Should We Fall Behind, page 16
‘Hey man, how are you? Remember me from the other day? Did you find the hostel?’
Jimmy tried to jerk himself free but Daban’s grip was firm. A child near to them said, ‘Why is that man so smelly?’ and his mother put her hand over his mouth and shoved him through the bakery doorway.
‘Hey, let me buy you a cup of something.’ Daban said, offering Jimmy a Danish pastry.
‘This’ll do,’ he said, biting into it.’ Apricot jam oozed, dripping onto his beard.
‘Please, let me get you a coffee or something.’
‘Is the pub open?’ Jimmy said.
‘It’s not even ten o’clock. It’s Sunday. The pubs around here won’t be open yet.’
‘Not even Wetherspoons?’
Daban laughed, ‘Not yet.’
‘No thanks then,’ Jimmy said.
Daban shrugged. ‘Have you got a phone, Jimmy?’
‘You remembered my name.’
‘Don’t you remember mine?
‘People come and people go. I don’t have room for names.’ He pointed to his forehead. ‘There’s too much other shit in there.’
‘Well, do you?’
‘What? Remember your name? Nope.’
‘I meant do you have a phone?’
‘What do you think? Yeah, I have a phone. Just not on me right now. It’s on the bedside cabinet next to the Rolex, charging so I have it for when I go to the theatre later.’
‘I just thought you might, that I could give you my number, help you get sorted.’
Jimmy looked at the man suspiciously. No man had wanted to help him for a long time. Sometimes women stopped, usually old women like the one who was bringing food to the car but men, especially those of a similar age to him, only ever looked on with disgust.
‘I had one once but I lost it. It didn’t have any credit.’ He was more conciliatory now.
‘I’ll write my number down for you anyway,’ Daban said, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. ‘You got a pen?’
‘A pen? I’d love a pen,’ Jimmy said without thinking. ‘But I left that next to the Rolex too,’ he added smiling.
Daban stopped a passerby. The young woman pulled a pen from her tote bag and handed it over. ‘Keep it,’ she said as she strolled off. He wrote his number and his name in block capitals on some paper torn from the notebook and gave it to Jimmy. He handed over the pen too.
‘Have it,’ he said.
‘Ta.’ Jimmy said with a nod. He stuck it behind his ear and walked towards the station. Daban caught up with him and handed over the notebook.
‘I’ve pulled out the used pages,’ he said, waving a bunch of torn sheets at Jimmy. ‘Writing stuff down is good.’
‘Thanks. Bouncer Counsellor.’ Jimmy sniggered.
‘Just trying to be decent. It’s not always easy but it’s a choice. Listen, just find a way to call me if you need anything. There’s still a phone box here and there. You can reverse the charges. Do you know what that means?’
‘I’m not thirteen.’
‘I bet you’ve not got ten on that,’ Daban said.
‘Almost exactly!’ Jimmy said. ‘You’re alright, you.’
‘Glad to hear it. See you around, Jimmy.’
Daban walked away. Jimmy hesitated then shouted after
him.
‘Actually, maybe you can help. I’m looking for someone. A friend. Someone I’ve lost.’
‘I’ll ask around,’ Daban said when he’d described Betwa. ‘Listen, I’m in there sometimes.’ He pointed to Makrides’ Furniture Store. ‘I work as a driver for the geezer who owns it. Come and find me if you need to. I’ll ask about your girl.’
‘I’m not going anywhere near that fucking lunatic,’ Jimmy said.
‘Ah, you already met our Mr Makrides then?’
‘I met the back of his shoe.’
‘What? He kicked you? Shit, he’s an old bloke. Wouldn’t think he had it in him. I mean his tongue is sharp but I didn’t have him down as the type to kick a man.’
‘You’d be surprised. Some people think we’re nothing more than a bit of rubbish. Kicking isn’t the worst of it.’
‘There’s gotta be a better way for you to survive, Jimmy. Why don’t you go back home?’
‘Home? Yeah right.’
Daban took Jimmy’s hand and shook it. ‘Gotta go man. See you, Jim. Find me, in the shop or anywhere along here. I’m always around this place. Take care of yourself.’
After he left, Jimmy thought hard about what made Daban different to other men he’d come across. He realised part of it was the way he looked directly into his eyes when he spoke. People stopped to throw coins sometimes. Others asked if he was alright but rarely stayed long enough to hear the words behind the answer. Some left shop-bought sandwiches or hot coffee, a woolly hat or an old coat. He was grateful for it all, it kept him alive, but no-one really looked him in the eye. Once, when he first arrived in the city, a young woman left a copy of a classic paperback novel with a ten pound note tucked between the pages, so as not to embarrass either of them. He wanted to thank her properly but she’d already disappeared by the time he saw the money. He bought biscuits, bananas and vodka from Lidl. They made the next few days bearable. The book was good and he read it twice; it took him to a different place and he was grateful for that too. Until he arrived at Shifnal Road, it was the nicest thing anyone had done for him for as long as he could remember.
At midday it started drizzling and by then Jimmy had walked the length of the high street, up and down twice: past the pub where Daban had bought him cider; past the bakery and the restaurants and the furniture shop full of ornate tat. On a narrow side street off Grand Parade, he found the little bookshop but it was closed so he couldn’t ask about Betwa. He headed back to the car, hoping the old woman had been. She, like Daban, was a rarity.
The rain was belting by the time he reached Shifnal Road. His clothes were soaked through and his bones ached in the way they did in the dead of night: pain gnawing into him until he had to sit up and stretch the stiffness away. He was used to rain, he’d grown up with it, coming as he did from the wettest part of the country. He knew warmth had no chance of penetrating waterlogged clothes. Once, when the television news told of a great storm in Brighton – waves crashing against stony beaches and over iron railings as people ran into the wind with out-turned umbrellas – Frank said, ‘We’d never get out up here if we behaved like those bloody southerners when there’s a bit of weather. Look at them, poofters.’
But the rain in the small town up north was close to home. Wet clothes could be replaced with warm pyjamas or trackies and hung out to dry in airing cupboards and on radiators. In this place it rained less often, and it was a blessing of sorts, but Jimmy was still angry with himself for getting drenched. He grew up learning to predict the weather like all the people did in his town. He knew how to read clouds, judging each shift or change, assessing the likelihood of downpours. He should have returned to the car earlier. He should have known better. Now he’d have to walk around soaked for days, spreading the damp to the car and the sleeping bag and the blanket. There were no dry clothes. Wet shoes were the worst of all. They’d take ages to dry. When Jimmy first started sleeping out, the man called Alan talked about trench foot as they sat around a bin fire. The street veterans were full of horror stories.
‘Your feet turn into stinking gristle, lumps like burnt meat, fucking excruciating. But at least we don’t have to dodge bullets like the other trench-footers, Jimboy. Not yet at least. Give ’em time though. It’ll be government policy soon enough the way things are going.’
When Jimmy approached the Audi in the alleyway he was grateful for his dismal haven, despite the wet clothes. He slipped into the back, removed his jacket, shoes and socks and spread them on the parcel shelf above the seat. He took off his trousers and hung them over the headrest of the front passenger seat, switched on the radio, pulled his sleeping bag over his bare legs up to his shoulders and listened to the sound of the rain drumming against the car roof as the song about umbrellas faded away and the DJ made an obvious joke about the weather. A different song came to mind and suddenly, like deja vu, he understood what the singer meant when she sang of feeling as if it were raining all over the world.
The old woman came eventually. He guessed it was around three, long past lunchtime.
‘I was waiting for the rain to pass,’ she said apologetically as her spotty umbrella blew about in the squall. ‘I was waiting but it wasn’t going to stop so here I am anyway.’ She glanced at the wet clothes as she handed a bag of food through the window.
‘It’s just tinned soup, and a sandwich too. I’m sorry it is boring food. Minestrone,’ she said as Jimmy took the bag. ‘I will make a proper dinner later for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This is great. Honest.’ He meant it.
The woman dashed away but returned less than an hour later with another bag. She handed it over and Jimmy peered inside, reaching in for the small hand towel which lay at the top of the other contents. He put it over his head, sucking in the aroma of mothballs and lavender. The bag contained a set of garments; trousers, an old-fashioned vest, underwear, several pairs of socks, a tee-shirt and a clean but faded blue fleece; it looked warm. Beneath the clothes was a pair of old brogues, scuffed and worn in; bigger than his usual size. He pulled out the bundle and placed it on his lap, running his fingers over the pile as if he were stroking a pet.
‘They’re my husband’s,’ the woman said quietly. ‘Used things. He doesn’t wear them anymore. He is not so tall as you but you are so thin, I think they will fit. Trousers may be a little short perhaps but there are long socks to cover ankles. You can tuck in the trousers to prevent this part of your leg becoming cold. My husband also wore them like this when he was riding his bicycle.’
Jimmy didn’t know what to say. He continued to stroke the clothes, running his hands over the clean dry fabric. When he looked up to thank the woman she was gone.
17. RAYYA
Clothes worn by Satish once occupied the wardrobe next to Rayya’s own things. His sky-blue shirts and grey slacks hung on thin metal hangers next to her ivory coloured blouses, brightly-coloured kameez tunics and pastel saris. His muted V neck sweaters sat next to her pink and emerald cardigans in a neat pile on top of a set of drawers hidden behind wardrobe doors. Wafts of washing powder drifted out of the wardrobe when she emptied it to make room for the boxes of incontinence pads and powdered food. Mingled with the scent of clean washing was the subtle undertone of majmua oil from her perfume and beauty products. Together, she realised, it was the smell of them, her and Satish, combined in one aroma. She moved her own things to the smaller in-built cupboard in the back bedroom then removed each item of Satish’s with care, folding and placing them in a large green suitcase until the only garments to remain were six sets of men’s pyjamas, 100% cotton, navy with light blue piping. She didn’t tell Satish what she was doing. Instead, to reassure him about the disruption, she said in a steady voice,
‘Time for a spring clean, darling. This is what the English do and now we have lived here for many more years than anywhere else, we too can claim this ritual.’
The suitcase was zipped up and dragged into the small middle bedroom which had served as Satish’s study. There the case remained for over a year, pushed up against the wall behind the closed door.
The study lay between the large airy front bedroom and the bright bathroom, and each time Rayya passed it she imagined Satish at his desk, surrounded by precarious piles of books and paperwork, spectacles slipping down his nose as he concentrated on whatever he was absorbed in under the light of the Anglepoise. In her head he was still there, full of spirit as he often was in that room, fired up over some newly discovered work of fiction or a political article with which he felt closely aligned or fervently in disagreement. Regardless of how deeply he was absorbed, he’d never show any irritation at being disturbed by Rayya if she crept in to place a cup of tea next to him. Instead, he would squeeze her hand without taking his eyes off the page, and she would rub his shoulders or kiss the top of his head. She kept the door to the study tightly closed to keep him alive behind it.
It was a damp Sunday when she nudged open the door for the first time in over a year. Before entering, she stood outside preparing herself, breathing in deeply before peeping into the darkness reluctantly. The musty smell of neglected paper was palpable but it was the absence of Satish which was overwhelming. She stepped back, pulled the door shut and returned to the front bedroom where she slumped into her chair next to the bed. She placed her hand upon Satish’s but it was sometime before she spoke.
‘Darling,’ she said gently. ‘Do you know it has rained so much already today it reminds me of baarish back at home. Remember when I was running and you caught me as I slipped? It was after marriage was arranged but I was still shy of you. I am sure you already know the time I am talking about, when the monsoon rains came so suddenly. Silly me didn’t check the clouds and before I knew it, rickshaws and the cars were floating like boats and Tilak Nagar became the Yamuna river. You ran to me and lifted me up high above your head so I wouldn’t drown. I think this was when love really happened, when you lifted me up, Satish. My body was suddenly so full of Diwali explosions.’
She stood up and stroked Satish’s cheek before walking across the room to the fireplace where photographs in cheap plastic frames were displayed. Still images captured moments of their life together: Rayya’s head thrown back in laughter as she leaned against a wall on the bottom step of Qutub Minar; the two of them stiff in overcoats outside Buckingham Palace. In the centre of the display was a large grainy monochrome image taken on the day they were married, on a makeshift stage behind the ramshackle dwellings which lined the streets where they grew up. It was the only wedding photo they possessed.
‘Can you believe it, darling?’ she said, in the most buoyant tone she could muster. ‘The paths in our little Hazelwood are flowing with brown waters just like the Ganges now. Good job we are cosy inside, my darling.’ She patted his arm and tried to gulp down the lump which blocked her throat.
Later, Rayya looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were red and puffed, surrounded by indigo rings resembling the colour of fresh bruises, and deep lines which stretched from the edges of her eyelids to her hairline. Wrinkles seemed to have multiplied since she last looked so closely. Her steely hair was swept back into a ponytail; it showed no hint of her natural charcoal colour. I am an old woman, older than my own parents ever were. She wondered if her mother had ever looked at her own reflection in a mirror, expecting to see a cascade of dark hair and a face free from the creases of time; shocked to see instead a shrivelled face staring back. Life, she now realised, happened rapidly and moments of pure bliss were only ever transitory, to be snatched away by disappointment and despair. She let the tap run, and with both hands she scooped and splashed ice-cold water onto her face before drying it with the hand towel, then she sat on the edge of the tub and breathed in long slow breaths, exhaling audibly in the way she used to with Satish when their mornings began with yoga on the bright kilim rug in the living room.
Rayya put her freshly brewed mug of tea on the table in the room where Satish lay.
‘There will be a little noise, nothing to worry about,’ she said sighing.
The hefty green suitcase was a dark shape against the wall of the study and, without switching on the light, she dragged it from its resting place onto the landing and into the front room.
‘Just me sorting things out. You know I like to be organised.’
She sat for a moment, preparing herself for the jolt she knew was coming.
‘Sorry about the disturbance, my darling,’ she said.
She swept the train of her sari across her forehead, mopping up beads of sweat with it, and when her breathing settled she said, more calmly,
‘Satish, I know your answer even before I ask you this question because this is how we are, isn’t it? Our two bodies sometimes have just one mind. It’s the young man I told you about. I don’t know his name. That is a funny thing, right? For three days I have been feeding him as if he is a rishtedari, one of our own family, and yet I don’t even know this boy’s name. Well anyway, he will be soaking today in this weather, sleeping outside without a home. Not like the rooftops in Delhi, eh? That was when sleeping outside was something else indeed, isn’t it so, my love?’
She squeezed his hand again, remembering a distant night when as teenagers they sneaked onto the flat roof of the Bata shoe shop at the end of the gulley, long after the proprietor left for his big kothi on the other side of town. There they fell asleep hand in hand on a discarded jute bed until bright moonlight woke them and Rayya, terrified of repercussions, ran down the stairwell and sprinted home before Satish managed to shake away his sleepiness. She told Papa-ji she’d got lost after accidently straying away from the criss-cross weave of back streets she knew and, instead of scolding her as expected, he hugged her tightly, told her how precious she was but how she was no longer a child so must never stray too far. She smiled at the memory of her father. It came with a familiar yearning she’d held for over forty years, ever since he dropped dead one afternoon as he wiped okra with a damp tea towel just a few months after she’d left for England. He was forty-nine years old.
‘The question I want to ask, Satish,’ Rayya said as she pushed the suitcase flat onto the floor, ‘Is whether it is okay for me to give this boy some of the things you don’t wear anymore? Not your best things of course, but just some dry clothes. He will be soaking wet in all this rain.’
