‘That was the first time, at least the first I can remember, when Mum and Dad left me alone with Frank. He was much older than me and they probably wanted a bit of time to themselves instead of trailing round a fairground after me. Anyway, Frank took me on the dodgems, which were always one of my favourites, but then I felt sick and chucked up in the toilets. Got overexcited I expect, but then I was only little. I made Frank promise not to tell Mum in case she didn’t want me going on the rides again. He really looked out for me that day, our Frank.’
Alfie smiled wistfully at the memory of his childhood, his deceased brother, of happy times and he wished, not for the first time, that he felt differently, that he didn’t have to pretend. But he had no choice, it had become a way of life, concocting fantasies to tell people in order to avoid facing the truth; that Alfie had wished his brother dead and had always felt his family blamed him for the death.
Kenny, uncomfortable now, sat up on Alfie’s knee, looked at his owner’s face and decided the session was at an end. He jumped to the floor and padded across to the window where he positioned himself on the sill so he could overlook the street below.
Later, Alfie decided to go for a walk. He was restless and keen to escape the confines of his pokey flat. He was strolling along Morecambe’s dark, moonlit promenade, wrapped up against the autumn wind blowing off the sea in a donkey jacket and scarf. He sighed. He often came here when he was feeling melancholy and needed time to reminisce.
Here, with the wind blowing at the very edge where the land meets the sea, Alfie found it a little easier to face the truth; he could at least acknowledge the voice in his head. That other voice which said something else had happened. The voice, always calm and measured, never judgemental, always sounded like that of Mrs Cowley, the nice lady from the clinic where he had his therapy following Frank’s death. Alfie had liked her, she was kind, she listened to him, told him it would be okay when that was all a small boy needed to hear.
Although Alfie still sent a postcard from each new town he visited as he traversed the coast, to maintain the faintest of contact, he still occasionally missed his parents, home, and he knew, simply by boarding a train he could return in a few hours. But questions would surely be asked and such a long absence would mean awkwardness. There would still be the lies too; the truth Alfie continued to run from. It could never be like it was back then. God, how he missed Frank, missed growing up with him, having his brother there to protect him, to teach him, guide him. No, he couldn’t go home now, because there was nothing to go back for.
Alfie blinked away a tear and turned to meet the sea, besieging the unyielding rocks below. It didn’t matter which town he was in, or what time of year, Alfie loved to walk the promenade at night, smell the beach, the sea, watch the tide ebb and flow, the waves rolling in, cleaning the sand and leaving it untouched, virgin.
‘Wonderful, is it not?’
Alfie, startled from his reverie by the female voice, turned to see who had spoken. Even though the woman had uttered just four words Alfie immediately detected the Italian in her mellifluous voice; evoking memories of his mother, his childhood, long suppressed and ignored.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I adore it, always have. Forgive me, which region of Italy are you from?’
Her effulgent eyes, awash with anguish and uncertainty, met his, captivating him. She seemed shocked by his question and did not answer immediately.
‘I’m sorry?’ Alfie apologised to the tall, pulchritudinous woman, perhaps in her late forties. ‘I thought I heard a trace of Italian in your accent.’
‘Yes, I was born in Monreale, a small town in Palermo,’ she answered finally. ‘I’m surprised you could tell. I have lived in this country for over thirty years.’
‘My mother is Italian.’ Alfie explained simply. This was the first time he had mentioned his mother in the present tense for more years than he could easily remember.
‘Parlate Italiano?’ She asked.
‘Si,’ Alfie replied. ‘Though I haven’t had cause to for a very long time.’
They paused for a moment, reflecting on this chance encounter, looking out to sea, marvelling at the irresistible power of the waves.
‘Do you often walk the promenade at night?’ She asked.
‘Quite often, when I want to think and be alone.’
‘I apologise. I’m disturbing you.’ She backed away, embarrassed.
‘Oh no, please.’ Alfie motioned for her to stay. ‘I didn’t mean… Do you walk here often then?’
‘No, first time in too many years. It’s not really safe anymore for a middle-aged woman to walk alone at night. But, as you say, it is nice to walk and think while the sea roars below.’
‘Whatever the matter may be, I should be glad to listen.’
The woman smiled and looked out at the sea. ‘It is nothing to trouble a stranger with,’ she replied. ‘Just the idea of getting old, knowing it is inevitable.’
‘Old! You certainly don’t look old, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘You’re too kind.’ She smiled again.
‘My name is Alfie.’ He offered his hand.
‘I am Loriana.’ She took his hand and they shook genially.
‘That’s a beautiful name and, now we’re not strangers, you can be free to share your troubles with me, and of course the sea.’
Loriana hesitated for several moments until Alfie thought that maybe she wasn’t going to speak. Then she shivered and Alfie noticed a pair of tears rolling over her flawless skin.
‘You’re cold. Here, take my scarf.’ But Loriana shook her head.
‘I am a foolish woman,’ she began. ‘Foolish for allowing myself to believe I was still beautiful as in my youth, foolish to believe I was loved.’
Alfie nodded but remained silent.
‘I am quite a comfortable woman, financially at least. My father, may the Lord watch over him, was a hard working man, clever with money. He came to England from Italy, built up a successful business, bought property, took care of us all. Then, when he died, everything was split equally between my sister and me. She chose to sell her share, liquidated the assets and now lives very well in Palermo, a lady of leisure.’
Alfie seized upon the mention of a sibling. ‘You have a sister, are you close?’
‘We do not see each other.’
‘That is a pity,’ Alfie said, genuinely saddened, thinking of his own brother whom he longed for. ‘So, what of your share of the business?’
‘I sold some parts but kept others, just to keep my father’s name alive, to make him proud. But then, a few years ago I met a younger man. Not much younger but enough to flatter me and make me feel desirable. Despite my reservations I allowed myself to believe I loved him and that he loved me. I listened to his ideas, his suggestions for my business. I allowed him money; I was seduced by his drive and enthusiasm. I was happy to look at the accounts occasionally, make sure everything was running as it should while he gradually, almost without my realising, took over the day to day running of events.’
Loriana dug her gloved hands deep into the pockets of her long purple wool coat and turned slightly to shield herself from the wind.
‘And he has deceived you somehow?’ Alfie asked.
‘Only because I allowed myself to be deceived,’ Loriana said. “I chose to believe that allowing him more and more access to the business was for the best. That he had my interests at heart because he loved me. Except I knew, I think, all along, that he was a liar, too good to be true. But I so didn’t want to be alone that I preferred to accept his stories.’
Alfie nodded again. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It may sound strange, but I really think I understand how you feel.’
He thought about how alone he’d been for so many years and the stories he’d told others in an attempt to convince himself he was happy.
‘What do you plan to do?’ Alfie asked after a lengthy silence.
‘I do not know. I just know I cannot go on like
this. Knowing that he is using my family’s name, my father’s money, to finance his affairs, his own secret life, before returning home to me, smelling of sex and alcohol, lying to my face while I accept it; a sad old woman, grateful he has come home at all. My father was forever warning me about men, English men and their desires. He would be ashamed to see me now.’
‘I know what it is to be alone in the world.’ Alfie said. ‘I understand loss and lies and the need to be happy, to feel that you belong, and I know how much it hurts.’
‘Do you?’ Loriana beseeched, desperate for someone to really understand, to actually listen. ‘Do you really?’
Alfie nodded again, for the moment unwilling to share his own secrets with the frangible beauty before him, but equally reluctant to concoct one of his stories.
‘Thank you, Alfie.’ Loriana said, and smiled gratefully. ‘You are a kind man, a rare thing in my life. When do you think you might walk this way again?’
‘Hard to say.’ Alfie adjusted his scarf and fastened the top button of his coat. ‘It’s usually a spur of the moment decision, when I need to clear my head and reflect.’
‘I see. Perhaps, if I’m not being too bold, I might join you on your walks. We could watch the tide together?’
‘I should like that very much.’ Alfie responded eagerly.
‘How will you contact me?’ She asked. ‘My husband…it may be difficult.’
‘Well,’ Alfie pondered. ‘I could give you the number of the phone where I live; if I don’t answer the old dear downstairs will.’
‘Perfect.’ Loriana’s dark brown eyes sparkled in the darkness. ‘Here.’ She fiddled in her bag and produced a pen and a scrap of paper which she tore into two smaller pieces. Alfie wrote his number on one piece then Loriana did the same on the other.
‘This is my home number. If my husband answers simply ask for me in Italian and he will assume it is family calling.’
‘Your husband does not speak Italian?’
Loriana laughed contemptuously. ‘Him! He is an ignorant oaf; even after five years of marriage to me he does not understand one word and shows no interest in my origins.’
‘Then he will never know what he is missing.’ Alfie replied, reminded again of his childhood, sharing secrets with his brother, Frank, in their secret language. ‘Può essere il nostro segreto.’
Loriana smiled widely and nodded. ‘Yes Alfie, our secret.’
Then she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare out to sea a while longer. His fingers caressed the shred of paper in his pocket and, for the first time in a very long while, he felt a little less alone, a glimmer of genuine hope.
10 The hopes and dreams of Mr Bhumbra
Modhubon, Morecambe’s pre-eminent curry house, was quiet. Only a solitary couple dined, hidden away in the far corner, barely discernible behind the pillar. Mr Bhumbra had spotted immediately that the couple were having an affair, or at least had lied to someone about their whereabouts for the evening. That much was obvious from the couple’s hushed discussion and self-conscious manners.
But this did not concern Mr Bhumbra, custom was custom. To passers-by the restaurant would appear deserted, bereft of customers and nothing, he felt, is as uninviting as an empty restaurant.
Mr Bhumbra wore a charcoal suit and a tailored pink shirt with his initials sewn on the collar. He had been brought up to appreciate the importance of appearance. He had worn a suit the day he stepped off the plane from India three decades earlier. That had been his only suit and it had lasted many years. Now he could afford all the suits he desired.
Mr Bhumbra stood at the large front window of the restaurant with his hands behind his back. His fingers were rough from years of manual labour in factories and warehouses but that was good, it was a constant reminder of his struggle. He was peering out between the reversed letters H and U printed on the glass, at the empty street.
The business always experienced a lull in the weeks before Christmas. It was a problem he had repined over for many years though none of his innovations – Turkey Madras and the like, seemed able to compete with the myriad festive offers laid on by the hotels and pubs in the area. Menus offering three courses for £7.95, soup or melon boat to start, roast turkey dinner and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding with cream or custard for dessert with cheese and crackers or a slice of Christmas cake to finish. This was what the people seemed to desire at this time of year.
He turned from the window and looked at his restaurant, trying to see it from the customers’ viewpoint. Perhaps it was time for refurbishment? The textured, patterned wallpaper depicting various places in India did, perhaps, look a little tired and the damp patch in the far corner was these days barely disguised by the potted plant. But the soft, beige and brown fabric chairs still looked good and matched the dark brown carpet which hid any measure of spillages.
But while the restaurant was, for the moment, only ticking over, Mr Bhumbra’s latest venture – Modhubon the move – a take-away and delivery spin off – had so far proved very popular because people could enjoy the food without the need to come to the restaurant. There was nothing so English, thought Mr Bhumbra, as sitting down in front of the television with a take-away meal on ones lap and a can of lager next to ones foot.
‘Ryan, I am going to the take-away.’
No point in hanging around here all night, Mr Bhumbra decided, I may as well cast an eye over my new enterprise.
The feckless waiter stationed at the front door nodded.
‘Inform Kuldeep that he is to call me should there be any kind of problem.’
Again the waiter nodded dutifully and opened the door for his boss.
It was cold outside, a bitter wind off the gelid sea forcing the temperature lower still, the streets desolate. Those that were braving the hyperborean climate would be holed up in the pubs until after eleven.
Modhubon the move was situated two streets away. Mr Bhumbra had ruminated over the practicability of simply running the delivery service from the restaurant but he didn’t want service levels to deteriorate during busy periods and he quite liked the notion of having a second outlet, it suggested profusion and prosperity.
Mr Bhumbra’s spirits were uplifted somewhat as he strode towards the shop; a crowd of perhaps half a dozen people stood either at the counter or sat at tables. Mr Bhumbra also noticed that the white van bearing the Modhubon name was absent, presumably engaged in deliveries somewhere within a five mile radius, orders over twelve pounds delivered free.
A honking car horn attracted Mr Bhumbra’s attention and he turned to see the delivery van pulling up in front of him.
‘Evening Mr Bhumbra.’ It was Brandon.
‘Ah, Brandon. Good evening, good evening. Another successful delivery?’
‘Been steady all night, everyone’s too busy thinking about Christmas to bother cooking any tea I reckon.’
‘Good, good. Keep up the good work young man.’
It had been a sagacious move to offer Brandon a job. True, they shared the same ardency for politics and held similar anti-establishment views, though from utterly diametric perspectives. But the fact remained that this young English boy had designs on Sharada, Mr Bhumbra’s youngest child and only daughter and Mr Bhumbra felt that the more hours in the day he was able to account for Brandon’s whereabouts, the less hours the boy would have available to spend with Sharada.
‘Sharada working in the restaurant tonight?’ Brandon asked as the two men entered the take-away.
‘Yes, although when I left there were very few customers,’ Mr Bhumbra said.
‘Pity. I’ll give her a lift home if you like.’
‘No, no. That will be quite unnecessary. Kuldeep, my son, is also working tonight and has been instructed to accompany his sister home safely.’
‘I don’t mind, really. Maybe I’ll just ring and ask her…’
Mr Bhumbra dismissed the idea with a peremptory wave of his hand. ‘The restaurant will be closed long before the take-away
. Look, more deliveries are ready. Do not allow service levels to slip young man, chop chop.’
Brandon shrugged his shoulders and collected the delivery from the counter before tramping outside to the van and driving away. Yes, Mr Bhumbra affirmed to himself, it was definitely the right thing to keep a close eye on Brandon.
Mr Bhumbra eased a customer to one side, politely excusing himself, lifted the hinged part of the counter and walked through to the business side of his latest emporium. He looked around the incommodious kitchen and service area, at the rotating spit of kebab meat, the skewers of various rations in all manner of marinades, the fryer full of chips and the oven in the corner where a few pans of curry bubbled contentedly and Mr Bhumbra wondered at what point his dream had disappeared.
He remembered the day of his arrival in England very well – October 14th 1978, the date stamped in his mind; in his mid-twenties and terrified. That day had been crisp, but sunny, the sky clear. He’d been tired physically while his mind raced, consumed by apprehension and excitement.
The airport had seemed like a town in itself. From the aeroplane all the young Mr Bhumbra could see was a tangle of roads sweeping out in all directions. The first thing that struck him, his first impression of England, was that the roads were all neatly bordered and marked while in India they were ragged, wild and dusty.
Inside the airport it seemed as if the whole world had arrived at the same time, so many people queuing and crowding, from all over the world wearing all manner of garments and clutching all types of luggage.
Purely by chance Mr Bhumbra came across his baggage and dived into a sea of people drifting out of the arrivals building. He’d never seen so much concrete in all his life, so many shades of grey and apparently no trees. The air was cold and sharp causing his muscles to tense in protest.
Luckily, he already had family in England – an Uncle, a former stoker on a ship, a Lascar recruited from Sylhet. Mr Bhumbra was grateful for this because, as he looked around him at the airport that first day, nobody seemed to be like him.
All the Fun of the Fair Page 8