The Cambridge Curry Club
Page 19
Banerjee was in pain, and waiting for an operation on the National Health Service to his shoulder, but no date had been provided. The uncertainty was already taking its toll. Mrs Banerjee’s military-style ministrations added to the general discomfort, and it was impossible to tell which was more intolerable. Banerjee’s malt whisky had been banned and banished; medicine and alcohol were a lethal combination, bellowed his commanding officer.
A witness to Banerjee’s tribulations, Mr Chatterjee was deeply alarmed on several counts. The assailant could still be concealed in the bushes, ready to pounce. In the meanwhile, Mr Chatterjee read about another attack, reported in the Cambridge Evening News, on a blind woman who was out walking. Two youths kicked away her cane and snatched her purse. Mr Chatterjee was shaken to the core, as he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling that night. This was not the Britain he had dreamed of as a boy growing up in Calcutta, this was not the country of Shakespeare and Keats and Shelley and Wordsworth. It was a wasteland, he thought. It had become a council estate wasteland and Hooligan’s Choice – not Hobson’s – before his very eyes.
Banerjee’s NHS wait was deplorable; this could not be permitted to happen in the country that rationed his friend’s pension and had swallowed his tax contributions. Mr Chatterjee felt unease, betrayal, and as a consequence the Neighbourhood Watch duties were no longer challenging; it seemed irrelevant and futile to invest in securing other homes with his own still at risk. Old age had always been a worry to Mr Chatterjee; now he was deeply troubled. For some days, he had not bothered to glance at the magazines on the top shelf at the newsagent, nor had he scanned the headlines in his Bengali paper with the same relish.
Returning late from a Diwali party in Girton two days after the Banerjee incident, he was surprised to see a police checkpoint on Trumpington Road. As he fearfully rolled down his car window, the officer inquired about the extent of his consumption of alcohol earlier that evening.
Unfamilarity with the situation made Mr Chatterjee, a man of legal precision, respond meekly and weakly, ‘Not much.’ He watched miserably as other cars were let through. Recovering his wits as the officer approached him with the breath-testing unit, he supplied quickly, ‘I remember now. It was one glass of whisky.’
It was too late. The officer took no notice, proceeding with rapid instructions that left Mr Chatterjee trembling like the Japanese wind chimes in his conservatory. He blew into the tube, cupping it with both hands. The officer shook his head. ‘That’s no good, sir. Try again.’ Mr Chatterjee continued to quiver while Swarnakumari sat wordlessly beside him. The second attempt failed. ‘No, don’t hold it sir. Just blow. Blow!’ Mr Chatterjee humbly confessed that his nervousness prevented him from fully comprehending what he had to do. Could the officer explain slowly? he asked, whereupon the officer warned him that if he did not blow properly one last time, he would be under arrest.
Mr Chatterjee had spoken the truth about his intake that evening; the officer eventually let them pass. The couple did not speak as they negotiated the Long Road bridge. Mr Chatterjee’s hands clutched his dignity on the steering wheel, as he drove steadily past the Sixth Form College and Tennis Centre.
He recalled an incident from the time his cousin Palash Ghosh was visiting from Jamshedpur. Mr Chatterjee had extolled the English way of life with enthusiasm. ‘Observe the immaculate dress of the English. Even coach drivers wear black suits. Observe how respectful they are towards cultured Indians. My postman calls me “sir” just for giving me the post – the accountant, the busdriver, all of them say “sir” to me.’ Ghosh had agreed; English civility was exemplary. Ghosh had been equally impressed by the English roundabout.
Swarnakumari looked ahead; her fingers unclenched eastward. Mr Chatterjee’s fingers were perspiring over the wheel. He now sensed that ‘sir’ had more inflections than one.
Mr Chatterjee’s changing moods mirrored the dreary winter landscape. When he continued to stare at the leafless trees outside as he sat at his desk on a Monday, his Parker pen idle in his hands, Swarnakumari produced the telephone number of Heera’s Essex travel agent who specialised in cheap fares to India. Mr Chatterjee protested over the stops at three Middle Eastern destinations en route, but the persuasive Gujarati man pointed out reasonably that it was high season with low availability. Mallika would invite an Indian friend to stay, and look after the house; the neighbours, including Joseph, had offered to keep an eye. Mr Chatterjee demurred but Swarnakumari, now calm, referred him to the chapter on parenting in the missing prayer book. When a bird was ready to fly, said Guru Ma, a sloping nest was never a deterrent.
Swarnakumari’s skilful manoeuvres infused new vigour in Mr Chatterjee, who now believed that the holiday in India had always been his suggestion. He took enthusiastic control, checking the locks on windows and doors, pruning the bushes and clearing away the leaves, switching off the fountain feature and storing the garden Aphrodite in the garage. The neat bundles of junk mail in there reminded him to instruct Mallika to stack the post neatly on his desk during their absence. He organised the payment of the utility bills and discontinued the Bengali newspaper for a month, glancing only out of habit at the magazine covers turned upside down.
‘Going home?’ asked the envious newsagent.
It was eight years since the Patels had returned to Gujarat on holiday. The shop was only closed half-days on Sundays, and there was no one to take command if they went on holiday; the son was at university and had already expressed his lack of interest in his father’s enterprise, and Mr Patel’s brother and nephews ran shops of their own in Ealing and Wembley. Mr Chatterjee was startled by the newsagent’s wistful reference to ‘home’.
After the holiday in India with Swarnakumari, Mr Chatterjee’s life would chart a different path. The passengers had arrived in Kolkata fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The pilot had mentioned strong tail winds.
Bob was unlikely to patronise the Bytes4U takeaway. He was no lover of fast food. He was pining for Indian food, Heera’s food. Repeated calls to her after the shop’s closure traced her to a Tupperware demonstration in Farida Nayak’s living room. Standing on a familiar doorstep a week later, he fumbled ruefully for his key before ringing the doorbell instead. The hallway still carried lingering odours of spice.
They sat at the kitchen table with a fruit bowl in its centre. El Salvio loved red seedless grapes, he thought, before realising he had transposed two realities and two households, two lives and a split existence. How easy it would have been not to leave at all, to share a convivial pot of Chinese green tea with Heera and put the rubbish out in the bin in the frost-covered patio, and climb the stairs to sleep and never have climbed down again.
He noticed, heart sinking, that she offered him the Wedgwood cup and saucer reserved for guests. She sat stiffly on the kitchen stool, regal and resolute in her shapeless kaftan. Staring at the turmeric stain below her shoulder, he was mesmerised by its yellowness as it engorged, swelling into a flame of orange hope. He began slowly in a quiet voice, telling her of his childhood in the dank cottage on the moor, the rooms filled with reproach, his confusion, the beatings and his cowed resistance, the city, the unending questions of who and what and why he was, and his fear of the ending of the world and his life without knowing, the struggle, the battle to find his self, himself. He loved her utterly, he knew that now.
Heera rose to fill the kettle and in the rising steam recalled her meeting with Javed in the cosy Turkish restaurant on King Street. The flickering candlelight had enacted a shadow dance on his face; the mystery of the missing card on the bouquet now solved, he recited the Urdu couplet, soft, baritone, seductive. He had penned additional lyrics for the occasion in praise of steadfastness, and she had listened spellbound. They had laughed at each other’s slide into middle age; she patted the rolls of flesh around her hips and he pointed wryly to his chin and his protruding stomach. When she shut the door firmly later that evening, he lingered outside her house under the moonlight on the gravel p
ath, looked up at the night sky and knew she had set him free.
Heera sat down at the kitchen table again. She told Bob that nothing had changed; she was still his wife, and he her husband. She had her self-esteem and dignity and her standing in the community, and just as a decision to leave had not been taken hastily, so was his desire to return to be weighed with care. If he returned, she said firmly, it would be on her terms. With a compassion that left him wordless, she said she knew he was not ready, whatever he might profess to the contrary, and the matter of the mortgage should be settled in the meanwhile; the house on Tenison Road would be sold, and she would move into a small flat. A small flat? he asked, dazed. It was not a split decision, she said, smiling. There was always a right action and a wrong one; the right action was the one that never seemed to be so at the time.
He stayed until midnight, boldly uncorking a Merlot from his wine rack. He narrated his battles with El Salvio, and she laughed, tears streaming. As he left, carrying the bunch of red seedless grapes she had hastily packed into a Tesco carrier bag, he turned to see her in the hallway, her reddish hair framed by its light. From where he was standing it looked like a halo.
The day after he first met Durga, Roman waited impatiently in the travel section at Heffers. It had been a mistake for him to suggest the bookshop, he realised. Teresa might be lurking behind the shelves, red and ready. He decided not to look at his watch again. It would only confirm one fact: Durga was not coming. She was already an hour and ten minutes late, and there could be no mistake about the place or time. Although he had supplied his telephone number, she had merely stated cryptically that she would be there.
He walked away, through All Saint’s Passage, turning right onto Sidney Street, and up St Andrew’s Street and Regent Street, turning left at Gonville Place, past the Parkside swimming pool and onto Mill Road, his steps treading a furious mile.
He stood speechless, staring at the exterior of the charity shop. A red and white ticker tape had been placed around the entrance, sealing all access. The ceiling appeared to have collapsed; all he could see was debris inside the shop. Fear seized him as he stared, all recrimination and reproach banished.
The blonde florist at Sunflowers was happy to tell him the sad news; the entire ceiling had caved in that morning, but the shop had already been closed. A small part of it had collapsed the previous evening while the volunteers were still inside, but they were unharmed. The police had already visited and so had the shop’s director. The secretary at the solicitor’s firm two doors down was of the opinion that IndiaNeed would not re-open, she added.
Roman was calming a thumping heart. Where were the volunteers? he asked. Were they operating out of other premises? Did she know the woman called Durga? He began to describe her – slim, tall, shiny shoulder-length hair, dark-brown eyes, full lips – and the blonde florist turned more wistful as she saw the soft light in his eyes matching the velvet of the scarlet blooms. He dashed out of the shop when she could help no further, having spotted her freckled assistant moodily scuffing a shoe against the pavement.
‘Hi, remember me?’ said Roman urgently. ‘I delivered your roses for you to that shop over there. I met you yesterday. I delivered the bouquet for you, remember? You had to see your girlfriend. It was only yesterday. Wake up, man!’ Roman smacked the lad’s cheeks between his hands.
‘She dumped me,’ said the lad morosely.
‘That’s too bad. Listen, did you know Durga, who worked at IndiaNeed? She’s Indian. Slim, beautiful, shoulder-length black hair? Did you know any of the people there? Do you know where they live – anything? Come on, man.’
The lad was unable to oblige, sinking into a witless stupor. Roman felt a sudden compassion for the woebegone Cupid. ‘Listen, man, you’ve got to pull yourself together,’ he advised. ‘If you really love her, then you’ll find a way. Give her a dozen red roses. Don’t you get a discount? Plus chocolates and a heart-shaped card. Maybe a big red balloon too? You’re a good-looking fella, bet you know what to do. Go for it.’
The freckled lad listened before slumping moodily again against the unforgiving wall as Roman returned to the blonde florist.
‘Nick’s a good lad, but a bit slow,’ she said when he reported the failure of his efforts. ‘Why did you ask him? He wouldn’t know a thing. Oh, did I tell you the director’s name was Diana Wellington-Smythe? Everyone’s heard of her – maybe you should get in touch.’
Diana was at a trendy salon off Market Square, enjoying a vigorous Indian head massage to restore her jangled nerves. IndiaNeed was gone, had vanished in a little puff and cloud of dust. Immediately after the collapse of the ceiling the next day, she and other members of the Board of IndiaNeed had declared the items beyond recovery; salvage was too much trouble and money. An electrician surveying the damage had handed her a long-stemmed rose he had found nestling behind a twisted wooden rack. It was still a perfect bloom, he had said wonderingly. She twirled it for a moment and placed it on the debris as she left. The ‘Cambridge Curry Club’ had been disbanded without ceremony.
Rupert was away in London, as usual, staying overnight at the little flat in Chelsea, and James had not returned home, either; he was probably staying with his awful friend Henry. It was all so tiresome.
Her mobile rang and she answered, hair oily and wild, as the masseuse paused and stepped back respectfully. ‘Diana Wellington-Smythe … Who? … Tempest? Dr Tempest? You are from where, did you say? … Oh, I see … No, that’s all right, I like to leave my mobile number on the answerphone. People should feel they can reach me quickly, or what’s the point … Yes, it was a disaster, quite appalling, very distressing indeed … In touch with whom? … Dewga? Dugga? No, I don’t recall that name. Do you mean the Indian woman who was doing the research for a television company – the Cambridge graduate? Yes? In that case, Helen would know how to contact her – you know, my manager … Her home number? No, I’m afraid I can’t remember. It would be in the files, but it’s been such a dreadful business with the debris, can’t find a thing … Her last name? I simply can’t remember … You’re welcome. Dr Tempest, you sound American. Are you? … How interesting! Are you staying over Christmas? If so, perhaps you would like to join us for dinner some day … We would love to have you at our table. Rupert and I regularly entertain Cambridge Faculty. Do give me a ring, won’t you? Goodbye.’
Roman turned to the blonde florist in desperation. ‘Do you know the shop manager Helen? What does she look like?’
‘She’s of South Asian origin, not tall, not slim, and the surname is Moore. An Asian gentleman sent her roses yesterday,’ replied the politically correct florist. ‘Helen … Funny, I’m sure her name was Heera,’ she added.
‘Heera, that’s the one! Moore, did you say, as in M-o-o-r-e? That’s an English surname.’ Roman asked for the directory again.
There was something in his desperately seeking voice that prompted Heera to give him Durga’s address.
‘There’s someone downstairs who wants to see you. He said his name was Dr Tempest. Shall I let him in?’ asked Atul.
Durga dropped a startled ladle into the cooking pot. ‘No, tell him to wait downstairs. He’s … he’s in a hurry. I’ve got to give him a message. I’ll be right back.’
They met outside under a clear night sky near the neat lawn overlooked by the block of flats, camouflaged by the communal bins. They gazed at each other until he said, ‘I guess you didn’t want to be found.’
‘No.’
‘When I was a kid, I used to play detective. I had a rusty bunch of keys on a wire. They unravelled every mystery, and I solved every crime in the neighbourhood. My mom found them lying around one day and threw them away. They were just a bunch of old keys to her, but they were the shiniest, newest keys in the whole wide world to me. I should have found out where she got rid of them, and I should have kept looking.’
She remained silent.
‘Well, anyway, here I am,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
He moved closer. ‘Then why didn’t you show up? Cold feet? Did you look me up on the Internet and discover my Cactus Cowboys Escorts Service? Damn, I should’ve known you’d find out who I really am.’ He searched her face. ‘Who’s that guy who answered when I buzzed you downstairs?’
‘My husband.’
He stepped backwards with an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. ‘A husband?’ He stood silent, considering. ‘I’m okay with that, too. Things aren’t going quite the way I planned, but no problem. How about you, your husband and me go out to dinner? A bit crowded at a cosy table for two, but I think an extra chair just might be arranged if we move the window.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why? Because you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me? That you didn’t tell me? No problem. How about I come up for dinner, then? What’s cooking?’
‘Vangebhaji and amti and bhaat. Aubergines, dal and rice.’
‘This vangerber stuff sounds good to me. Is he good to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked softly.
‘I wanted to help you find a cactus.’
They spoke under a spell in the darkness.
‘And I thought I’d found one, and didn’t want to lose it,’ he said.
She shook her head, moving away.
‘Do you always follow your head?’
She shook her head again. ‘This is madness.’