Later she made a round upstairs with Maria to change the bed linen. The rooms were small, some of the sheets soiled from the night before.
Maria punched a pillow into a clean pillowcase.
‘I kicked ’im out like you told me,’ she said.
Beauty was smoothing down the blanket. Kicked who out?
Her boyfriend! I didn’t tell her to kick him out.
‘The basstud took all my stuff to Cash Converters – me jewellery, stereo, me fookin’ MP3 player – the fookin’ lot.’
Beauty stopped at the door clutching the dirty sheets. What trouble had she caused now?
‘You gonna get it all back?’ she asked. Maria joined her in the corridor.
‘My brother’s gonna sort ’im out,’ she said.
Beauty took the clean linen from the trolley and followed Maria into the next room in silence. People she didn’t even know would get hurt and Maria had lost all her belongings.
Cuz of me, aynit.
After lunch she went into the dining room to clean tables. There was only one resident there, talking to a social worker, or someone like that, so she thought it would be OK to carry on if she was quiet. Beauty moved around the tables squirting cleaning liquid, rubbing and wiping as she went. She liked the jobs she could do without worrying whether she was getting them right. Like making the tea, and helping the buddhi get dressed.
But Maria’s story continued to bother her, and the part she had played in it.
She smiled at the old lady as she passed, the one who watched for the postman from the sitting-room window every morning. The health visitor, or whatever she was, a large woman bulging out of a blue trouser suit, sat opposite her.
‘… he couldn’t come,’ Beauty heard the woman say. She spoke as if the old lady was deaf.
‘So how have you been since I was last here?’
‘Oh, quite well, thank you, dear.’
‘And the staff are looking after you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Have they been keeping you busy?’
‘Yes, yes – we had a nice sing-song the other day.’
Beauty carried on wiping. The large woman sounded bored. If she didn’t like old people why was she doing this job?
‘They cut your hair as well?’
She talked to the buddhi like she was an idiot.
‘And are they giving you enough to drink? Water’s very good for you – it was on the Today programme this morning.’
Beauty saw the woman turn, and noticed the irritation on her face.
‘Could you please bring my mother a glass of water?’
Beauty didn’t understand. Where was her mother? There was only the old lady she was talking to, who lived in the home. The people here didn’t have children. How could the fat woman be her daughter?
‘What’s wrong with you?’ the woman asked her. ‘What are you gawping at?’
Beauty stood open-mouthed. ‘That’s your …’ She pointed, the cloth still in her hand.
‘She’s my mother, yes. I’m hardly going to visit someone else’s, am I? Can’t you see she wants a drink of water? Don’t you people do your jobs properly?’ She turned back to the old lady opposite her. ‘Mum, what’s this one like? Do I need to have a word with the manager about her?’
The woman’s mouth moved, but Beauty couldn’t hear anything.
That’s her daughter!
Blood pounded in her ears and her chest felt painful.
They got kids!
She couldn’t breathe; sparks drifted before her eyes.
What about the others?
What about Ethel?
*
Ethel was sitting on the edge of her bed, a framed photo in her hands. They dropped to her lap as Beauty appeared in the doorway.
‘What’s happened, dear?’
Ethel followed her gaze to the picture and turned it so that Beauty could see the faded image of a young woman with curly, shoulder-length hair lying in a field beside a baby girl in white knickers and a cotton hat. A young, dark-haired man in a suit stood behind them.
‘He was a handsome chap, my Arthur. A good man. Twenty-five years ago, he passed away.’
Beauty was sorry for her husband, but had to know about the baby.
‘Was that your daughter?’
‘Yes, dear. That’s Margaret – she was such a sweet child.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Heavens! She’s not dead, dear. Whatever made you think that? She lives in Leicester. She’s married to an engineer. I see her every month or so.’
Beauty searched the old lady’s face for an answer. ‘Why are you living here?’
‘She couldn’t look after me,’ Ethel said. ‘I’m a bit of a handful, I’m afraid. She takes me out to tea once a month and I go to hers for Christmas and New Year.’ She winked. ‘Between you and me, I prefer to stay here.’
Beauty closed her mouth and tried to swallow. ‘Have them other people got kids too?’
‘Yes, most of them. Why?’
Beauty felt her legs tremble and the room begin to swirl around her.
Al-lh, help me!
A hand touched her shoulder and she heard a man’s voice. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ A sharp smell made her open her eyes.
She was sitting in the armchair. Norris Winterton knelt beside her and passed a small brown bottle under her nose again.
‘I think I’ve upset her,’ Ethel said.
Norris got to his feet slowly. He poured a glass of water at the sink and handed it to Beauty.
‘What’s she been telling you?’ he asked her, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Ethel.
Beauty took the glass and looked into his kind grey eyes.
That most people here got kids.
‘I was just showing her a picture of Arthur and my Margaret, that’s all,’ Ethel said. ‘She thought Margaret was dead, bless her!’
‘She may as well be, for all you see her,’ Norris said. ‘Shocked, were you?’ he asked Beauty. ‘These old fools think their children give a damn about them!’
Beauty saw the anger in his eyes.
‘Left to rot in this bloody place. You know the smell in the sitting room? Half of them piss where they sit. Not enough staff. They’ve only got four of those bloody tarts for thirty of us. Is that enough?’ His voice rose, his face growing redder.
‘Norris, stop it! You’re scaring her,’ Ethel said.
‘Where are your children and grandchildren?’ he shouted.
He stood up and headed for the door, turned to say something else and grabbed for the doorframe to keep himself upright, reaching to open his shirt with a shaking hand. Beauty jumped up, her head clear, and guided the old man to the armchair. He sat down heavily, struggling for breath.
‘Run and fetch Maria, dear,’ Ethel said to Beauty, reaching for the alarm beside her bed. ‘Tell her Norris is having one of his turns.’
Maria rushed past her on the stairs.
‘Find Louise! Tell her to bring his medicine from the office and phone an ambulance – quick!’
Beauty waited outside Norris’s room for the paramedics to finish. They’d been with him for half an hour. Maria had told her not to worry. It happened two or three times a month, she said. He was always getting himself in a bother about something or other. But Beauty knew that it was her fault for upsetting him.
What if the man died?
Please, God, don’t let him die. Allah, amar zan néughia. Take my heart instead.
A man in a yellow and green uniform came out of the room.
Please, God. Please, God.
With rest and quiet he’d be OK, the man said. They’d stabilized his breathing for now, but they shouldn’t let him get excited. It was bad for his heart.
42
Beauty stared at the shoulders of the man in the seat in front of her. She’d stayed outside Norris’s small bedroom until he awoke to make sure that he was all right.
It was my fault.
&n
bsp; She hadn’t wanted to leave Ethel alone either, ever again, but Maria had told her to go home.
Ethel said she would see her the next day, and not to worry about the silly old folk in the home: they did get visits from their children, but no one liked to talk about it. It wasn’t fair on those who never saw theirs. Beauty felt dizzy again as she listened to the elderly lady.
Never saw their children!
What was the point of having them?
The bus jerked forward in the traffic and the radiator blew hot air from under her seat. Beauty felt sick. She pressed the stop button and got up when the bus slowed.
It was a long way to the town centre but she didn’t mind. She wanted to walk and walk, and not think about what she had to do.
The wind rushed through the branches of the trees overhead.
Most of them got kids.
She glanced up …
‘She may as well be dead, for all you see her.’
… and walked faster …
‘If you die I hope they don’t show me your face.’
… beyond the bus and the cars that had stopped at the traffic lights, until the trees and their ghosts ended.
An old man passed her with a walking stick, a small dog by his side which looked at her; and a white-haired lady in a faded pink raincoat and loose tights.
‘I’m a bit of a handful, I’m afraid.’
It was getting dark. The pain in her foot slowed her down. Cars crawled past with the faces of children staring from windows. Beauty tried not to look at them.
White way, your kids put you in a house full of strangers and leave you there to die? She’d never heard of that before. Until the end, you stayed with your parents; you cared for them, dressed them and cleaned them; they needed help, like children, so you helped them, like they had done for you.
God said that’s your job to look after your parents. That’s what we’re here for.
But what did she know, a dumb girl who believed in God? That white guy, Peter, had looked at her like he felt sorry for her. If white people’s laws were based on Ehudi and Christian stuff, like he said, why did they throw their parents away when they got old?
Didn’t they have laws for looking after their mum and dad?
Is that what people meant by being free?
Your kids gonna look after you one day?
In the town centre she walked close to the shop fronts and looked ahead for her brothers. She didn’t need to hear Dulal’s threats again; she knew them by heart. There was only one way out now, only one thing to do to stop her family hassling her. And knowing made her feel lighter, like she had felt in her dream, when all the pain had stopped.
At the orange football stadium she turned right into Linton Road and stopped in front of the Asian Women’s Centre. She looked up at the windows of the three-storey building. Was the runaway with the rucksack still sitting in the corner? The playground of the primary school opposite was empty. Where was the little girl with the plait?
From Craddock Street she made her way to Mark’s house through the side streets and narrow passageways of Graiseley, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.
Peter stood outside his house, lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wall. Kate said the smoke was giving her a headache while she packed her clothes. She was leaving him. For good. Peter couldn’t decide whether he was happy or not. The realization of his long-hoped-for split-up had caught him by surprise. His ‘wanting-her-to-stay’ and ‘looking-forward-to-seeing-her-after-work’ had been short-lived. Not even a day. Confronted with his internet searches, including some of the pictures, he had at first tried to lie his way out before realizing it was useless and that it was better to let her rage run its course. Besides, ‘it was a junk mail link I followed’ seemed a feeble excuse when faced with the mass of pages she had found. Nor was moral outrage at the invasion of his privacy an option, judging by the anger and hurt she said she was feeling.
What kind of sicko had she been going out with? she’d demanded to know. Was that what he got up to as soon as her back was turned? It had been so humiliating to find out that her boyfriend would rather look at that, pointing to the screen, than have sex with her.
What could he say? That he’d been bored one night and decided to look at the worst of human sexual depravity? He’d kept to it as a line of defence. Did she really think he fantasized about midgets sticking their feet up his arse, or having clothes pegs attached to his scrotum?
What about all the Asian women he’d been looking at? It made her feel so worthless and unwanted, she’d sobbed.
Peter had tried to comfort her, but she’d screamed at him to get his filthy hands off her. Instead he said things like ‘I can’t handle this any more’ and ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with my life’, had even clutched his head for dramatic effect. And then he made the mistake of asking her if anyone else had seen it, which provoked another outburst of tears and recriminations. Peter had felt himself becoming aroused again at her misery, but it hadn’t seemed opportune to make this fact known to her. Kate was alternately furious, hurt, dismissive and confident, depending on the nature of the ‘home truths’ she thought he needed to know. Peter had tried to appear suitably chastened. Indeed, it hadn’t been one of his most splendid moments.
He’d slept on the sofa that night and never did find out if Beauty had been there when Kate had made her discoveries. Had the two women looked at the fruits of his internet searches together? What if Beauty told Mark that he was some kind of sexual deviant? What if Mark got together an angry mob of torch-bearing local residents to hammer on his door in the middle of the night? Should he move? Peter thanked God that he hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in any online schoolgirl uniforms, and then felt embarrassed to have invoked Him in such a sordid affair.
He flicked the butt of the cigarette into the road. Jesus! Was he becoming religio-superstitious himself?
Peter looked up the street and saw Beauty rounding the corner. Even if she hadn’t seen the porn, was there still a chance that she might take up his invitation to find somewhere to live together?
Beauty didn’t notice the white guy until he stepped in front of her. She’d had enough of this shaitan and his devil words.
Ethel.
That’s where his ideas ended up.
Peter could see Kate in the sitting room through the net curtains.
‘Did you manage to think about what I said?’ he asked Beauty, as she moved round him.
Beauty turned to face him and looked into his pale face and bloodshot eyes. She remembered everything he’d said.
‘Yeah. I just seen your free.’
Peter watched her disappear into Mark’s house. What the hell was she talking about? His treatment of Kate? The porn? Or had she been referring to something else?
It could have been anything, he realized.
A light rain began to fall. A siren flashed past at the end of the street.
Peter waited for Kate to emerge from the house. Was that it between them now?
When the front door opened he moved to take the bag she was holding.
‘I don’t need your help, thank-you-very-much.’
He followed her to her car, unsure whether he felt the usual guilt at hurting her, shame at the porn, or neediness after the withering look from Beauty. Did it matter? He wanted Kate to stay. There was something different about her, as if she’d woken up after years.
‘Is that it?’ he said, as she lowered the bag into the boot. ‘Why don’t you stay? Can’t we talk about this?’
Kate slammed the lid shut. ‘What’s there to talk about, Peter? You tell me you love me – and I catch you drooling over a … a vulnerable young girl … and all that filth … You know, I feel really sorry for you.’ Her anger was restrained.
She took an envelope from her coat pocket and headed towards Mark’s house.
Peter looked about him at the houses in Prole Street, up through the drizzle to the grey sky, sighed, and went indoors.
43
Mark Aston sat in the armchair by the window of his sitting room and watched the street through the torn, grey net curtain. Peter was talking to a woman as she put a suitcase into the boot of her car. It must have been his missus, the one he said he wanted to dump. He was pointing to Mark’s house.
Mark flicked the ash from his roll-up into an empty beer can and watched the woman walk past his window. She looked expensive, tall and fit with a good figure. He opened another can from the box at his feet and went to the door.
Kate was waiting with the envelope in her hand. She’d told Peter to go inside. It was none of his business why she wanted to see Beauty.
‘Hiya!’ she said as the door opened.
A rough-looking type stood in front of her with shaven dark hair and sideburns, fading home-made tattoos on his wiry forearms, and a beer can held between two fingers and thumb of a large, dirty hand.
‘Oright?’
‘Hi, is Beauty here?’
‘Ar,’ he said. ‘Her’s asleep. D’you wanna coom in?’
Mark took a swig of beer from the can. She seemed like a nice enough bird. Not his type, mind.
Kate felt eaten up by his eyes. She could tell this brute had never met a woman like her before, and flicked her hair. She was still desirable.
‘No, it’s OK. Could you give her this, please?’ She handed Mark the envelope. ‘Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t wait. I’ve got to drive all the way back to London tonight,’ she said.
‘K. Sowund.’
Mark slid the envelope into his back pocket and watched her hips sway as she walked to her car. He ignored the two Pakistannies in the Vauxhall Astra on the other side of the street. No point letting them know he’d clocked them. He switched off the sitting-room light and returned to the chair near the window to see what they did. These two looked different, but the car was the same as on the first day.
Mark knew he could handle them on his own and it would be a damn shame not to give them a proper beating. But this was Asian shit and there was no telling what he’d start. These fuckers were crazy when it came to their sisters. The Bengali lad he’d padded up with in Liverpool had got seven years for knifing his sister’s boyfriend. Mark had listened to the stories because there was nothing else to do for twenty-three hours a day. Proud of hisself, the fookin’ prick. Someone else would have battered him sooner than Mark had done.
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