He could have left the flat as late as six o’clock and still made it to the station in time to be picked up by Vinnyji. He just thought it was best to go as soon as possible – she seemed reluctant to come out from her room while he was there. No doubt she was afraid of walking in on him naked or something. She was a modest girl. Woman. A woman of mystery. He still didn’t know who she was or what was driving her. It definitely wasn’t the money. He wished she’d let him in. If she was in trouble, then, like any good husband, he wanted to help her.
Inevitably, the boys – at the site, in the van to and from work – wanted to know how it was going. Had he finally experienced his suhaag raat, his wedding night? Their questions and insinuations pained him, even more so as he deflected them, and when he was dropped off at the station in the evening he climbed down from the van and said, ‘Enjoy your night,’ as if suggesting that was exactly what he’d be doing.
Once he reached the flat they’d exchange a polite sat sri akal and Randeep would take some clothes from his suitcase and on into the bathroom. He’d shower and re-emerge barefoot in a white cotton kurta pyjama. They ate quietly opposite one another at the small round dining table, fresh daffodils in the vase.
One evening he asked her, ‘If you could go anywhere in the world where would you go?’
She was making some sort of list. ‘Pardon?’
‘Next year I’m going to go to New York. I’ve decided. And then one day Australia. I want to fly everywhere. Don’t you agree?’
‘Agree?’
‘Because the world is big! And we make life such a small thing. I want my life to be big, too.’
She went back to her list. ‘I’m happy with wherever God leads me.’
His smile wavered. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean you weren’t. I’m sorry if that’s how it sounded.’
She nodded, not looking up, and Randeep turned again to the map on the wall.
The following afternoon, the first of his two Sundays, he rushed back from the station. It was starting to rain, true, the fine drizzle beginning to soup up, but that wasn’t why he was running. He’d had an idea. When he got back, she was unpacking groceries. Raindrops beaded the edge of her chunni and a wet, peachy scent seemed to have swept in behind her. Going to the supermarket had been one thing he was going to suggest they do, like other couples, maybe tomorrow evening. But that could wait—
‘Narinderji, let’s go to the fair.’
She turned round, a jar of something in her hand. ‘The fair?’
He took the flyer out of his pocket and thrust it at her.
‘Oh, no. It’s not for me.’
‘It’s for everyone! And it’ll be fun. Please say yes.’
‘Sorry. You go.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose I could.’ But the whole point was that they do something together. Open up to each other a little. ‘What about the gurdwara, then?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The gurdwara.’
‘This evening?’
‘Just, with the visit next week, it might be good to get God’s blessing. Make sure He’s watching over us.’
She returned to her cupboards, her back to him. ‘There’s an akhand paat on. It’ll be busy.’
‘Is that a problem? Doesn’t that only make it even more auspicious?’
‘I don’t like to go when it’s busy. We can say a prayer here if you like. I have the rehraas on CD.’
‘We wouldn’t have to stay long.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t think you’ve been for a few days now.’
She said nothing.
‘What about if—?’
‘I said no,’ she snapped. ‘Why can’t you understand?’
Silence fell, filled the room. Her shoulders slumped. She closed the cupboard and he watched her disappear into her bedroom.
*
A crow swooped down from the hotel roof and up into the blue wash of the sky. Clouds turned the colour of mercury, grumbled, and in the space of a breath the air greyed and the rain came. Tupperware boxes were shoved inside jackets and the men rushed under the plastic awning John had kicked them into building a few days ago, in preparation for a downpour like this. The rain drummed harder, pooling where the awning hadn’t been pulled taut. Water slithered in streams, like eels making good their escape. They had only got an hour’s work done and by lunchtime John had to relent and call Vinny to come and take them home. A few refused to go, fearing the loss of half a day’s pay, but Vinny said he’d see them right and that they’d best get in the van now summat pronto, cos this pissing rain was fucking him right off.
She wasn’t there when Randeep let himself in. He wondered where she could be. Most days she stayed in with the doors locked. He’d already taken his muddy boots off outside and these he placed on the newspaper he’d arranged beside the settee. He looked around. It was strange being alone in the flat, silent save for the rain. It was the first time it had happened. He took his towel and a fresh set of clothes and headed straight for the shower, resolutely avoiding even a glance at her bedroom door. Dressed, he found an onion and some potatoes in the fridge and started dicing them up. He’d surprise her with a sabzi. Alu muttar, maybe. He added butter to the pan, then the onions, and now the next stage, he remembered, was to wait for the onions to soften. So he waited. A minute passed. Two. He removed some imagined fluff from his shoulder, then quickly, so quickly that he almost tricked himself into thinking it accidental, raised his eyes to her bedroom. What harm would a peek do? And shouldn’t he get to know all of the flat, anyway, in case the inspectors asked him something tomorrow? He gave the pan a quick stir, then before he had a chance to change his mind bounded straight into her room. Silence. No one shouted at him to get out, which he seemed to half expect. It smelled different from the rest of the flat. Nicer, somehow. Was it berries? He flicked on the light. The rail for her clothes was still there. The wardrobe was new but plain: it was all very bare. No photographs either side of the bed, just matching lampshades like mauve cubes. And the shrine, of course: images of the gurus placed all along the sill, a spent joss stick in the middle. The window itself seemed to be made of a million trembling raindrops. He opened the wardrobe. Perhaps a dozen salwaar kameez. All simple, drab even. Not a single item of western dress other than her cardigans and, on the bottom shelf, three pairs of near-identical black shoes. He moved to the bedside drawers and crouched to pull open the large bottom chamber. A pair of plain white knickers stared back at him. Underneath them, several more, all white, and a packet of ladies’ pads. There were bras, too, and it was one of these – white again – that he lifted out and held in his hands, running his thumbs over the spot he imagined her nipples to be. He opened the shallower top drawer. Photos. Her mother and father, he guessed, a devout-looking couple, kirpans at their side and gazing seriously into the camera. A young turbaned man who had to be her brother, though the resemblance was more general than specific to any single feature. He returned them to their drawer, in the same order, and tidied away the bra, too. Then, feeling simultaneously satiated and ashamed, he resumed his work in the kitchen. It was only when he heard the downstairs door shut that he remembered the light in her room, and sprinted to switch it off before she made it up the stairs.
That night they hung up their wedding photos, and around the TV Narinder stood the holiday pictures Randeep had brought with him on one of his first visits. They littered the bathroom with more of his toiletries, incorporated his clothes into her wardrobe, and hid the suitcase under her bed. She’d bought a pack of gummed Post-it notes, too, which she wrote on and stuck to the fridge: Back at 6 p.m. today. Can you put the rubbish out, please? Mummyji called.
Throughout this, the rehraas sahib played in the background, so that His blessings might be with them tomorrow. They hardly touched their dinner, Narinder especially, and went to their separate beds on empty, nervous stomachs.
They agreed Randeep should go down and open the door. There were two of them: an o
lder man with a neat grey parting and a wrinkled handsomeness about him, and a younger round-faced lady with cropped, shiny dark hair and smiling brown eyes. They reminded him of TV news couples. They confirmed who they were, displaying their ID wallets – David Mangold, Katie V Lombardi. Randeep showed them up the stairs, where Narinder was waiting by the dining table.
‘My wife,’ he announced.
She smoothed down the back of her kameez and lowered into her chair. The inspectors took off their coats.
‘We’re really not inspectors,’ the woman, Katie, said, sitting down too. ‘We hear this a lot, but please rest assured this isn’t an inspection by any means. We’re immigration officers, and we really are just here to see how you’re getting on and whether you need any support. With finding work or getting around or language skills. That kind of thing.’
‘We’re here to check in, basically,’ David said, cutting across.
‘So, how are things?’ Katie asked. She pulled some papers from her briefcase. ‘It’s a lovely home you have here.’
Narinder and Randeep looked at each other. She spoke: ‘It’s going well, thank you. It’s going well.’
Katie consulted her notes. ‘You don’t currently work, Ms Kaur, and you’re in construction, yes?’
Randeep nodded. ‘It’s a very good job. I’ve been working there for nearly eight months now.’
‘Eight?’ repeated David.
‘I think it’s more like five,’ Narinder said. ‘We’ve only been here since the new year.’
‘You were both living with your parents before then, of course,’ Katie said. She went to her notes again. ‘London. Croydon.’
‘We moved here for Randeep’s work.’
‘There was no work in London?’ David asked.
Randeep smiled, nodded, shook his head. Already, he could feel his temples starting to hurt.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Narinder asked.
‘That’d be lovely. Would you mind getting it, Mr Sanghera, and we’ll finish chatting to your wife here?’
He scraped his chair back and turned into the kitchen. Left cupboard for mugs, the drawer nearest to the sink for spoons.
They asked Narinder about her days, what she did, whether she missed her family. Yes, lots, she’d replied.
‘But I suppose you’ll be looking to build your own family soon,’ David said, as Randeep arrived with the tea.
‘One day, sir,’ he said. ‘We are still getting on our feet.’
‘You’re both very young but I can tell you’ll make wonderful parents,’ Katie said, taking her mug from Randeep.
‘Oh, well, the first thing we need to do is save up enough to buy a house. With a garden. Instead of renting.’
‘Who’s the landlord?’ David asked, quick-smart.
‘Mr Greatrix,’ Randeep said. ‘I’m happy to give you his details.’
Katie seemed pleased. ‘Where would you like to move to?’
‘There are some very nice areas to the south of the city. Near the Peak District National Park. Those are good areas for schools, too. After that we can start thinking about children.’
‘Wonderful. What would you like?’
‘A boy and a girl. I think mixed families are best.’ He glanced at Narinder, who really wasn’t saying very much.
Katie smiled, taking in her colleague in a slightly superior way. ‘You’re so clearly very happy together. I can’t tell you the number of times we meet couples – ’ the word spoken with emphasis – ‘who seem to be struggling to adjust.’
They asked Randeep some more questions about how he was getting on: did he use the support facilities available to new immigrants? Did he know where they were in town? What about the free language courses? Not that he needed them, of course, though there were the advanced classes which might prove useful.
‘There really is a lot of support for you out there. You’re not alone.’ Katie placed some leaflets on the table, then shut her briefcase and checked her wristwatch. ‘Not even an hour. One of our shortest visits.’
She looked to David, who seemed unsure about something. ‘Could I use your bathroom?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Randeep said. ‘It’s that door just there.’
‘Sorry,’ Katie mouthed.
Randeep and Narinder smiled thinly, waited. The toilet flushed, which seemed like a slightly embarrassing thing for everyone to hear, and David came out looking just as unsure as when he went in. Randeep walked them to the top of the stairs. Narinder remained a few feet behind.
‘You haven’t taken your husband’s name?’ David said, looking at Narinder.
‘No.’ Then: ‘I didn’t want to.’
‘That’s a little unusual, wouldn’t you say? In your culture?’
Katie stepped forward. ‘So lovely to meet you both. We hope you have a wonderful future together. One of us will be in touch in a few months – it’s all routine, you know.’
The officers clomped down the stairs, she whispering something about regulation questions and the inappropriateness of his last remark, while he wearily held the door open for her. Randeep went to the window and watched them climb into their car, belt up.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said, as the car drove off. He turned round. ‘We did it.’
She’d insisted he leave that very afternoon, though he’d patently not wanted to. At first he said they should celebrate, that he’d noticed a new Indian restaurant on the way to the station. She was tired, she’d replied. She had things to do. The disappointment on his face was obvious, but she wasn’t going to indulge him. They settled for a celebratory ice cream. A van’s jingle sounded outside and before she could stop him he was out the door, returning with two flaked cornets. She ate hers sitting at the table, with him several feet away on the settee.
‘I’ve enjoyed living here,’ he said, in an exploratory tone.
She nodded carefully. She didn’t want him getting ideas.
‘It’s much nicer than the house.’
‘You mentioned friends, though. Avtar?’
‘It’s still much nicer here. I feel relaxed.’ He smiled at her.
‘It was always going to be a temporary arrangement. We did agree.’
‘I’ll pay more. I don’t mind.’
She said nothing for a while. Then: ‘What was all that about children? Schools?’
‘I wanted to sound convincing.’
‘You do know that this isn’t real, don’t you? This is only until the end of the year.’
‘Of course I do.’ There was a briskness to his voice. ‘I’m not stupid. I just thought we’d got on well these last two weeks.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I think you should go.’
He delayed further, taking his time to repack his suitcase, a palpable sadness in his slow movements. He tidied away the blanket, pillow and duvet and insisted he clean the bathroom, seeing as most of it was his mess. Then he shucked on his tracksuit top and picked up his case. She followed him to the door, feeling a guilty sense of relief. He handed her that month’s payment, smiling across at her.
‘Honestly, Randeep, you’ll be fine.’ She felt as if she was sending a lamb into a cesspit full of snakes. But she wasn’t going to budge. She wasn’t. And she closed her eyes and started counting to ten, and had got to six when she heard the front door shut behind him.
All her energy seemed to have leaked in the last few hours. Still, she did have things to do. That wasn’t a lie, she told herself, though the appeal to her honesty brought no comfort. Standing at the window, she saw a bus pass at the bottom of the hill, brake lights coming on, and thought she made out Randeep running to catch it. Randeep. A strange boy. Clearly, he was struggling with life in England. It was a mistake to have let him stay so long. She was certain he’d been in her room, too, on that thundery day. Her clothes had looked handled.
Sighing, she took Karamjeet’s letter from her bag. It had been tugging away under everything these past two weeks. Once, when Randeep had ask
ed to see ‘the letter’ again, she’d stared at him, her pulse surging. He’d looked baffled, as if wondering what he’d done wrong. He’d meant the letter about the inspectors’ visit, of course.
She returned to her bedroom, Karamjeet’s threat still in her hand. She’d have to meet him, she knew that. Maybe he’d tell her parents anyway, once he knew the full story. The police, even. It was a chance she’d have to take. She opened her phone and for nearly half an hour tried to compose a coherent text. She gave up, threw the phone aside. She’d do it tomorrow. Her mind might be clearer then, after a night away from Randeep and his inspectors.
6. NARINDER: THE GIRL FROM GOD
Narinder Kaur had been told the story so often she believed it must be her earliest memory: that she was four years old when she’d sprinted out of their Croydon semi and straight into the road. The car braked just in time. But the funny thing was that the car belonged to a reverend, on his way to open the church, and the reason Narinder had run out of the house in the first place was because her mother had said they needed to hurry, that God was waiting for them. In other words, God, sick of waiting, had come directly to Narinder. They’d been on their way to Panjab, to spend the entire summer in the service of their guru at Sri Anandpur Sahib, and on landing in India Narinder’s mother told the story to the other volunteers and they all ran their hands over the girl’s head and said she must be blessed and Waheguru really was watching over her.
It was Narinder’s first time in Panjab. Her mother came every summer and Narinder had always stayed behind with her father, her dadiji, and brother, but now she was four her mother said she was old enough to start understanding the importance of seva, of service.
The Year of the Runaways Page 25