’ll take months to be fully dry.”
“I think I know that, yeah.” He tapped the bubble-wrap roll on the edge of the mantel. “You’ll never get it in the car anyway.”
Richard stared at the painting. “It looks good there. We’ll leave it here for now.”
She folded her arms and glared at them both. “Excuse me. It’s my painting. I decide.”
Eldest sons were all the same: never expecting to be challenged or questioned. She tried to think of an alternative. Honestly. They both waited, their faces neutral, as if she was the one being difficult.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll think about it. I’ll get it later.”
Tariq turned to Richard. “What are you going to say about the painting? If someone sees it?”
“The truth. That Dr. Choudhury’s daughter is a talented painter and that I’m hoping to acquire this work.”
“It’s finished then, is it?”
“Of course it’s finished,” she snapped. God, brothers were irritating.
“That’s a hedge, isn’t it? The hedge outside. And you, it’s you, yeah.”
“Sort of. Not really. Can we go now?”
Between the three of them, they picked up the d
uffel bag and the boxes and clumped down the main stairs. Richard nodded authoritatively as they passed the movers, and they proceeded to the front door and out onto the drive. Loading up the boot was quickly done, and she wriggled into the back seat cradling her easel, bracing herself for the sickening mixture of resentment and fear that she had felt the last time she and Tariq had gone to Mum and Dad’s.
But the feeling did not come, or rather, not with the same intensity as before. Perhaps it was too short a trip by car to work herself up, or perhaps it was the solid presence of Richard in the driver’s seat, which said that this time it would be different. Perhaps there was a middle path, where she could paint and be with those she loved. All of them.
Richard twisted around in his seat. “Ready?”
She would not meet his eyes. “All set,” she mumbled and looked out the window at the hillside running down then rising up again, toward home. She had another painting in her head now, another full-length one: of Dad looking into a cheval, to see reflected, not himself but his mother, whom Rohimun was always supposed to have taken after. She could see herself so much better now. Perhaps it was time to test if her family could be seen as clearly.
Thirty-nine
MRS. BEGUM STOOD on her front step and welcomed the Guris warmly, pleased that she had managed to bundle Baby upstairs in the nick of time and that Dr. Choudhury’s sulking would now be cut short. Her guests stepped over the threshold of Windsor Cottage with exaggerated care, clearly mindful of omens, although in Mrs. Guri’s case, the width of the doorway may also have been a matter of concern. She walked them as quickly as possible to the sitting room, considering Dr. Choudhury’s liking for long-speeches-at-the-door.
Kareem came in last, looking as nervous as Mrs. Begum had ever seen him, and holding a large bunch of red and white flowers. A great believer in making use of people’s talents, she set him to work lifting the big armchair forward for Mrs. Guri. And, indeed, he seemed grateful enough to be moving about and doing something after that long drive.
Mrs. Begum went to get glasses of water for their guests. When she returned, her husband and Mr. Guri were standing together at the window looking up at the Abbey, while Dr. Choudhury talked about his pride-and-joy.
“Five million pounds,” Mr. Guri said, in a tone that was less question than disbelief overwhelmed.
Dr. Choudhury nodded graciously. “Yes, that was the grand total for the, ah, structural repairs, although of course the roof was another matter.”
“Wah . . . of course, of course. Another matter.”
“The real work, which required such close supervision by someone of my academic credentials, and, ah, aesthetic sensitivities, was the interior: the stained glass, the wood and stonework, the frieze in the great dining hall and, most of all, assessment for the cleaning and repair of the Abbey’s extensive collection of manuscripts, hangings, objets d’art and valuable paintings.”
“How, how much did that cost?”
“Well, of course, the money is immaterial when one is working with, ah, saving our national heritage.”
“Of course, of course. But . . .”
“Oh, I would say in the region of three-point-five million pounds. Or maybe point six.”
Mrs. Begum watched a now silent Mr. Guri slap a hand gently on his back trouser pocket where his wallet bulged, as if unable to otherwise express the strength of his feelings. His wife, however, seemed more interested in the pictures of Dodi and Diana and Prince and Princess Michael, and Mrs. Begum moved to her side, realizing that she’d never told her that it was her arm, her sari blouse, in the picture with Princess Michael. She was pleasantly aware that, as they talked, Kareem was discreetly but regularly checking his hair, his tie and his fingernails, and generally fidgeting on his seat as if it had become too hot for him. He was as sweaty and nervous and impatient to see his bride as any mother-in-law could want. It was time.
After she had promised to show Mrs. Guri her sari from the photo, Mrs. Begum turned her back on Dodi and Diana and smiled at everyone. If her husband was not going to raise the issue, and neither were the Guris, then it must be her to whom the honor would fall: there was no time to be lost.
“It has been such a pleasure to meet your Kareem.” She gestured at Kareem. “He has come to us twice now, such a good boy.”
“He is not my son. He does what he wants.”
“Yes, but what a good boy.”
Mrs. Guri shot an evil look at Kareem, who was now perched uncomfortably upright on the ottoman, his hands on his knees. “Good? Aah. We were the good ones. We did everything for him. Everything.”
Mr. Guri turned away from Dr. Choudhury and the Abbey and pointed his index finger at Kareem. “Everything,” he said with emphasis, his voice gritty and angry. “His own bed, a good job.”
Mrs. Guri nodded, fluttering her eyelids in emphasis. “And even then they betray you.”
“Nah, nah, nah,” Mrs. Begum cried with a pleading glance at Dr. Choudhury. Why did her fool of a husband not say something? This was not meant to be a Modern Youth Today discussion, with everyone competing with their stories about the second-generation’s failings and stupidities. But Dr. Choudhury’s mouth was as open as Kareem’s, so he was no help.
Why had Kareem brought them, if this was to be their view of things? She fiddled with her talisman, thought of Baby in her bedroom waiting for the knock on her door to bring her downstairs, and despaired.
There was movement out the front window, and Mrs. Begum saw Richard Bourne’s car pull up behind Kareem’s. She stood up and gasped, then Kareem stood as well, and the Guris turned toward her and then the car, with various degrees of worry and fright on their faces.
Mr. Guri was positively pale, his eyes now fixed on the qibla mark on the eastern wall of the sitting room, and he appeared to be muttering a prayer, while one hand cupped his rear trouser pocket as if to protect it.
Mrs. Begum was sure she heard Mrs. Guri hiss “Police!” as she rocked forward in her chair in an apparent effort to stand, but the chair came with her. As she sat back, she drummed her heels against her handbag until it was underneath the chair and hidden by the upholstery fringing.
Kareem raised his hands to them all, with an agonized expression. “Stay, please stay here, Uncle. This is personal, private business. All my respects, but please stay here.”
Dr. Choudhury, who had also stood and was peering out the sitting-room window, aahed to himself and started to edge toward the door. Mrs. Begum saw Kareem throw him an anguished glance, as if desiring to stop him as well but unable to think how to halt his future father-in-law in his own home.
Munni was here, Mrs. Begum was sure of it. Without further ado, she shot ahead of her husband and ran out the front door and down the path like a young girl. She saw with sharp satisfaction that Rohimun was sitting in the back seat of the car and Tariq in the front. No one could find fault with that. She tried to catch her breath. She, Syeda Begum, being a modern woman, was not at all disturbed by her daughter’s arrival with a highly eligible unrelated male, who had just rescued her from her castle like something out of Scheherazade.
As soon as Tariq got out of the car, she grasped his arm. “You were with them the whole time, helping to pack. You have always been with them.”
“Eh? Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Richard was holding the car door open for Rohimun, and Mrs. Begum pressed her nails into her palms knowing, knowing, that Dr. Choudhury was watching all this, and praying that Richard would not place a hand in the small of her daughter’s back or take her hand or do any of the other not-so-helpful touchings that gora men were prone to do. But in fact he stood so well clear of Rohimun that Mrs. Begum was reminded of Kareem’s behavior when helping Shunduri out of his car. It could only be another good omen, Inshallah.
She could hear Kareem’s voice behind her, loud and relieved, speaking to Dr. Choudhury—they must be
on the front step together. Then Shunduri was calling down from the little dormer bedroom window, asking, “What’s goin’ on, yeah?”
And the next thing she knew, Shunduri had run out of the front door, flashed past her and embraced Rohimun. Mrs. Begum smiled, tears in her eyes. Shunduri never did this, would never have spontaneously been this helpful, but of course, Kareem was watching everything, and now it would be even harder for Dr. Choudhury to repulse his daughter. If only Henry and Thea were here also.
She met Rohimun’s eyes and gave a small, tight nod toward Dr. Choudhury. Please go to him, don’t hesitate, not now. Then she could embrace her eldest daughter. Rohimun disentangled herself from Shunduri’s grasp and walked around the car. She was in traditional clothes, thank god, one of her old college salwars—turquoise with brown edging—and with her hair neatly plaited, she made a pretty sight as she went to kneel before her father.
Mrs. Begum stood halfway between house and car, trying to watch everyone at once and feeling rather like the umpire in the tall chair in the Wimbledon competition that Mrs. Darby loved so much. Balls going everywhere.
Richard stayed by the car. He was observing the scene on the doorstep intently, unsmiling, his profile outlined against the greenery behind him. And for all his gora ways and his tall-thinness, he suddenly seemed to Mrs. Begum as irresistibly handsome as the most heartbreaking of Bollywood heroes. One hand, resting on the roof of his car, was holding the car keys in plain sight, as if to say, if Rohimun is not welcome here, she will be welcome elsewhere. Could Dr. Choudhury see that as well? Mrs. Begum hoped so, from the bottom of her heart.
Shunduri, not one to be left out of any scene, also ran to kneel before her father to beg for her sister’s forgiveness. Kareem had moved into the background somewhat, pressed against the front-door lintel, and was wiping his eyes with a sparkling-white handkerchief.
Mrs. Begum, thinking suddenly of washing powder and widowhood, could not bear to look. She leaned on the end of Richard’s car and stared fiercely into its dark-blue depths. Let my husband take his daughter in his arms. Let him see he has no choice, and that it will be a blessing and a release for him, as well as for Munni and for all of us.
A Matter of Marriage Page 43