Bone China (33 page)

‘So?’ he said finally, disentangling himself from her. He rolled a cigarette. ‘How’s the father?’

Meeka didn’t answer and Naringer glanced at her indulgently. He hoped the parents weren’t going to cause trouble. He had never met any Sri Lankans before. When he had first
met Meeka, coming in again and again to have his hair cut, he had thought she was from north India.

‘North Indian girls are very good-looking,’ he had told the blonde girl who had first cut his hair.

The girl had giggled and passed the compliment on.

‘I’m Sri Lankan,’ Meeka had said with her posh accent.

‘Where all the fighting is taking place?
That
place?’ Naringer had said, surprised. They were difficult people, he suspected, small-built, unlike Indians, he thought wryly. Nothing special.

Meeka was smoothing her hair. She looked at Naringer. In spite of her edginess her good mood was almost restored. Seeing this, Naringer took her hand and planted another kiss on her head.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘why don’t I just call on your parents now?’

He was unprepared for her screech of horror.

‘Are you crazy?’ shouted Meeka. ‘Don’t even suggest it. Oh my God! Are you
mad
? You’ve no idea what they’re like. I’ve got to prepare them first. It could take weeks.’

‘You stupid bastard,’ Christopher told Thornton, when he was told the news. This had all happened when he was away in France. ‘I knew it, I knew it. It’s all your doing.
She
’s trying to please
you
, you idiot.’

Thornton did not hear. The shock had affected his hearing.

‘Your mother must have felt like this,’ Savitha said.

Thornton did not care. He was not interested in anything anyone said, or felt. He was beyond mere speech.

‘I’m worried about him,’ Savitha said, ringing Jacob up for a rare conversation, wishing she had not said that about his mother. ‘He went out to the off-licence earlier and now he’s drinking, whisky.’

Meeka, coming in just at that moment, put an end to this conversation.

‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Anyone home?’

It felt as though this was a war zone. No one spoke. Savitha folded her lips and waited.

‘I want to talk to you, Anna-Meeka,’ Thornton called hollowly from the sitting room.

Having got himself into a state, having had all his dreams shattered, having declared war on his only daughter, Thornton was torn. Love and rage combined to form a lethal cocktail. He glared at Meeka. She was wearing black stilettos and a pale green dress. Around her neck was the gold chain her grandmother had given her long ago. Her hair gleamed (she had presumably done something to it at work), and Thornton stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. He had no idea where she had come from. The sleek young woman in front of him was a total stranger. He realised she was talking.

‘What?’ asked Meeka, again.

She kicked off her shoes and faced him patiently. With a great effort Thornton pulled himself together. I must be calm, he thought.

‘When are we to see this man, then?’ he bellowed.

He could not bring himself to say his name. Savitha, hovering behind the door, came in quickly. Thornton had not slept for days. It’s too much, Savitha thought in alarm. An old feeling, some long-forgotten emotion attacked her. Her husband looked terrible.

‘You need something nice to eat tonight,’ she said.

Going back into the kitchen, she took out her spices and roasted a tablespoon of coriander. She rinsed the Venetian glasses. Then, glad that the arguments seemed to have ceased
for the moment, she went shopping. It was a Saturday afternoon. I’ll make a crab curry, she thought, slipping out quietly.

Outside on the street, Mrs Smith from next door was posting a letter into the pillar box. Mrs Smith hesitated. She did not want to look as though she was spying. Savitha smiled uncertainly; neither knew what to do.

‘You all right, luv?’ Mrs Smith asked, plucking up courage.

‘He’s an Indian,’ Savitha blurted out, before she could stop herself.

Her voice wobbled dangerously. Mrs Smith nodded, kindly; she had heard everything of course, through the wall.

‘We know nothing about Indians,’ Savitha said, trying not to cry.

Having started, the relief was enormous. Mrs Smith nodded again. It was as she suspected. Swiftly she decided to take a chance.

‘Why don’t you come in and have a cuppa?’ she asked.

Mrs Smith’s kitchen was nothing like anything Savitha had ever seen. It was filled with clutter. Even though she was upset, Savitha could not fail to notice the dresser filled with crockery. They were the sort of thing Geraldine bought and Savitha disliked. Somehow, in Mrs Smith’s cosy kitchen, they didn’t look so bad. There were newspapers and knitting patterns strewn about. And balls of wool. A half-finished child’s pullover lay on a chair.

‘For our grandson,’ said Mrs Smith apologetically, scooping it up. ‘Sorry about the mess.’

Savitha was shocked. In all the years they had lived next door she had not even known Mrs Smith had grandchildren. In the corner of the room, facing the window, was a large white seagull. Catching sight of Savitha, it opened its beak and gave an earsplitting screech. Savitha jumped.

‘Don’t mind Jonathan,’ Mrs Smith chuckled.‘He’s recovering from a broken leg.’

In spite of her own state of shock, Savitha was astonished. Over a pot of tea, hardly aware of what she was doing, Savitha began to tell Mrs Smith what was happening.

‘If only we had consulted the horoscopes and found a decent Sri Lankan man,’ she said. ‘You know, my husband and I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, but you know, we’re in a foreign country. We should have protected ourselves. I think that was where we went wrong.’

Mrs Smith’s eyes were round with wonder.

‘He’s a Hindu,’ Savitha continued. ‘And Meeka says he’s a doctor.’

Mrs Smith nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s nice for us,’ she said suddenly, ‘having you living here. But I can see, it can’t be easy for any of you. You’ve got two places in your head to deal with, luv. See, my husband came from Bournemouth and he finds it hard enough! I always tells him, think how hard it must be for them.’

Savitha was lost in thought. Mrs Smith stirred her tea.

‘She’s beautiful, your Meeka,’ she ventured. ‘She could have anyone!’

‘What’s the use, being beautiful,’ Savitha reflected sadly, ‘if she behaves in this terrible way? It was the way she deceived her father, that’s upset him, more than anything else. All those lies about visiting Gillian, keeping it secret. For four whole months!’ Savitha folded her lips, tightly. ‘We know nothing of this man, other than he’s a doctor.’

She paused and they drank their tea in silence.

‘She’s a difficult girl, you know,’ she continued. ‘She gets obsessions. Sometimes she plays the piano for hours and hours, forgetting to eat, forgetting the time. What kind of wife will she make?’

‘We love hearing her play that piano,’ Mrs Smith smiled. ‘Mr Smith always switches the radio off to listen to her.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Savitha confessed.

Mrs Smith poured out another cup of tea for her exotic guest. She was having a wonderful time. Then, boldly, she put her hand over Savitha’s.

‘Get her to bring him over,’ she said confidentially. ‘Get the lad in the house, take a look at him. He mightn’t be so bad. She’s a clever girl, your Meeka, I’m sure she’s not doing anything stupid. And she loves you all right, don’t forget that. My Mr Smith always says there’s no knowing how things will work out.’

Savitha was startled. Mrs Smith sounded as though she really cared and Savitha felt her eyes brim with tears. She had held herself together for so long, she had tried to be strong, but the effort had made her terribly tired. Sipping her tea, staring at the worn linoleum floor, she felt an unexpected sense of belonging, here, in this messy kitchen. Mrs Smith was not like Savitha’s boss. She could not quote Yeats or Tennyson, nor did she have any exquisite bone china, but there was something very sweet about her nevertheless.

‘Thank you,’ she said, standing up with quiet dignity. ‘Thank you for the tea, and for being so kind to me. You’re absolutely right. We must see him.’

‘Righto,’ said Mrs Smith cheerfully. ‘Good luck, ducks,’ she added, forgetting herself. ‘All is not lost!’

And she let Savitha out.

Naringer planned his visit. It had taken two weeks but at last the invitation had come.

‘Will I have to discuss my thesis with your father?’ he asked.

Meeka looked at him sharply but he was not joking. She wanted to laugh. Naringer’s visit coincided with the return of Alicia from Italy. Alicia wanted to see her niece to congratulate her on her news and, she told Thornton firmly, she was not prepared to judge Anna-Meeka.

‘Let’s give it a chance, at least,’ she told him calmly.

Savitha was taken aback by such decisiveness. ‘What?’ she asked, momentarily distracted.

Alicia, when she arrived by taxi, had an air of well-being about her. Thornton wore his new suit, causing Meeka to stare at him with irritation.

‘What’s the matter with you, Dad? Why d’you need to dress up?’

Thornton said nothing. He was no longer shouting but his silence was worse. It made Savitha even more nervous.

‘He’s in a hell of a rage,’ she confided to Alicia. ‘I’ve never seen him like this.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with him. He’s feeling ashamed,’ said Alicia, shrewdly. ‘Never having had an education, he finds, on top of everything else, he’s going to have a son-in-law who’s a doctor and this worries him. If only Daddy had educated them, Thornton wouldn’t have become so obsessed with Meeka’s education.’

Naturally Savitha knew exactly what Thornton was thinking.
She
knew how his mind worked, but she had not expected Alicia to be so astute. She looked at her sister-in-law with new respect.

‘You know he asked me if he should send for the Greenwood crest, so he could wear it on a blazer for the wedding!’

‘Oh, poor Thornton,’ said Alicia, laughing lightly.

Naringer arrived for lunch and, for once, Meeka helped her mother with the preparations. She
looks
nice, anyway, thought
Savitha, hiding her unease. Alicia joined them in the kitchen and an unusual calm fell on the household as the three women worked together preparing the food. Only Thornton continued to look terrible. He had started early on the bottle of whisky and Meeka, cautiously calling a truce, waited on him, filling his glass with ice. In spite of her own rage, her father’s expression made her want to cry. Naringer declined any whisky and asked for some soda water. Thornton, keeping his face neutral, poured him some.

‘You’re a doctor, Meeka tells me,’ he said casually, not noticing his daughter’s grin.

‘Yes. I’ve just finished my is-studies at Imperial College,’ Naringer told him.

Meeka scowled.

‘After we get marriage I’m going to is-start a job in Oxford. That’s why we wanted to get married this is-summer.’

Thornton swallowed hard and loosened his tie. Then he poured himself another whisky. Over lunch Naringer talked about things Thornton could not understand. He talked about drugs and chemical formulae, using words Thornton had never heard before.

‘Are you going to be a GP?’ Thornton asked him, looking important. ‘Or a hospital doctor?’

Naringer looked blankly at him.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, understanding.‘I’m not a
medical
doctor! I’m a Doctor of Philosophy.’

There was a short disconnected silence while Thornton digested this.

‘So you’re
not
a doctor, then?’ he asked, finally, his face bleak.

‘Yes, I
am
!’

No one said anything. Alicia offered Naringer some more iced water. Savitha served her husband more rice. Naringer was
eating heartily; Thornton hardly at all. After a while the conversation resumed and Naringer continued to talk about his research. Meeka, watching her father nod his head wisely, knowing he didn’t have a clue, suppressed a giggle.

‘I wish he’d stop being so stuffy and make a joke,’ she whispered to her aunt, when they were making the tea together. ‘I wish he’d say something funny like. “Has anyone noticed Naringer’s ears are pasted?”’

Alicia flashed her a smile and squeezed her hand, encouragingly.

‘Give him time,’ she said. ‘Your father’s a shy man, Anna-Meeka.’

After lunch Alicia had a surprise for Meeka. She smiled at Naringer, handing her niece an envelope.

‘It’s your wedding present,’ she told her. ‘Go on, open it!’

Inside was a small key tied with a pink ribbon.

‘I’m having it delivered to your new home,’ Alicia said, delighted by Anna-Meeka’s expression. ‘I know it’s totally impractical,
but
that’s what wedding presents should be. Your grandmother would have wanted it for you. She believed wedding presents should be fun!’

Meeka stared. No one spoke. Never had her sister-in law looked so radiant, thought Savitha.

‘Well?’ said Alicia. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t you know what it is?’

But Meeka, already having guessed, flew to her aunt, crushing her in an embrace.

‘What is it?’ asked Naringer, mildly interested.

‘It’s a piano!’ shrieked Meeka, coming alive, dancing around the room.

‘But you have one already,’ Naringer said puzzled, pointing to the one in front of them.

‘Ah, Naringer,’ said Alicia, ‘this one isn’t any old piano.
This
is a Bechstein Baby!’

‘Yes,’ sang Meeka, ‘yes, yes!’ and all the tension of the past weeks, her father’s expression, the sunshine outside, all these things, made her eyes shine with unshed tears.

Well, well, well, thought Savitha, with the faintest flutter of hope.

The wedding took place at Our Lady of the Rosary, along the Brixton Road. There was no nuptial Mass because Naringer was a Hindu. Suddenly, it became a jolly affair. Everyone rallied round. Gillian and Susan, Jennifer married now and pregnant, even Philippa Davidson, down for the weekend from Oxford, came. So it was a big wedding after all, not by back-home standards, not like his sister’s wedding, thought Jacob, but huge for Lambeth.