Breaking Light (39 page)

Looking up, she met Mrs Sarobi's eyes from across the room. The foreign woman smiled and waved gracefully. She wore dark trousers in a soft fabric and a short jacket, embroidered in bright colours and inlaid with tiny mirrors. A red silk scarf covered her hair. Mrs Ludgate looked around once, quickly, to make sure the wave was really meant for her, before smiling back. And, as she did so, she was struck by the notion, improbable as it was, that Mrs Sarobi might be her only friend in this room. It was the same feeling of inevitability that she got once at school, when a boy that she had liked for a while had come up and pinched her from behind. ‘Blimey!' she hissed silently through her teeth, and then, after a moment's pause, as if to emphasise, ‘Cripes!'

‘Yoo-hoo! Over here, everyone!' Mrs Chandler, the hostess,
called from her position by the fireplace, as if the charmingly crammed drawing room was in fact a statelier place with chandeliers. The ladies stopped their whirring and turned to face the plump director, their slacking necks craning and their drooping jowls painstakingly rearranged into well-meaning smiles.

‘You're all most welcome to this year's AGM and Christmas party. Aren't the Briggs-Beauforts' canapés just divine?' marvelled the director, and the ladies nodded and clapped their hands in agreement. ‘Well,' Mrs Chandler continued, ‘I hope you will eat, drink and be merry whilst we finish the business of the year. First, I suggest we discuss our next campaign. As some of you will remember, I attended the national AGM in London last month …' Here a few of the members crimped their mouths and bit at their lipstick. London and the Royal Albert Hall: such imagined extravagance was too outrageous to endure – the fact that she had been there, so close to Harrods, drinking chilled wine, perhaps even champagne, and not they. ‘I had an excellent idea, after talking to my colleagues from Bedford-shire.' Her moon face was beaming. ‘I suggest that our campaign for next year is –' a brief pause for suspense – ‘multiculturalism! Wouldn't it be just
marvellous
if the WI could help our community to become more welcoming and inclusive?' She smiled and smiled, wrinkling ever so slightly though her powder.

But the ladies looked confused, suddenly. They were no longer making an effort. Some glanced at each other in order to form an opinion. Others looked at their hands, their fingers holding on tightly to the stems of plastic wine glasses – until one of them spoke up. As it happened, it was Mrs Briggs-Beaufort, the mother of the catering geniuses:

‘Excuse
me
, but I was under the impression that we were going
to continue the locally produced vegetable mission. It has been
so
successful and the interest in organic cooking has increased tremendously. Just look at my girls …' She, herself, could hardly take her eyes off them. ‘Wouldn't it be
amazing
if other young people in the community could achieve similar success!' She looked around the room, but the ladies remained silent. ‘
Please
don't get me wrong, I
adore
foreigners,' she went on, and, by George, she meant it, except those who were really dark and smelt strongly of camel, ‘but it's just that, well, oughtn't we to focus on a campaign closer to the heart of our community? Something that's of importance to
us
?'

Mrs Chandler's face stiffened ever so slightly and her doll's eyes looked very large and sad as she replied: ‘But this topic
is
close to the heart of our community. Do we not read daily in the papers about globalisation? We cannot go on being some kind of local backwater – we are part of the larger world, are we not?' A handful nodded in agreement. ‘Well, then, it's high time we overcome our cultural differences and open up to those who want to come and live amongst us.'

‘But surely you're not saying that we are all the same – that
we
could ever be the same as
them
?' Mrs Briggs-Beaufort pressed on. ‘I mean, the British culture is quite distinct, as I'm sure most people would agree. Everything we have done for democracy … Just think about the war – the old one and this new war-on-terror one. And the Empire. There might still not be any bridges in India, if it had not been for British engineering. And those trains they like to ride on – so many of them, at the same time – they just love their trains in India, and so they should!' Her face seemed to have developed a tic.

Some of the ladies felt uncomfortable at this and Maureen
more than anyone, as she suspected the remark might be considered racist. I need to assert myself, she thought. This is when it really matters. ‘I think it's a wonderful idea,' she squeaked. ‘Multiculturalism, I mean. We could meet up every fortnight and cook our own cultural foods.' She was feeling the excitement rising inside her, and blushed. ‘It would be a wonderful way of marrying multiculturalism with the local vegetable mission … We could cook mainly vegetarian recipes!'

There was a brief silence until Mrs Smith spoke up, to everyone's surprise: ‘Yes, but there's only Mrs Sarobi who is, well, multicultural, if you like.' At that, everyone turned to look at Mrs Sarobi, who was retreating into the curtains by the bay window, as if she wanted to disappear altogether.

‘Wasn't your mother from Lancashire?' Maureen said, sternly, in an effort to save Mrs Sarobi from the discomfort of being singled out.

‘Yes,' Jenny Smith whispered, embarrassed, ‘and John's people were Scottish.' Her eyes welled with tears and everyone bent their heads, as John had only been dead a few weeks. The discussion had taken a terribly unpleasant turn – it was absolutely ghastly.

Mrs Chandler cleared her throat, striving to save the day. ‘That's an excellent suggestion, Maureen; thank you. Let's meet every fortnight and celebrate our differences through cooking.'

‘Look,' Mrs Briggs-Beaufort insisted, not used to being passed over like that, ‘I'm not a racist or anything, you must understand. All I'm saying is that people, by nature, prefer to live amongst their own kind and too intense mixing may not be natural. Animals always defend their territories against intruders, after all, don't they?'

‘Yeah, but …' Mrs Ludgate snorted, to everyone's surprise. ‘Yeah, but we're not animals – we're human beings, aren't we?'

Mrs Briggs-Beaufort fixed her eyes on something distant and slightly elevated, whilst Mrs Chandler smiled benevolently at Mrs Ludgate and murmured, ‘Yes, my dear, we are all human, naturally.'

But Mrs Ludgate would no longer be put down by such considered kindness. ‘What did I tell ye!' Her smile conveyed mischief.

The director felt that it was all beginning to slip. Turning back to Mrs Sarobi in frustration, she tried to bring back some order. ‘Seriously, Mrs Sarobi, dear, what do
you
think – isn't multiculturalism a great topic for a new mission?'

Mrs Sarobi had been watching them all from her position at the bay window. Now she looked distinctly unhappy, as she unfolded herself from the curtains, and the smile that she managed to produce conveyed disbelief. Who were these people she had been watching?

‘Well, if you really want to hear my opinion, I agree with Mrs Briggs-Beaufort that cultural diversity is obvious and inevitable. The fact that we are culturally different is indisputable; we have all been shaped by different experiences.' She stepped forward and looked around at the faces in the room – the ladies who looked back at her were incredulous. ‘But, more importantly, Doris –' at this, she smiled briefly at Mrs Ludgate – ‘is absolutely right: we are not animals, and surely our shared humanity is more interesting than our cultural distinctiveness.'

Her statement was followed by dense silence as everyone tried to take it in and make some sense of it. Suddenly, Mrs Sarobi saw her chance – and grabbed it: ‘As long as humans are on the move,
cultures are fluid. Multiculturalism is a political idea, with good intentions, I'm sure, but in the end it will always seal people into ethnic enclaves where the borders are policed by well-meaning subsidies, community grants and by-laws. That's why we should see diversity as lived experience – not as a political project. Privately, we may be religious or secular, vegetarian or meat eater, farmer or banker – we may choose to adhere to whatever cultural expression we want in our own hearts and minds – but publicly, we are all citizens and should be treated equally; one perceived group must not be prioritised over another.'

The room seemed to be palpitating with discomfort. Hormones may have been playing their part, as some of the ladies started to steam, but, for the most part, the general uneasiness must be put down to such inappropriate linguistic gymnastics. At last, Mrs Chandler blinked, her face the perfect image of a doll's, and said, hesitantly, ‘So, are you saying that cultural cooking evenings are
not
a good idea?' She smiled again, making sure her disappointment did not show. She had suggested this mission almost solely with Mrs Sarobi in mind. It had been meant as a great kindness and a way to include the newcomer – and now the newcomer had turned out to be ungrateful.

‘Well,' Mrs Sarobi said, quietly, ‘you're all most welcome to carry on with the cultural cooking evenings, of course, but frankly, I find that kind of exercise terribly dull. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go.'

‘That's right!' Mrs Ludgate said, gleefully, as her friend walked out of the room. ‘You carry on with your cooking evenings.' She knew now that she would never make it into their midst. Not properly. The way they had looked at her outfit … Still, for the moment, she was enjoying herself. ‘Thanks for the nibbles.'
What a relief it was to be the one to choose sides. On her way out, she stopped in front of Mrs Briggs-Beaufort. ‘Congrats,' she said, lightly, patting the other woman's sleeve. ‘Your daughters' success – absolutely brilliant. With such talent, they'd get a job any time, waitressing down the pub.
Any time
. Be great, wouldn't it?'

At the door, she turned round, waving her hand. ‘Right,' she grinned, ‘I'm off, then. See you girls later.'

*

Outside, snow had started to fall. In the glare of a streetlight, the thick, solid night was fragmented by the whirling flakes. Mrs Ludgate stumbled through the Chandlers' front garden, pulling on her coat. She swore as she tripped on the box hedge, neatly trimmed along the pavement, but soft now, under a white frosting. A section of it had been trained in a perfect kink around the wheelie bin. She wondered at this, at how the bin men would get at the Chandlers' bin, as she stopped to look up and down the street. A row of footprints led east, down the hill, towards the high street. She turned to follow.

‘Oi! Mrs Sarobi!'

The figure ahead walked on.

‘Hang on! Wait a minute. It's me: Doris.'

Mrs Sarobi stopped and waited for Mrs Ludgate to come within earshot. She was looking down at her shoes, which were not fit for the weather. ‘I wasn't expecting anyone running after me,' she said, without looking up. She sounded bad-tempered.

‘You were …' Mrs Ludgate was out of breath and had to pause for a moment. ‘You were brilliant in there!'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Sorry?'

‘I was a bloody disaster.'

‘Nah, you said good things. That Briggs-Buffoon woman needed to hear those things –' she hesitated – ‘and so did I, come to think of it …'

‘Oh, what's the point? Why can't people ever think for themselves?'

There was a silence between them.

‘Well,' Mrs Ludgate said, quietly, ‘not everyone is used to thinking for themselves – at least, not aloud … Some of us were told our thinking was wrong, so we have been keeping it to ourselves.'

‘I'm sorry; I didn't mean to sound arrogant. Gosh, I was a bit of a bitch in there, wasn't I?' Mrs Sarobi had stopped and was looking at Mrs Ludgate as if it was for the first time. ‘Anyway, you never struck me as somebody who wouldn't speak her mind …'

‘That's what I mean: just said what came into me mind. Never stopped to think – couldn't afford to – it might have killed me.'

‘Yes, it can be painful …'

Mrs Ludgate smiled. ‘Perhaps we are not so unalike, you and I.'

‘Perhaps not.'

The snow fell softer around them and the cover was almost complete by now. The reflected light made the night feel warmer.

‘I wish the professor had seen you in there,' said Mrs Ludgate.

‘Why the professor?'

‘He would have been proud of you, too.'

‘I'm sure he wouldn't have cared,' she said quickly, looking down. But her voice was not so certain.

Mrs Ludgate looked at her with genuine surprise. ‘Oh, I'm pretty certain he would've.'

They were walking now, side by side, in the middle of the road. The only sound was their footfall, muffled, almost to nothing. The flakes were getting bigger, softer; they settled on the women's coat sleeves and stitched into Mrs Ludgate's hair.

‘It's so quiet,' said Mrs Sarobi.

‘Yes.'

‘I can never get used to the first snow – the way it transforms the world – especially at night.'

Mrs Ludgate nodded thoughtfully. ‘When I was a girl, we lived by the sea and, when it snowed, it was as if the town and the sea merged. I used to imagine beasts walking with the snow out of the water – sea lions, unicorns, you know – leaving strange prints on the street outside my window.'

‘When I grew up we used to put newspapers in plastic bags and slide down the banks of the old citadel.'

‘There was snow where you grew up too?'

‘Of course, sometimes.'

‘What was your name then, when you were a little girl?'

‘Nahal.' It felt strange to say it like this, here, after such a long time.