Black Bread White Beer

by Niven Govinden

  ‘But I know this already,’ Hari says, after he has demeaned himself with this two-way pretence. ‘Why are you telling me again?’

  ‘As one of our closest friends we wanted you to be the first to be told. We’re on our way to Sussex now to break it to Liz and Sam.’

  ‘I get it. She doesn’t know you called me last night, does she? You’re acting like you’re scared of her, Amal. This is not the action of a strong Indian husband.’

  ‘It’s not a question of that. We just wanted you to know.’

  ‘All right! I get the message. You’re spineless and unable to stand up to your wife. Kid had a lucky escape if you ask me.’

  Amal swallows this because he is not prepared to make him look bad in front of Claud. It would be easy payback, putting Hari on speaker and letting him twist the knife, but he does not have the stomach for it. Privately, he will kick the shit out of him at a later date, but not now. Now is the time for murmured platitudes, sweetness and light.

  ‘See? I knew you’d feel better if you got it off your chest,’ says Claud, satisfied, once he hangs up, not understanding that the break in his chest is one of frustration and has nothing to do with her.

  ‘Better out than in.’

  It kills him to stay calm, keeping his breathing as smooth as the engine, resisting all urges to push her out, smash them into a tree.

  ‘You keep too many things to yourself, ’Mal. I could see what it was doing to you in the shop. You looked like you were going to fall apart.’

  ‘That was hunger pangs from not eating the sandwich.’

  ‘Stop running away from it. Be brave enough to face it.’

  Says the girl who has shoved a canvas between them. Who cannot look him in the face after losing his baby. She should be taken to court for what she did. If she was poor and uneducated she probably would be.

  ‘We’re nearly there. Five minutes.’

  ‘We can pull up at the next lay-by if you want a cry.’

  ‘I don’t want or need a cry, Claud. I’m fine.’

  He is not worried about tears, only the double and triple knots that have made a cat’s cradle of his guts; wrenched tightly, as if his emotions are on a leash. He wonders whether they will look back and see this as a turning point, when it began to physically hurt to share the same space. Neither Claud’s stabs nor Hari’s bleating distract from this. The car purrs as smoothly as ever but everything within it sits wrong.

  She feels something too. Thumps on the dashboard to convey it. The canvas prevents him from seeing the degree of unease etched on her face. He only has the urgency of the thumps to guide him: a series of double raps becoming louder and more frequent the further he drives, until what was first a signal morphs into a drum beat; jungle drums, communicating the depth of their contrition. He hears the un-clunk of the seat beat holder, indicating she is ready to spring into action the moment he stops the car.

  At the next lay-by, where a young couple are trading cellophane-wrapped roses, she sprints towards the privacy of the furthest verge and dry heaves. That she wants to purge the poison so physically, the rot that has accumulated since their arrival in Battle, makes him go soft. His chest cavity rises and falls as a series of emotional waves breaks the marital surf. Her retching is synchronicity, proof that a connection exists, but he is still too pig-headed to show it.

  ‘See! I told you this is what would happen if you drank that manky coffee!’

  ‘Right, I thought, I’m not standing for this. So I went to the printers in the marketplace, the French chap, you know, where we did your wedding invites, and got five thousand of my own printed up.’

  ‘Fighting fire with fire? You’re a braver man than I am, Sam.’

  ‘Protect Lewes, it says. End the bureaucratic madness now! Cost an arm and a leg because we went with a heavier card to stand out more, but it’s worth it. Here, see?’

  ‘“Let’s nip it in the bud.” Very catchy.’

  ‘Mention red tape round here and it’s like a rallying cry.’

  ‘So I see. “Red or white, let’s unite and fight.” Sounds like you’re recruiting for the Spanish Civil war, or something. Never had you down as the communist type.’

  ‘People won’t put up with the nonsense you see happening in other towns. Look what’s happened to Ashford, and Dover. Can’t take a piss without government bodies having their say.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of effort for something that’s still a proposal. They haven’t even held the public consultation yet, have they?’

  ‘You have to catch them on the hop, Amal. Be prepared before they are. Why would you want to put an asylum tribunal centre into the Cedars? Ruin a perfectly good house when they could easily use an unused tower block in the city. We’re in the middle of the country. We have nothing for them here, these people.’

  ‘They probably need something close to the coast, I suppose. Scouring round for something local.’

  ‘Then set up in Dover! Don’t ruin our lovely town! They should be hunting in busier places like Hastings or Brighton. If you have a train, you take it to the train station, not the motorway. This kind of rubbish is a drain on our local facilities.’

  ‘You’ve written that over sixty per cent of those who make it through the tunnel from France illegally end up in a spiral of crime and prostitution. Where are you getting these figures from?’

  ‘It’s an estimate. Just to give people a rough idea.’

  ‘Nothing like scaremongering to get them going, eh?’

  ‘Sod ’em. I don’t have to explain myself to anybody. I’m a private citizen having his own say.’

  ‘Just be careful you’re not misleading people, Sam. You could get pulled up for stuff like this.’

  ‘Let them try. Do you read the papers where you are? They’re at war all along the South coast, and I don’t want it brought here. I have my grandchild to think about. I don’t want little Claud or baby Amal not being able to walk to the park because there’s drug dealers and brothels at every corner.’

  ‘So the grandchild’s to blame, is it?’

  ‘I’m thinking about the future. It’s what you do when you get to my age. Pass us that coaster, will you? Liz’ll have me strung up by the balls if I get a wet mark on the new sofa. We haven’t scotch-guarded yet.’

  Things are done the old-fashioned way in Lewes. Mother and daughter commandeer the kitchen whilst Amal is left to attend his father-in-law in the lounge. Male company, even the watered-down type that Amal offers, is welcome, but what Sam wants most of all is for his daughter to be with him. His notices how his father-in-law’s eyes betray that sentiment every time he speaks, flickering towards the door expectantly. Every time he hugs her – hello and goodbye – he clamps onto her like he is wielding a vice. His prized girl, missing for seven days and now back. Amal too is hugged, but the outpouring of love on the drive is reserved only for her. Liz by contrast is breezy and peckish with her kisses, almost embarrassed by Sam’s display, uncomfortably long and silent, oblivious to all onlookers.

  Amal too looks at the door in the direction of the kitchen and wills the intrusion of feminine company, the opposite of his desires at home. He kids himself that it is in Claud’s best interests; to rescue her from Liz’s pregnancy talk. Comparing notes on a baby that does not exist. But there is something that holds him back, stops him from getting up and joining them at the breakfast bar, whether under the pretext of refilling the coffee cup or looking for biscuits. He is relieved not to have to hear her lying about the supposed bump growing inside her. Thankful he does not have to be party to her fake optimism. His sanguinity is hard enough to maintain, here, in this casual setting that still feels like an extended interview, three years after the main event.

  He never wants that specific tone to reach his ears, her fraudulent hopefulness, because he knows that he will always be looking out for it from then on. Mulling over every aspect of their marriage and reliving the moments when she talked to him in the same way, from reworking a rout
e after the SatNav went bust, to nights in bed when they wanted to try new things before conception bogged them down and made them weary, humping machines, well-dressed sperm and egg-holders.

  Forcing themselves to pretend to Liz and Sam is a oneoff. It has to be. Once things return to normal there will be no other reason to lie.

  Sam nods towards the leaflet, expecting more praise about the thick card, better suited to an invitation than a flyer handed out during market day. Bloody awful. Calligraphy-font gilt edging, with an art direction that lends itself better to an advertisement for curtain makers. The Frenchman must have seen him coming.

  He knows what comes next, strains of pondering aloud that will rope him into being a glorified paperboy. Spending the afternoon with Sam on the Green, taking advantage of the numbers drawn by the Herald of Spring fair, with its stalls and tombola and mini bouncy castle. Supper will be sung for, and he will be made to campaign hard before transplanting the fight over to Richmond, bending the ears of every affluently conscious juicer and latte sipper, where every sentence ends with ‘not on my doorstep’.

  He resists the dogsbody role at every opportunity, but knows this is all part of the son-in-law’s contract, to act the servile, agreeable chaiwalla. Whilst other men, those English Lionhearts that chased Claud so persistently in her teens and early twenties, would have embraced the role, he wonders what it is that makes him resist – the rebelliousness in his own nature, or the taken-for-granted way that Sam speaks to him, like a more arrogant Puppa, as if there are no options but his.

  ‘Don’t you want to get started on the washing machine? I heard it was urgent.’

  ‘Sit down, mate. There’s plenty of time for that. Liz’s getting a spread sorted. We’ll have a bash at it afterwards. You’re always in such a hurry, Amal.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You are. Being industrious is in your DNA I suppose. You can’t build an Empire without it.’

  ‘Rebuild an Empire, you mean.’

  ‘I was just making an observation, not getting political.’

  He cannot be angry when Sam has his hands raised in surrender, sheepish at the slip of his tongue; though the underlying aura is one of satisfaction, as if his father-inlaw is secretly pleased with himself for speaking his mind. No different to the intent of the leaflets: rant now, apologize later.

  Every weekend visit encompasses much of the same. Last Saturday, he was grilled over his thoughts on education, whether the schools in Richmond could compete with the combination of high academic standards and pastoral care offered by the triumvirate of prep schools in the surrounding villages; the assumption being that Sussex was the only viable place to bring up a child. Now the focus is on the safety of the environment, and of Sam’s one-man effort to force out all that is pestilent and unsavoury. These debates are set to continue until a baby is held securely in a grandfather’s arms – until the next issue comes along needing to be worried about.

  In the three weeks since the news, both Liz and Sam appeared to have undergone two contradictory procedures: they are invigorated, and yet they look older – old – as if something in Claud’s teasing question ‘are you ready to be grandparents?’ has triggered conflict within their bodies.

  Their molecular structure has been waiting all this time for an alarm call, and now that it has been triggered, their physiognomy has accelerated them into their third age. His eyes are bright, but the face appears more deeply lined; tufts of hair sprouting from ears and eyebrows look unrulier than before. The hairline itself has further receded, making the sharp side parting look as though it springs as far back as his crown, and the skin across hands and elbows appears looser, although the efforts of the tanning bed do their best to cover it. Most obvious of all is the slackening in his posture, from the curve in his lower back, making his belly protrude, to the newly risen hunch at the base of his neck.

  Dad to Grandad in twenty-one days. It is irreversible. Now they have committed so wholeheartedly, their middle-age can only be viewed as past. Grandparents without a grandchild. He and Claud are still capable of any transformation, but Sam, and by extension Liz, Ma and Puppa too, will remain this old, waiting for a child’s birth to power them.

  Only the secondary development, this new-found energy, will save them; a deep-rooted motor that has given them purpose, battling the ravages of cellular decay. They cannot be protected from heartache, grief for something so small they cannot even put a fitting name to it. But this rediscovered energy will rally them into positive thinking, pushing them back into the thrust of harebrained schemes such as the opposing of the asylum tribunal centre. Amal hopes that he and Claud can be swept up in the whirlwind. They need these arms around them.

  When female company arrives it is not in the numbers they were hoping for. There is only one of them. Amal fiddles with the flyer, glad that he still has it in his hand, hoping that Liz does not register the disappointment on both his and Sam’s faces. She is carrying a tray loaded with food, and though she is concentrating on not spilling anything, the flickering in her eyes registers their dissatisfaction, that she is only second billing to the main show in spite of her careful clothing choices, dark jeans and a short white shirt folded at the sleeves, and light make-up. He thinks of how Ma would feel if she were treated the same way and his ears burn with uncensored shame. He only realizes now how Claud is the centre of the house. Everything else is periphery.

  ‘I was going to set things up in the dining room, but since there’s just the three of us, there’s no point, really. We can just eat off our laps.’

  Panic casts across Sam’s face, sharply nipped in the bud by his wife. Familiarity with his impulses. Revenge.

  ‘She’s lying down upstairs. Had a rough night, she said. And I think she was still feeling nauseous from the car.’

  ‘Been tearing down the B roads have you, Amal? Not looking after my daughter?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, Sam. It’s why it’s taken us so long to get down here.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with speed, Samuel. Her body’s all over the place. The smell of a freshly laundered cotton towel could make her feel sick just as much as a car journey. Remember how I was when I was carrying her?’

  Lunch is the deli counter’s finest decanted into bowls and layered on plates. Aside from the baguette still warm from the oven everything is cold: slices of ham and cheese, boiled eggs, leaf and roasted vegetable salads, and jar upon jar of condiments. There is a leg of lamb in the fridge ready to be roasted should they be persuaded to stay for dinner, but before five in the afternoon Liz makes it a rule to spend as little time as possible on the stove. Life is too short.

  Ordinarily, Amal would be playfully whispering to Claud about his yearning for a hot dog or a Pot Noodle over this picnic food, how he would welcome any crap so long as it was hot. Now he silently tucks in, surprising himself by how hungry he actually is. He is free to put it away, singularly focusing on his appetite and forgetting about Claud whilst she sleeps. If Liz and Sam are sharing the same thoughts they do not show it. Emotion is difficult to gauge when the subjects of observation are tugging on French sticks with Polydented teeth. The room is silent save for slurping, gnawing and the scraping of cutlery against porcelain. They are finally comfortable with each other’s company, now that food has filled the spaces they struggle to inhabit with words.

  ‘Has he been showing you those ridiculous flyers? He was supposed to be taking me to Bruges on the Eurostar next month, but he’s the blown the cash on those things.’

  ‘They’ll stand out, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Hand those out in the street and people will think they’re being invited to a posh party somewhere. And then they read it . . .’

  ‘That was the point, darling. Element of surprise. Fool them into a false sense of security and then nab ’em.’

  ‘You can’t hand those out in the street, Samuel. People will think you’ve gone mad.’

  ‘And I should do it your way, I suppose. Sit on my
backside and let every petty criminal and scrounger flood into our town.’

  ‘Don’t get clever. You might start choking on an olive. Good printer though, Amal. We’ve used him for a few things now.’

  ‘She’s only saying that because she fancies him.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? Unattached, good-looking Frenchman in his thirties. He’s a dish.’

  ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Liz.’

  ‘Half the women in the village are nutty for him. Claud would see the potential if she bumped into him.’

  ‘Is that so, dear?’

  ‘Don’t make it sound sordid, Samuel. I’m just trying to explain how we share the same taste in men.’

  ‘Because me and Amal are so much alike?’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of how we both used to like George Michael. Stop teasing the boy, and eat your baguette. Amal, you don’t have to go leafleting with him. You’re under no obligation. He’ll be bored of it himself by next week.’

  ‘They’re flyers, woman. Nothing is being sacrificed.’

  ‘Just my weekend in Bruges.’

  So it is confirmed. He is expected to go canvassing today, before lunch has even settled, the washing machine was simply a front to get them down here. He has fallen for carrots before, the docile working animal that he is, but never something as cumbersome and potentially hernia-giving as this.

  ‘Is that before or after we shift the washing machine? I’m ready to put my power belt on.’

  Sam grapples with a pickled onion and plays dumb. It is left to Liz to put down her sandwich and enlighten him.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now, Amal. I managed to get him to open that tight little wallet of his. Someone from the shop’s coming on Tuesday to plumb it in. Didn’t he tell you?’

  When he goes to check on Claud before walking down to the village with Sam he finds her curled under a blanket but awake. Her face has softened in her old bedroom. Nothing can trouble her here.