‘No. I found out.’
‘I didn’t decide to involve them. They decided. Working with these young people made me think about myself and my past. I’ve been pretty thoughtless and irresponsible, especially when I was young. I had this urge to at least get to know my children, and I did a bit of spadework to find out what had happened to their mothers. When I made myself known to them we got on well at once. Naturally they wanted to know what I was doing, and they came here, got interested in it and – well, you know the rest.’
It all sounded so simple, so good. Yet he had charged into two young lives and changed their pattern. Admittedly Katy’s was a life whose pattern was unhappy, but Charlie had the impression he would have done the same even if she and her mother were close and devoted. He had made no attempt to contact the mothers before he made himself known to the children. Was he perhaps still ‘pretty thoughtless and irresponsible’ as he had described his young self? Was he one of those people who obeyed their whims of the moment, irrespective of consequences? Charlie didn’t doubt Ben’s good intentions. He was less sure of his good sense.
• • •
Alicia Ingram was as unused as Dickie Mavors to finding people of Asian extraction on her front doorstep. Instinctively she switched on the manner she used when she went into a corner shop, a manner she thought of as ‘being nice to them’, but one which in fact suggested her usual pity for people whom she regarded as less intelligent than herself, augmented in such cases by the fact that they were also less English.
‘Yes? Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Missis Ingram? Your name is given to me by Mr Mavors.’
Once she got past the pronunciation ‘Mavvers’, Alicia stiffened. Dickie Mavors was no friend of hers, currently.
‘Oh yes.’
‘It is my daughter. Very bad things happen to her.’ Mr Haldalwa thrust his head forward in outrage. ‘She has been taken by man at the refuge in Portland Terrace.’
Alicia relaxed.
‘Oh dear. This sounds serious. You had better come in.’
Randolph was out, so she took him into the sitting room. She wondered whether to offer him a drink, but decided it would probably be against his religion, whatever that was. She could decide later whether he was worth making tea or coffee for.
‘You say your daughter has been taken by the man running the refuge,’ she said in her best constituency MP manner. ‘Does that mean she had been sleeping rough?’
‘No, no. Nothing of the kind,’ said Razaq Haldalwa, very agitatedly. ‘My daughter is well brought up girl. Excellent education. Doing very well at school. Beautiful girl.’
‘I see. Is she romantically involved with him then? Or helping him with his . . . work?’
‘No. It is not like that . . .’ But he seemed to be having great difficulty explaining what it was like. ‘There was trouble – no, not trouble – disagreement at home.’
This Alicia could understand.
‘I see. Teenagers are always difficult, aren’t they? They think they know everything, when really they know so little!’
‘Is true. Is very true.’
‘So, what was this difficulty about?’
‘It was a question of . . . of obedience to her father. To her ‘ole family. Not to set up in opposition to us.’
This began to sound less than promising. Alicia was all for dutiful children (her own, from her first marriage, had on the whole done what their mother pushed them into, if only for a quiet life), but somehow this all had the odour of something . . . unEnglish, something that would not translate easily into the sort of political terms Alicia needed – something, in short, not easy to make an issue out of.
‘And the matter on which she set herself up in opposition to you all?’
If Mr Haldalwa had had a cloth cap to twist, in the tradition of the working-class lad tongue-tied in the presence of his ‘betters’, he looked as if he would have twisted it.
‘Is marriage. Is question of a husband, of opposition to the husband I have chosen for her.’
‘Ah-h-h,’ said Mrs Ingram, her spirits falling.
Because if there was one thing unlikely to rally the citizens of Bramsey round a cause it was the sanctity of Asian marriage traditions. Bramsey was white, middle class and permissive, with a fringe that was white, working class and permissive. It was as much as they could do to get their daughters to go through a marriage ceremony at all, let alone force them in their choice of partner. They would have not an ounce of sympathy for Mr Haldalwa in his dilemma. Alicia had a sudden sense that the world of local politics was not a bed of roses, but she squared her shoulders.
‘We must see what we can do,’ she said.
CHAPTER 8
Violent Ends
The trouble, when it erupted, started with the boy called Mouse. This was the undersized, vicious-looking young man who had been getting more and more difficult each day, and was now nearing the end of his fortnight. His name, obviously, was ironic, and his rat-like nature had become ever more apparent. Mehjabean had seemed to act as some kind of catalyst. Though he occasionally used the word ‘Paki’, the problem didn’t seem to be mainly racial: he seemed to resent her nice clothes, her loveliness, the fact that she was welcome, admired, almost loved in the refuge. The sight of the others laughing with her, confiding in her, sent him off into spasms of sneering or rage. It was the darkness gazing at light, and not being able to bear the brightness.
Ben took on the job of telling him that when his time was up he wouldn’t be welcome at the Centre in future.
‘What the fuck you mean?’ demanded Mouse, his face tilted up aggressively at Ben’s.
‘I mean you haven’t fitted in well here,’ said Ben quietly. Mouse’s face twisted in derision.
‘Fitted in! Is this the fucking boy scouts, then? Nobody told me I had to fit in.’
‘If this place is to have any future at all,’ said Ben, always quiet, ‘it has to have a pleasant atmosphere that young people will want to come into.’
‘Well?’
‘Your getting at people the whole time is unhelpful.’
‘Who’s getting at people?’
‘You. And there’s another thing: we have to be very careful here at the moment. There are people watching us who are just looking for an excuse to have us closed down. Your sort of unpleasantness can lead to feuds, fights, anything. I’m surprised it hasn’t already. People don’t like to be niggled, narked the whole time. I’m not going to take the risk. Until I’m quite sure your attitude has changed you won’t be welcome back here.’
‘Well, goodbye Mary Poppins,’ said Mouse. ‘Pardon me if I fart.’ He spat on the threadbare hall carpet and went up to his little bedroom in the attic, where he proved his attitude had not changed by scrawling graffiti directed at Ben and Mehjabean on the walls – graffiti that included plenty of four-letter words, including the word ‘kill’. To be precise, the phrase that stood out, because he’d done it as a two-colour affair in large capitals, was ‘KILL THE FUCKING DO-GOODER AND HIS TART’. When his dirty and holed rucksack had been stuffed full of his possessions he kicked open the door of his room and made his way down to the first-floor landing.
Downstairs in the hall Ben had just answered the phone.
‘Oh yes – Mrs Ingram. I know the name . . . and yes, I had heard of your concern . . . I assure you . . . Mrs Ingram, the police have been here, they have searched the place for drugs, and they’re perfectly satisfied . . . I do think the police are the people best qualified to conduct a drugs search, don’t you? . . .’ (Ben’s tone was impeccably diplomatic, and he managed to maintain it where other people might have let show that it was wearing thin. Up on the landing Mouse stirred, interested.) ‘I’m happy to talk to you any time, Mrs Ingram. I’m sure you support anything that helps the homeless, don’t you? . . . But most of the people here have no home to go back to . . .’
Mouse had heard enough. He dived into his belongings, retrieved a package,
and tucked it behind an old chest of drawers that stood by the wall of the landing. Then he struggled down the stairs, rucksack bumping on the bannisters, and as he passed Ben in the hall he aimed a vicious kick at his ankles, which he diverted at the last moment to connect with the leg of the telephone table. It must have sounded like a shot at the other end.
‘Sorry, Mrs Ingram. Something fell over,’ said Ben, as the front door banged. ‘You were saying?’
What Mrs Ingram was saying was that she thought she ought to come round to the – what was it called? – to the Centre to talk to him, that she couldn’t say when that would be because she’d have to consult her diary, but it was probably best for her visit to be unprepared for, wasn’t it, so that she could see the refuge as it really was . . .
It was all said in the manner of a school matron planning an unscheduled raid on the dorms. It was also vaguely insulting, though voiced with a blithe disregard for the implications of what she said. Ben was momentarily wrong-footed, failed to question what right she had to inspect or judge, and fell into some cliché about having ‘nothing to hide’. There was silence at the other end, which enabled him to right himself. He said: ‘I shall look forward to seeing you,’ and put the phone down.
But he was worried. He stood for a few moments in the hall, thinking over the conversation he had just had. What if Mrs Ingram came while he was out, and talked to Alan or Katy? There was no teenager on earth capable of the tact and self-restraint that a sparring match with Mrs Ingram’s type called for. He had known women like her all his life: single-minded, persistent, but not very bright. If he was not mistaken the woman’s whole endeavour would be for her own advantage or advancement – whether material, psychological or social. A phrase from his childhood schoolbooks came to his mind: ‘The creature hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright with it . . .’ Keats, was it? He thought he had heard that destructively selfish purpose getting from the eyes to the voice in the conversation he had just had. And it was a voice he could have sworn he had heard somewhere before, or one very like it, though probably it was years and years ago. Ben’s had been a picaresque life in his early years, and on his travels the pattern had been to leave people behind rather than take them with him.
‘No, not like that.’ He heard Katy’s clear, teenage voice from the kitchen. He shook himself free of reminiscent thought and went through to find her trying to stop Simon carving up and throwing away most of the runner beans he was stringing. Simon himself did not show any sign of shame at his total lack of domestic skills, but when Katy tried to show him how to string them without ruining most of the bean itself, he suddenly said:
‘I can hoover.’
They were so surprised at him offering even the most trivial information about himself that they could not believe their ears.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Kay said.
‘I can hoover. I always did the hoovering at home.’
‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘why don’t we set you on to giving the whole place a good hoovering over?’
Even he, so skilled in getting the right tone, was unable to keep a trace of false heartiness out of his voice. But when they got out the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in, Simon showed there was something he could use his bulk for: starting in the dining room he gave the place a thorough going-over, moving the furniture with ease, getting into corners, adjusting the suction for obdurate bits. Ben raised his eyebrows at Katy, and they smiled at each other: another problem solved.
• • •
‘Can I come in?’
Mr Haldalwa’s reception of him at the front door had been far from friendly, but Charlie Peace was used to that. Flourishing his ID under his eyes and insisting that he read it had resulted in some modification of his hostility.
‘Of course, of course. You come through, Mr Peace.’
The hallway was wide. The semi that the Haldalwas lived in was large and distinctly upmarket: the part of Headingly they had chosen would certainly not have given them many Asian neighbours. It was a house of someone who was doing well in the world, or who had been doing well.
If he did not have Asian neighbours, he certainly had family. When Charlie was ushered into the living room he found, seated on armchairs and the chairs from the dining table, ten or twelve people, the women in saris, most of the men in Western dress or a modified form of it. They all looked at him dark-eyed, saying nothing. This must be Midge’s extended family. There were lots of things to be said in favour of the extended family, but at the moment Charlie couldn’t think of any of them.
‘I was hoping for a word with you in private,’ he said, turning to the head of the family.
‘You talk before these people. Are all family members. We here to talk family matters. No secrets here.’
‘Very well . . .’ But it was difficult to frame the warning he wanted to give Mr Haldalwa before so many veiled, unwelcoming eyes. Charlie ignored the offer of a chair and stood, looking at Razaq Haldalwa alone. ‘Mr Haldalwa, I gather you made an attempt to bring your daughter Mehjabean back home by force yesterday. If you repeat that attempt you could be – would be – in very serious trouble. Let me spell that out: depending on what charge we decided to bring, you could be facing a considerable jail sentence. I hope I make myself clear?’
There was a moment’s pause, then Mr Haldalwa spread out his hands ingratiatingly. He was not, Charlie guessed, a cruel or tyrannical man, merely one under pressure. But ingratiating himself was part of his way of life, and he naturally resorted to this mode in the present situation.
‘You’re taking this too serious, Mr Peace, much too serious. This is just a little family dispute.’
‘That would make no difference to the charge.’
Mr Haldalwa rubbed his hands.
‘It’s what they call a clash of cultures, eh? Different peoples, different ways of going about things. You must know that from your own life, Mr Peace.’
Charlie held him in his gaze.
‘If you mean that I think and react the same as if I’d been brought up in Jamaica, then you’re wrong, Mr Haldalwa. I don’t, because I was brought up in London. I relate more easily to other Londoners than I do to Jamaicans. And Mehjabean’s been brought up in Leeds. Some of her ideas are your ideas, but a lot of them aren’t.’
‘You know my daughter?’
‘I’ve talked with her.’
‘Is it wrong to expect a child to honour her parents?’
‘No.’
‘To follow her parents’ wishes?’
‘Yes, it is, if they conflict with strong feelings of her own. Look – I’m not going to argue this clash of cultures thing with you, Mr Haldalwa, especially when I’m badly outnumbered. I’m only interested in the law, and seeing it’s obeyed, right? And if you don’t leave your daughter to sort out her own wishes and feelings, then you’ll be in deep trouble.’
Mr Haldalwa shook his head.
‘You make too much of it, Mr Peace. I only wanted to talk to her. Tell her she was being silly, that I would never force her into a marriage that she didn’t want.’
‘Hmmm. That wasn’t what it sounded like.’
‘I tell you, is all at an end. Mr Siddiq, he withdrew. Mehjabean, she can go on with school and university.’
This was an item of news that was proffered very late in the conversation. Charlie mistrusted it.
‘All that you must work out with her. Perhaps you could find some third party to arbitrate. I wouldn’t recommend her to come home before the situation is very, very clear. Meanwhile, if there is any attempt to force her back, force her into marriage, by anyone – ’ he looked around the assembled family, particularly at the men, stern, blank-eyed – ‘then we will come down on that person very, very hard. I hope that is understood.’
There was silence – not a flicker of a response. As Charlie turned and made his way down the hallway he decided that he didn’t know what effect those family members would have on Mehjabean, but by God they terrified him.
&n
bsp; • • •
Ben had rather thought that Mrs Ingram would leave little time before paying the threatened visit. She had given the impression even over the phone of a woman who would not let the grass grow under her feet – or, to put it less politely, her voice suggested a woman who, once she had got an idea, would charge ahead with it without thought of the consequences. Since she had also given the impression of being sophisticated yet unsubtle, he had to acquit her of any charge that she had deliberately chosen the worst possible time. Yet that, coincidentally, was when she came, on the evening of the day she had telephoned.
There had been a knock on the door at the end of supper. Rather expecting a Conservative lady, Laura Ashley in dress and bossy of manner, Ben, when he opened it, had been confronted by a fleshy Asian who seemed to be in an attitude of propitiation that did not come naturally to him.
‘Mr Marchant? Don’t shut the door. There won’t be no trouble from me. I just want a little word with Mehjabean.’
Ben stood four-square.
‘I’m afraid we have already had trouble with people who say they just want a word with Mehjabean.’
‘Her father very sorry about that. He’s had a visit from a policeman and it won’ happen again. This is different. I’m Mehmet Siddiq. Mehjabean may have told you my name. I want to tell her all this stuff is at an end. No more question of marriage. I withdraw. Is over.’
Ben nodded, standing his ground.
‘I see. Well, that’s somethin’ I can tell her – ’
‘If I can just have a moment – tell her I’m sorry – ’
But his voice and accent had penetrated through to the dining room where the Centre’s residents were still sitting around after supper, and it was not difficult for them to guess that some further harassment of Midge was in the offing. First out into the hall was Zak with Pal, and both went to stand beside Ben.
‘You get away from here, you old fart. Midge don’t want nowt to do wi’ you.’
Pal’s bark was not the bark of a watchdog or guard dog, but – infected by the general hostility – he did his best. By now the hallway was filling up with a motley and ragged army of defenders, and Mr Siddiq took a step backwards, down on to the front path, from where he had to look up at Ben and his supporters, putting him further at a disadvantage.
No Place of Safety Page 7