Staunch

by Eleanor Wood

  At my last yoga class, I smugly note that I can pretty much pre-empt every move now and do the advanced version of everything. I am sure that when I go back to doing occasional yoga on the floor at home, along to a free YouTube video, I will hear a stern voice in my head commanding ‘RELAX YOUR ENTIRE BODY, RELAX ENTIRELY’. I hope so anyway.

  I consider trying to talk to the teacher at the end of the class, telling him it’s my last day and thanking him for all these days of yoga classes while I’ve been here. However, he looks very preoccupied and I chicken out at the last minute. I hope maybe tomorrow he’ll notice my absence, since I have been there at the front of his class every day for weeks now. Somehow, I have a feeling he won’t. He must see an awful lot of people exactly like me passing through. I find this thought strangely comforting as I lollop back to the room in my old Prince T-shirt and grey gym shorts for the last time.

  Of course, our final day requires the breakfast to end all breakfasts. Nan has been reminding everyone repeatedly that it’s our last day, and we are given the absolute prime outdoor umbrella table. We sit there in the sunshine for hours, while I methodically stuff myself with my favourite breakfast dosa and sample pretty much everything else available from the breakfast buffet.

  The Crow Man never looks at anyone nor acknowledges anyone’s existence. We wave at him as we leave, even though we get no response. It seems fitting.

  While the others continue their packing-up mission, I agree to meet them for lunch, then go off and do the rounds of my village friends to say goodbye before I leave. It’s kind of a mixed bag, I’ve got to say. I don’t kid myself that I’m anything special; again, they must see a lot of people like me come and go.

  While Sonia says a tearful goodbye and brings her daughter out to bid me farewell too, Priya is furious that I am leaving without being talked into having my hands hennaed. I try to explain without offending her that it just won’t look cool once I get home – despite my deep love of India, I really don’t want to go back and become one of those terrible clichéd Brighton white people with braids in their hair and stupid tie-dyed trousers on in January. She still gives me the proper stink-eye when she realizes I’m actually leaving without being talked into it. She’s done with me.

  ‘I hope you will come back,’ Sonia says, hugging me. ‘You don’t have a husband. Perhaps you will come back here for your honeymoon.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say hopefully.

  ‘You have a boyfriend. He is a good man, yes?’

  To be honest, I’ve lost track of who I’ve told what. In some situations here, when I’ve been put on the spot and felt vaguely uncomfortable about it, I’ve lied and said that I’m married, my husband is at home. Even in a vague lie like that, it feels odd even to say it. I wonder if I’ll ever get to say ‘my husband’ for real. The word feels foreign in my mouth.

  Some of the time I’ve hedged my bets and said I have a boyfriend back home. My thoughts flicker briefly to The Lecturer. He’s the closest thing I have to a boyfriend; I’m in touch with him every day, after all. But I know I’m not really entitled to call him my boyfriend. I smile at Sonia and hope maybe she’s right.

  ‘I think you’ll be back next year! For your honeymoon!’

  This actually makes me feel oddly optimistic even though I’m certain she is incorrect.

  I’ve got so used to being here, it seems unthinkable that I will soon be at home. I walk through the village a last time, hot sun on my back and my feet dusty as I walk down the dirt track, and home seems so far away I can barely remember it. The colours, the sounds and the smells here just seem so much more exciting. I can’t believe that I’ll be going back home, where there are no cows in the road and food doesn’t have a hundred delicious spices in it, and everyone’s clothes are not in bright colours and beautiful fabrics. The palette at home is just so much more muted. The light is not as bright. I try to breathe in every last bit of sunshine and spice and joy that I can, while I wave goodbye through the village.

  Our flight is late in the evening, so we manage to squeeze in lunch, afternoon snack and dinner before we go. I want to get as much sunshine, sea swimming and Goan curry into my system as is physically possible before our departure.

  Checkout from the hotel is technically at midday. Considering our quite high-maintenance requirements, we have requested a late checkout and the manager has said that she will try to organize a room for us somewhere in the hotel, so we can have a shower and a sit-down before we leave if we need to. She will let us know whether there is a room free as soon as she can, although she won’t be able to confirm until the last minute. We say we’ll come down to reception at the official checkout time.

  Just before the allotted hour, there is a knock at the door. It is RJ, Nan’s hotel boyfriend. He looks oddly shifty.

  ‘I came to say you can stay in these rooms,’ he says quickly. ‘You don’t need to move or check out. It would be too much inconvenient for you. I have brought you a new key card, as yours will have expired.’

  ‘Thank you, RJ!’ Nan says. ‘You didn’t need to come all the way over here to tell us. We were just about to come over to reception.’

  ‘No, madam. Don’t go to reception. I have arranged this privately so you will not have to pay a late checkout fee. Just don’t tell the manager. I have enjoyed meeting you very much. I wanted to make sure you were looked after.’

  I am not surprised at this reminder that my nan is, basically, magic. However, I do tell myself I should have realized sooner that RJ was genuinely her friend.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he says to me after the others have hugged him goodbye at length. ‘I would just like to say something to you. I would like to say I have so much respect for you. I have seen you while you have been staying here, and how much you love your grandmother and your aunts. A lot of people of our generation, they don’t appreciate their older family members like they should do. I have the greatest respect for all of you. Your family relationship is really very beautiful.’

  He shakes my hand and leaves before I can say anything in reply.

  Good old RJ.

  Present Day

  We have our last dinner in the exact same spot that we had our first meal on our first day, in what has become our favourite of all the local beach shacks.

  Once again, I have a ‘Go-go Goa’ cocktail in front of me. I’ve got used to the taste of fenny, the strong and distinctive local hooch, over the course of our trip. Ann has a ‘Goan Sunset’, her favourite of all the local fenny cocktails. Nan and Rose, of course, stick with their usual gin and tonics.

  ‘Well, girls – we did it!’ Ann says. ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it’s been fabulous. Thank you all for your company. Cheers!’

  As it’s our last day, we have a couple of rounds of cocktails before dinner. Then Ann and I split a large bottle of Kingfisher beer, which I will miss doing every day. I order a Goan prawn curry, which I have eaten for nearly every meal the entire time we’ve been here. It’s served everywhere, and unlike the more exotic local dishes like xacuti and ambot tik, it’s usually just listed as ‘curry’. Ann has the same, and Nan has tandoori chicken because she has it every single day.

  I can’t remember what Rose ate for her last Indian supper, but it will have been something bizarre and spicy, as she is the most adventurous of us all. In India I have eaten street food and shark curry, but I have nothing on Rose. She will order stringy-looking mutton vindaloo and whatever the hottest thing on the menu is, just because. Rose has the most incredible appetite for spicy food. She orders dishes that waiters will always warn her are far too spicy for Western people and possibly even for most locals. Perhaps she would like to order something else.

  ‘Make it as spicy as you like, darling,’ she will say, in the manner of a drunk man in a curry house late at night.

  So, of course they do, and Rose will calmly and happily eat it without so much as breaking a sweat. Every dish also must come with the Rose special on the side: a bowl of sli
ced raw onion.

  As we eat our last Indian meal on the beach, our first day here feels like a lifetime ago. As well as being a lot browner now and wearing a ridiculous kaftan from a market stall, I feel different. I feel genuinely peaceful; I feel like I have really had a break. I’m also looking forward to getting back to work and seeing my friends – a sign that I must be doing at least some things right in my life.

  When the time comes to leave, I’m glad for once that Nan and Rose can’t walk quickly. We all savour that last slow walk back across the beach.

  I actually find myself tearing up as the staff wave us off when we leave to get onto the bus to the airport. Miraculously, nobody is sick on the bus this time. Doing the same journey in reverse, everything is familiar now. It would be easy to forget how unfamiliar and exotic it looked when we arrived.

  Like last time, we are driving in the dark, but I can pick out all the landmarks this time around, still illuminated by fairy lights. We go past the yoga shack, through town, past Café Ganesh, where whatever the time of night, the roads are busy with mopeds and cows. Rainbows of fairy lights flash past my eyes as we trundle down the uneven roads.

  We don’t really get to savour the final sights, as the driver of this bus back to the airport is certifiably terrible. A seriously bad driver, even for India. Many of the drivers we’ve had over the past weeks have been, but this is next level. We speed into oncoming traffic as we join the main road out to the motorway, ascending to top speed even as we bump over potholes and the inevitable debris in the road.

  In fact, due to the driver’s inexplicable hurry, we make it to the airport in record time. Our flight isn’t until 2 a.m. and we have hours to kill. Despite this, everything gets so rushed that it becomes a total blur.

  Even though I feel I’ve got somewhat used to being in India, being back at the airport is a culture shock. I thought it would be easier on the way back as I have grown more relaxed and accustomed to the general pace of life. No. Not at all. The airport is utter mayhem that I will never be accustomed to. My head spins the minute I set foot off the bus. In fact, I don’t think my feet hit the ground.

  Nan and Rose are immediately hustled into wheelchairs and two men push them towards the terminal as if they’re racing, while another grabs all of our suitcases. Ann and I are sprinting to keep up. We follow them as they rush through the vast airport corridors, into mysterious service lifts and, for no good reason, straight to the front of the long immigration queues. At one point, the suitcase man goes off in a different direction and I follow him, losing the others and panicking.

  After all that inexplicable hurrying, they despatch us in the departure lounge, right next to our gate. It is almost deserted and we have plenty of time to spare. Still, these random men – I have no idea whether they actually work at the airport or not – seem very pleased with themselves for getting us there so unnecessarily quickly. So much so, that apparently the money I pay each of them is not nearly enough. Nan thinks it’s more than fair and instructs me to ignore them. I don’t have any rupees left, so I give them the English money I have in my purse as well. They tell me this is a bit of an inconvenience, but it will do.

  It’s only when I get home and do a little bit of research that I find out the unofficial porter culture in India is a tricky issue. Did these men actually work for the airport? No, not really. They were obviously pushy and maybe even a little bit threatening, but with a lot of suitcases, they were also undeniably helpful.

  I know there are lots of people who are against encouraging ‘coolies’ (which is considered to be a derogatory term), and there are lots of reasons not to indulge in the heavy tipping that I have felt necessary. There are many conflicting arguments on the subject. Not to mention that sometimes the ambush of ‘help’ can feel intimidating. However, I would admittedly have been a little bit lost without it.

  So, now we have time on our hands in an airport where there is really not very much to do. I have a look in the duty-free shops but, having grown accustomed to beach life, am shocked by how commercial and overpriced everything seems to be. Oh God, I really am going to go home as one of those people with stupid trousers and braided hair. I am my own worst nightmare. My friend David used to go out with this annoying girl who claimed to have lived in a cave for a year, and she once spent an evening showing me her photographs of the time she ‘went travelling’ in India. Her photographs all showed her wearing a sari and hugging people who looked as though they didn’t want to be hugged. Oh God, that’s going to be me.

  Just for something to do, I pick up a box of ladoos to take back for my office. They are not particularly delicious sugary Indian sweets, but it’s the thought that counts. When I get to the till, the lady informs me they are the equivalent of about fifteen quid. I put them back.

  With time to kill, I do laps of the large departure lounge, marching in circles.

  ‘You always have surplus energy, don’t you?’ Rose notes, as I walk past and wave to her for around the tenth time.

  Nan spends the time making friends with the bathroom attendant, a thin wan-looking woman whose job is to hand out paper towels. They talk for so long and so deeply in Urdu, we practically have to drag Nan away when our flight is called.

  When we eventually board the plane, the flight home is far more subdued than the outward journey was, as return journeys tend to be. Ann drinks red wine and watches Rebel Without a Cause while the rest of us sleep on and off. Nan doesn’t even wake me up or interrupt my films once. We fall asleep arm in arm, and I feel very grateful to be there with her.

  As always, I’m in awe. If I’m tired out and over-emotional, I can only imagine how she must be feeling.

  When we wake up, it’s at a cold and rainy Gatwick Airport, early on a very grey morning at the end of January. It doesn’t seem right somehow. The adventure is over.

  It feels surreal when we say goodbye in the exact place we convened weeks ago, at the rainy taxi stand. I wave the others off and make my way to get the train home. I miss them already.

  October 1951

  When Nan found herself unexpectedly pregnant at the age of nineteen, Dolly and Chum immediately said to her ‘it’s all right, just come home’. Grateful and relieved, she did exactly that.

  She and Jack had a quick wedding and he moved into the family home, too. Everyone seemed to live in that house at some time, whether because they had been dumped, got pregnant, or were saving up for a place of their own.

  When Nan’s best friend Penny also found herself unexpectedly pregnant a couple of years later – and she found out her boyfriend was actually married and had no intention of leaving his wife, and her parents weren’t nearly so understanding about her situation as Nan’s were – Penny moved in as well.

  Nan said she had so little idea of pregnancy and childbirth, she burst into tears when her waters broke and her mum had to explain to her what was happening. Still, she was delighted to give birth to a baby boy.

  Ann and Sam, Nan’s two youngest siblings, were still only little – so everyone pitched in and helped look after each other’s babies. It sounds like my idea of heaven – I’d love to have a baby and move back in with my mum, quite frankly. Grey Gardens, here we come. Dolly and Chum loved having a house full of people, and they would all have curry together round the kitchen table on Sundays, with the kids sitting on boxes and the bin when there weren’t enough chairs to go round.

  Nan and Jack were very happy together for a time, and had a second baby four years later, my mum. However, he couldn’t deal with family life and my nan was left to bring up the children by herself.

  She still mostly remembers his handsome face and his kind, easy-going nature, rather than how difficult this must have been. He and my nan stayed on good terms – even slightly romantic ones, although they no longer lived together – until he dropped dead when he was only in his forties.

  It must have been incredibly hard to be a single mum in the early Sixties, but Nan was never bitter.

>   ‘Bringing up my children was an utter joy. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m grateful for my husband, because my children took after him and they are wonderful.’

  She used to dread having to go to things like school parents’ evenings, as it was so unusual for a woman to be alone at that time. She now says she wishes she had gone out and met someone else while she was still young, but it never occurred to her at the time – she was exhausted. She was asked out a few times, but she never said yes.

  She never did go back and finish her nurse training, although she says if she had really loved it, she would have found a way to do it. Not working for a living was never an option, though – so after she had the baby, she went to a job interview at Ealing Town Hall, having applied for a job as an audiometrician, giving hearing tests to schoolchildren.

  Her pal Susie got the audiometrician job, but Nan impressed the doctor who interviewed her with her brightness and was asked if she would like a job as a community health administrator. It was a job where she thrived; she spent all of her life working in public health and social services, and she loved it.

  My nan always stayed around West London. She and her children eventually moved out of the family home and into a rented flat in Ealing. Nan was eventually able to buy the flat herself, as well as her house in Spain. When she retired, she moved to a bigger house and to be nearer to my mum, a bit further west outside of the city.

  Rose and George moved out to the countryside, where she got a job as a school secretary and became an excellent golfer. Rose was fourteen years into her marriage before she unexpectedly got pregnant. She and George stayed together until he died a few years ago, and she now lives in a big house in Dorset with her son and his family, where they all have a great time.

  Ann, both much younger and ‘the bright one’, was the great hope of the family. She was terrified of telling her parents when she accidentally got pregnant at the age of twenty-one. The first person she told was my nan, who had been through the exact same thing.