All the Fun of the Fair

by Jamie Sinclair

  He set off walking through the seemingly endless airport, found a bus stop and waited while the wind snapped at his ankles and tugged his coat sleeves. He’d been given a few pounds to get him to his Uncle’s house and information on which buses to catch.

  Expectation weighed heavy on Mr Bhumbra’s young and inexperienced shoulders; a feeling that seemed to heighten no matter how successful he became. He’d been viewed as the best option, chosen as the recipient of the pooled resources for the ticket to England. The family knew he wouldn’t disappoint them and that he would do well for them.

  Those first months had been almost too much for Mr Bhumbra to bear. He missed everything about home, not least his young wife who had to remain behind. The Uncle found work for him at a factory and that was how it began, over thirty years ago, this adventure in a new land.

  ‘What is it you want?’ His Uncle asked. ‘What do you hope for?’

  Mr Bhumbra did not need to meditate long or hard because he knew exactly what he wanted – to make a mark, leave an imprint on this new land, to matter. His Uncle laughed at his naïve nephew, told him to open a restaurant like everyone else. But Mr Bhumbra meant what he said, had promised as much to his expectant family as he left them behind. He wanted to show them exactly how grateful he was for the chance, needed to prove what he could do and that ambition all but overwhelmed him. He felt there was nothing he would not do, nothing that could deter him from making the name of Bhumbra synonymous with success and then he could turn to his family and show them how he had repaid their faith.

  At first that dream seemed to grow further away, stuck in an unskilled, unfulfilling job in a factory with his Uncle, trying to save every spare penny to pay for his wife to join him. It took a year, a whole year, to save the money for the air fare but it had been worth it, had made Mr Bhumbra more determined to evince his worth.

  Shortly after his wife’s arrival in England, Mr Bhumbra left his Uncle’s house and moved into a bed sit. The young couple worked all the hours they could, doing anything that they would be paid for, scrimping and saving for years until at last, a full ten years after moving to England, Mr Bhumbra was able to afford his first premises. A ramshackle former Barbers shop that gradually he re-fitted, doing much of the work himself to save money. Adding a kitchen, purchasing equipment, working every available hour, until the great day came and Modhubon opened its doors.

  To begin with Mr Bhumbra installed his wife, then heavily pregnant with Kuldeep, in the kitchen to cook the food. Mr Bhumbra helped as much as he was able; waiting on tables, employing two other staff members, school children, to help out on a casual basis. Then came the real hard work – keeping the dream alive. Longer hours, even less money available since any that he made was put back into Modhubon, occasional drunken racial slurs from irate customers who had waited that bit too long for their meal. Mr Bhumbra always smiled politely, took their money gratefully and told himself it would be worth it, reminded himself why he was doing it and, gradually, over several years, the restaurant became a success.

  Mr Bhumbra bought larger premises, installed more tables, employed a chef and allowed his wife, anticipating the imminent arrival of their second child Sharada, to stay at home. Now Mr Bhumbra was comfortable, with a fine home, a Mercedes not yet two years old and a restaurant regarded as the finest Indian in the town (and there were over half a dozen). But still he felt unfulfilled; that he had not done enough to effectuate his dream.

  When his Uncle had asked him all those years ago ‘what do you want?’ Mr Bhumbra had replied without any hint of sarcasm that he desired to make himself known, for his existence to matter. He had visions of a profusion of his restaurants established nationwide, moving in high social circles. He had always dreamed of going into politics in some form, the local council, perhaps even becoming an MP. He wanted to make a tangible difference and leave a legacy that was more than just financial.

  Except somehow it hadn’t happened. Here he was, more than a quarter of a century later, with one restaurant and a fledgling take-away business in a small seaside town. Nobody had any clue who Mr Bhumbra was. He was simply another Indian with a swanky motor who owned just another curry house. The people of Morecambe didn’t care where he’d come from or the sacrifices his family had made to send him here. The effort he’d put in to get where he was meant nothing to them.

  People staggered into the restaurant reeking of alcohol, swearing, slurring their speech and all they ever wanted was a ‘Chicken Joe Frazier’ or a bloody Tikka Masala, along with a pint of lager. All the dishes Mr Bhumbra had so painstakingly created, all the traditional recipes could be removed from the menu and it would make not one jot of difference so long as Korma was available. He couldn’t ever recall anyone ordering Kori Kachpu or Mutton Urundai Kozhambu and that was the pity.

  Now, in a further bout of pandering to the English post-pub palette Mr Bhumbra had opened a take-away, offering kebabs, chips, burgers and, of course, a range of his finest curries and he was chapfallen, disheartened.

  ‘But look at all you have,’ Mrs Bhumbra would say. ‘Our children, this beautiful house, you have given us this life, made us secure. You have done this.’

  Mr Bhumbra knew his wife was right, but that was not enough, not by a long chalk.

  Minutes later he was disturbed by some sort of brouhaha from the front of the shop. He listened over the sound of the television which blared noisily from the corner stand high on one wall – installed to distract customers while their food was prepared – and shook his head at behaviour which, over the years, he had come to recognise as emblematic.

  It was the young people Mr Bhumbra had decided. Not always, but in the main. And more often than not it was the girls that were the catalyst which led to confrontation. These people seemed to dress in a manner which they doubtless thought attractive and Mr Bhumbra was not too old to admit that skin tight jeans or outrageously short skirts, low cut tops and high heels did indeed suit a very small minority of his customers. But to his eyes, the majority appeared overweight, badly dressed and ignorant. Their aggression fuelled, without exception, by drink or drugs.

  ‘That’s my fuckin’ boyfriend you’re fuckin’ lookin’ at.’

  ‘Fuck off; he’s been eyeing me up all night.’

  ‘Only ‘cos you’re tits are practically hangin’ out your top.’

  ‘Perhaps if you had any tits he wouldn’t need to look at mine.’

  Predictably Mr Bhumbra heard screams from the front of the shop immediately supervened by shouts of encouragement as two women scuffled before they were pulled apart. A few moments later, the noise dimmed as the group took their fracas outside.

  Mr Bhumbra was growing older, would soon be too old. It was time, he decided, to pursue his dream again, make a final mettlesome push to achieve greatness, to put his food, his culture, his name in the spotlight and try to make a difference.

  11 Night life

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  ‘So there we were, off our faces on some stuff one of the lads had brought, mental it was.’

  Dumf! Dumf! Dumf! Dumf!

  It was December, almost Christmas and Tania Streatham had completed her first term at college as part of her Aromatherapy and Massage course. She nodded her head, endeavouring to continue dancing despite the assiduity of the greasy-skinned youth in front of her.

  ‘You’re really nice looking, great legs,’ the boy bellowed, slipping an arm around Tania’s waist.

  Tania laughed; she’d heard this so many times already in her short life and from better looking men than this latest effort. She was dressed for maximum impact in an acutely short, pressingly tight cardinal dress teamed with cruelly high open shoes and an ultra-push-up bra. She added a generous spritz of an expensive perfume she’d ‘borrowed’ from her mother some weeks ago. The finishing touch – perched atop her long blonde hair which cascaded down her back - a vivid red Santa hat topped with a fluffy white bobble.

  ‘Really nice,’ he cont
inued. He pulled Tania closer, one hand now clamped to her right buttock. He angled his face until he was looking straight at her, beginning his approach for a dance floor kiss.

  Being just drunk enough not to care, Tania granted the boy his kiss which was greeted by cat calls and shrieks of approval from her watching entourage. Unfortunately the boy interpreted this festive exchange as a signal to progress, swiftly attempting to plunge a hand down Tania’s dress. Here Tania drew a halt to proceedings before any further dignity was lost. She left the slobbering boy exploring the most predacious elements of his character on the dance floor.

  The plan for the evening was simple. Drink a lot in an attempt to have a good time and forget about Kuldeep and the mess she had made of their relationship. Except, the more she drank, the more she thought about him and how badly she had behaved on the day she had told him they were finished.

  The day in question had begun badly. Tania had been due to meet two college friends at the library to work on a presentation they were due to give the following term. Tania, however, had missed the meeting owing to the fact that she’d spent half the night online, exchanging increasingly explicit instant messages with her boss, Lee Etchman.

  Tania awoke mid-morning to find three messages on her mobile. Two from her friends – at the library and wondering where she was - the other from Etchman saying what a great time he’d had online and he couldn’t wait to see her in the flesh.

  Tania groaned when she realised the time and instantly regretted her alcohol-fuelled antics of the previous evening. She called her friends but, being in the library, their mobiles were doubtless switched off. Entirely fed up Tania trudged to the kitchen and ate a bowl of sugar puffs in front of the television.

  Finally she found the motivation to drag herself to the shower where she found a note taped to the door in her father’s handwriting. The note was meant for the plumber who, it seemed, was due there any minute. ‘Water off’ said the note. ‘Please fit new shower unit as discussed’. Tania entered the bathroom and tried the taps, swearing loudly when only a handful of drips landed in the sink.

  Mercifully there was some water in the kettle. Tania had just made herself a coffee when the doorbell rang. It was the plumber, a man in his mid-twenties who observed Tania’s wild hair, bleary eyes and short nighty and grimaced slightly.

  ‘Heavy night?’ He joked.

  Tania responded with a filthy look and asked how long before the water would be back on. She received an amiable shrug by way of reply and a vague promise of later that day. By the time Mr and Mrs Streatham returned from work Tania still was not dressed. Her black mood was further worsened by her father’s comment that Tania had wasted another day of her life, that she had accomplished nothing when she could have been out earning or, preferably, attending school.

  As such, when Kuldeep wandered up to the Streatham house later that evening he was quite unprepared for the onslaught which greeted him.

  ‘You look tired,’ Kuldeep said after they had kissed on the doorstep.

  ‘Well it’s not ‘cos of anything you’ve done to keep me up,’ Tania fired back viciously.

  ‘I know, I haven’t seen you so it must be something else,’ Kuldeep suggested helpfully.

  ‘Jesus Kuldeep,’ Tania laughed.

  But Kuldeep simply did not understand Tania’s comment, or her exasperation.

  ‘How was the library?’ He asked instead.

  ‘I didn’t bloody go because I got up late and then there was no water and then dad had a right go at me and I’m sick of it.’

  ‘So what did you do instead of the library then?’

  ‘Nothing, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘So tell me the point, then I’ll know.’

  ‘God, you just don’t get it do you?’

  ‘Get what? You didn’t go to the library, I get that.’

  Kuldeep was growing frustrated. He could see Tania was upset, he just could not understand why and he did not know how to make Tania explain it to him. Kuldeep had never liked arguments or conflict. His brain was wired for logic, straight-talking, not the nuances and emotion of a fight.

  ‘This isn’t working for me Kuldeep,’ Tania said suddenly. ‘I need more.’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘More than you give me.’

  ‘More what though? More food? More presents?’

  Tania clenched her fists and looked up at the ceiling. ‘No, no, no!’ She cried. ‘Just more. And I am sick of eating Indian fucking take-away too.’

  ‘I can bring something else,’ Kuldeep offered.

  ‘Just go!’ Tania insisted. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘But I love you,’ Kuldeep said genuinely with a smile on his face. His large innocent brown eyes displayed the panic he had managed to hide in his voice.

  ‘Lucky me. What use is that? What can I do with your love?’

  Kuldeep had no answer, was totally out of his depth and felt angry and confused. Tania knew this too and in this moment, in this foul mood, she liked it.

  ‘But, I love you Tania,’ Kuldeep offered earnestly.

  His words sounded strained, the pitch of his voice becoming higher as the sense of alarm grew.

  ‘Sod off,’ Tania replied and then she slammed the door in Kuldeep’s bewildered face.

  Kuldeep screamed, a howl born of frustration and confusion. Later Mr Streatham discovered the take-away splattered all over his new car. Tania, predictably, almost instantly regretted her actions, had very nearly opened the front door and run after Kuldeep but, in the end, had not.

  She had not been angry with Kuldeep; he was a well-intentioned, caring young man who only wanted the best for her. Tania was angry with herself, with her own weak, flawed character. She had behaved abominably towards Kuldeep, had purposefully confused him, knowing that as a high-functioning autistic he would grow frustrated, that he would endeavour to comprehend.

  Tania cared greatly for Kuldeep and had made an effort to understand him and his condition. She had questioned him, read chapters in the library and was able to know him better as a result. But because of Lee Etchman, because she was tired and the water was off, because her father had passed comment, Tania had resorted to insult as a means to hurt Kuldeep in a pathetic effort to make herself feel better.

  Tonight, Tania and her friends were in a bar named Revolution which was, as always, packed providing the girls all the excuse they needed to buy their drinks in bulk to avoid queuing. The crowd was a fairly typical mix of teenage girls wearing more make-up than clothing regardless of shape or size, teenage boys wearing variations on the designer shirt and jeans theme, more mature women who all seemed to be wearing trouser suits and lone men, desperate not to stick out like an older man alone in a club full of kids.

  Tania was beginning to enjoy herself, despite all the early talk being about who was seeing who, what they had and hadn’t done with boys and just where they would draw the line. Tania’s admission that she was no longer seeing Kuldeep was greeted with relief and satisfaction by her friends, much to Tania’s chagrin. Throughout the evening each of the girls had been approached by a mélange of males, each met with howls of derision or shrieks of delight depending on their appearance and their chat-up line.

  As Tania clipped unsteadily from the toilets with one of her friends she again noticed a young man looking at her. He was attractive enough to her intoxicated eyes, wasn’t dressed too badly and Tania returned his glance with one of her own, spurring him on to strut over and try his luck.

  ‘Nice hat!’ He bawled over the palpitating beats, staring quite blatantly at Tania’s prodigious breasts.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So then, fancy a dance or summat?’

  Tania giggled and nodded, allowing herself to be led upstairs where a DJ mixed records on a riser in front of a small, but ebullient, dance floor. They immediately entwined themselves, Tania grinding her body against the man she had just met, tossing her hair violently and making plenty of eye contact. Wit
hin minutes they were engaged in a kiss, a primal, confrontational bout of oral wrestling that was more aggressive than passionate.

  Sweating and breathless, the new couple pushed their way to the bar where the boy, whose name Tania didn’t know and hadn’t thought to ask, bought her an alcopop and a vodka jelly. Gulping the jelly down in one well-practised move, using her tongue to pull the gelatinous spirit into her mouth, Tania then sucked some of the brightly coloured drink through the straw and offered some to her new friend.

  With a nod to a tenebrous corner of the room, the boy led Tania to a booth which had a solitary spare seat; Tania willingly lowered herself onto his knee, wrapped her arms around him and they resumed their tongue warfare, his hand roaming eagerly between her exposed thighs.

  ‘Yaaay! You go girl!’

  Tania looked up to see her friends, each as drunk as the other, bottles in hand.

  ‘Come on, we’re gonna get some food then go to a club,’ said one, hauling Tania to her feet.

  Tania acquiesced but, undeterred, her suitor took this as his cue to pursue her outside, still with an arm around her, one hand apparently grafted to Tania’s right buttock, squeezing it intermittently.

  ‘Why don’t you come back to my place?’ The boy asked boldly once they were outside, the cold December air refreshing after the heat of the bar.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Tania replied. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Come down here for a minute then,’ he suggested as the group passed an alleyway.

  Tania giggled and shrugged. ‘Get me a pizza girls, I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘Go on Tan, get in there girl!’ Her friends goaded as Tania disappeared into the alleyway with the stranger for further festive shenanigans.

  While they kissed and groped, Tania became vaguely aware of shouting from the street, typical sounds of a normal night out.

  ‘Oh bollocks!’ The busy-handed youth pulled away.