Black Bread White Beer (8 page)

Both his car and the Mini Cooper were bought in this spirit, when unions were only ever thought to be happy and unbreakable. Now they need something bigger; a four seater, long and wide. A tank, like the Mercedes S Class, where she can sit at the back and sulk with the painting propped beside her, and he can be left alone, putting his foot down on the series of undulating hills that trail to Lewes.

The best she can do is wedge the now bubble-wrapped
painting between them. From gear stick to ceiling, they are cut off from each other with this mobile Berlin Wall. Only the closeness of the other's breath, and their scent, can pass through and over flimsy plastic wrap. They cannot see but they can hear: fits and snorts and odd exclamations removed from all recognizable language.

He hopes that speed will help, that the faster he goes, the quicker their clouds can be shaken off. He is not angry with her, only with himself, suffocating in remorse as thick and impenetrable as the bubble-wrap. His head feels as if it is filled with tiny negative bubbles which need to be popped one by one. Does not listen. Pop. Childish. Pop. Ignorant with no concept of art. Pop. Defective sperm. Pop. Bad choice of husband. Pop. He does not hear her voice until she is in full flow. She is talking on the phone, using his mobile, which lies charging on her side.

‘I've got Hari waiting on the line, 'Mal. I think you have something to tell him.'

In his readiness to make allowances, to mourn, he has forgotten what a bitch she can be. If things are not to her liking he will be cut dead guaranteed, from arguing over their choice of supermarket when they first moved in together, to her insistence of being fucked in a yoga
position, irrespective of his pleasure, because according to all the literature, it was the best way to conceive. She has this need to be in control of every element or at least to have a well-argued say. Even weather reports are not believed if they do not fall into the scheme of things. It will definitely not rain because it is warm enough for bare legs; there needs to be at least five centimetres of snow because what is the point of spending exorbitantly on getting three pairs of custom-made Uggs shipped over from New Zealand if they cannot be worn before the end of March?

But phoning Hari is the lowest she has ever sunk, making him feel like a naughty school kid being slapped across the legs for misbehaviour. School ma'am knows best. He hates everything about her slyness, this compulsion she has to put him on the spot.

Hari is with him, not finding it funny as she does.

‘What's happened? I don't understand what's going on.'

‘That makes two of us.'

‘She said there was bad news. Have things gotten worse?'

‘Not quite.'

‘You don't sound like you're in the hospital, more like a car. Is it an ambulance? Is she being transferred? I heard that some women bleed to death, but not in a hospital surely?'

Hari's voice rises with excitement at the prospect of being so close to crisis. Amal pictures his face,
consummately metrosexual, expectant, and ready to shoot his load if the details are particularly delicious and nasty. Probably holding a pen in readiness so as not to miss a thing, or speed-dialling on a second phone to reach Ma and Puppa. Even in the tensest moment he can only find this behaviour endearing, worthy of a punch on the arm or a drunken kiss on the forehead. How can he forgive his friend, lurching on the precipice of gossip, and not his own wife? What does that say about his divided loyalties?

‘We've had a nasty shock, Hari. You should probably sit down.'

The news he is expected to deliver sticks in his throat, and not just because she is monitoring his every nuance or because he has never been so aware of how comfortable he is with lying, and telling people what they most want to hear. It feels like they are playing with the collection of cells. Pissing on its watery grave. How does indulging in these petty mind games make things any better? None of their behaviour features in the recommended pamphlets on grieving. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the other side of the partition, which tells him that she is not ready to exhale until he has spoken just the way she wants him to. She would probably write cue cards if the painting was not in the way.

‘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.