Hot Water Man (19 page)

The line crackled. ‘No.'

‘Oh dear. Are you disappointed?'

‘Something will turn up.'

‘Look. I'll be a bit late because I'm dropping in at Mrs Gracie's. You know, the donkey woman. Would you like to come?'

She said not. She sounded rather distant, or perhaps just preoccupied. Maybe she was going over their quarrel, as he had done all afternoon. Putting down the phone, he pictured the beach hut. The harder it was to procure the more he wanted it. Beside the sea he might recapture her – Christine Trimmer, washed clean of prejudice and preconceptions. Chrissy Trimmer; her maiden name had suited her. Sheltering in his towel; pulling her summer dress modestly over her knees. Her hair hanging wet and innocent as it used to. They would be truly alone; there would be nobody for whom she must alter. But by now perhaps she was too much altered herself.

On the wall hung the long staff photographs. The most recent were the least yellowed.
Mr and Mrs I. Grant (1969–1973). Mr and Mrs F. T. Smythe (1973–1975).
Ann Smythe looked a remarkably pretty woman in a pale summer suit. Soon the latest edition would be added to the collection. The photograph had been taken yesterday. There Christine would be printed, wearing jeans. Would they not find this insulting? She might be trying to be all democratic, as she tried so embarrassingly with Mohammed, but would they understand to take it that way? The awful thing was that however offended they felt, none of them except Shamime would in a hundred years venture to say so.

It was nearly six. He packed his briefcase. When he bent, his shirt chafed his burnt shoulders. For the first week or so he had made sure that at 5.30, when the office closed, he was fiddling around in the communal Accounts Section so that he could say goodbye, and so that they could observe himself remaining in the office later, as befitted his responsibilities. Nowadays he did not feel he had to bother, which was one step forward. In fact there had been several steps forward. Though he had not entirely got the hang of the job yet, though gazing at the figures filled him with an exhilarated fear, though he was only just adjusting to the labyrinthine contacts and to a certain tempo, or lack of it, or unpredictability of it, in business dealings here, yet for the first time in his life he felt really at home. If only he could rely upon Christine feeling at home too.

He swivelled round. The soap lady gazed back. Close up, no doubt, her painted eyes were daubed brushstrokes and her face crude. But across the street she seemed reliable. Each day she was there. First thing in the morning, an angle of shadow lay across her brow, making her more severe. During his half-hectic, half-slumbrous office days her face stood behind him, his wooden support.

He had not, for many years, stood outside a woman's house with a manufactured excuse. Despite her age Mrs Gracie was so feminine; she made him feel like a suitor.

The old bearer, whose name he had temporarily forgotten, opened the door and walked upstairs, beckoning him to follow. Up on the landing, sunlight shone through the veranda. The bearer climbed the stairs, his pyjamas tucked up like a washerman's. Donald followed the thin ankles and cracked, grey heels.

They walked along the veranda. There were few of these old houses with verandas left in Karachi. Much of the fretwork was broken; thick cobwebs hung like skirts from the ceiling. From an open door further down came the sound of singing. He had a sudden picture of Iona Gracie, years younger, dressed in a nightie and spinning flax.

In fact the song came from a radio. This was evidently the living-room as well as the bedroom. She rose to her feet, admirably spry.

‘It's Ronald. How delightful.' She touched her fine red curls and went across to the radio. ‘My favourite companion.' Was this himself or the wireless?

Today she wore navy slacks and an apron. Her curls were pushed back by a navy band. It seemed appealing to wear lipstick in the seclusion of this upper room; to make up her face for the voice on the radio. She sent the bearer away for tea.

‘I've brought my cheque-book this time,' said Donald, this being his excuse to see her again. ‘So I can join this adoption scheme. I didn't forget, you see.'

‘Kind boy. Just look at this mess.'

He gazed around the room. There was no denying its untidiness – curled photos jammed into picture frames, junky old furniture that did not fit the room. A broken chandelier hung from the ceiling. The dressing-table was crammed with pots and jars; the wardrobe was so full that the doors could not be closed. Obviously the whole house had silted up and this was the last refuge. He was about to demur, politely, when he realized that she was pointing to the floor. It was spread with newspapers and broken china.

‘Iqbal's too old. I should never have entrusted him with the Staffordshire. I usually don't. But as it was the Minister I thought we should bring out the best.'

‘Iqbal dropped it?'

‘Two cups, two saucers, milk jug and that delightful teapot. Ronald, I'm desolate. The last of our wedding set. I'm glad Morris isn't alive, he would have sacked him.'

‘Can I help?'

‘Oh please. Would you care to join me on the floor?'

They sat down.

‘This local glue is inferior,' she said. ‘You have to hold the bits together for an age. As a rule I do all my entertaining at the Sind Club. They have a little room. I'd snap my fingers and that was that. But this time there was some delegation, I.B.M. or I.T.T. or I.B.B., some footling initials. Mrs
Gracie
, I said over the phone. All regrets. Times have changed, Ronald. So in the end I had to serve the Minister out of cups from Bohri Bazaar. Perhaps he took pity on me.'

‘It's the minister who controls the land permission?' In other words, it was Shamime's uncle.

‘He's an old friend; he was in opposition when my husband was alive, the only chap who could beat Morris at tennis. He listened but you can never really tell what they're thinking, Ronald. There's a lot of fight left in these old bones, I told him. He sat there cooing at the pussies. At least he likes them. Heaven knows if he likes donkeys.' She paused. ‘He probably hates cats but he was being polite. Or religious. The Prophet had a cat, of course.' She picked up a piece of teapot. ‘A slippery man. Involved in all sorts of deals, I've heard, changing sides when it suits him. Still, they're all slippery, Ronald, you'll learn. You've only been here a few months, haven't you.'

‘Less than two, actually.'

‘You're young, Ronald. What was it, cotton?'

‘Chemicals. Cameron's.'

‘There used to be so many young chaps like you. Of course they're all back home now, quelling the English natives. I wish them luck. One hears such stories nowadays. Where's the respect gone, Ronald, and the pride? Here they're delighted enough to get work at all.'

Donald lifted a handle and held it against different pieces of cup to see which fitted. It was uncomfortable on the floor; his trousers dug into him. But he did not mind. ‘That's partly why I came out, actually,' he said. ‘Things in England seem, well, to have come apart. Everybody's fighting for himself. I was once in the warehouse at Cameron's, the firm I work for. It was winter and fairly cold –'

‘Ah, winter.' She sighed. ‘Plants weighed down with frost. Tobogganing. One pines for snow.'

‘We haven't had much of that recently, actually. Usually it's just grey and drizzly.' He picked up a bit of china with a pink rose on it. ‘Anyway, while two men were slowly loading boxes on to a container, a third man was holding up a thermometer. I thought he was testing the humidity or something – for the stock corrosion perhaps. In fact he was waiting until it dropped just below the statutory minimum and then they were going to knock off. Just like that. Never mind if half the stuff wasn't loaded.'

‘So you worked in a warehouse, Ronald.'

He laughed. ‘Oh no, I was only training – on the executive scheme. Visiting the different departments to see what made them tick. But here people have worked for Cameron's all their lives and they're proud of the firm. It seems one has to travel four thousand miles to find that nowadays. I mean, our Cameron's driver would wait all day until someone told him he could go. It might be because he hasn't been educated to think for himself – my wife would certainly say so and I'd agree. She'd blame the dread hand of colonialism. Colonialism is a four-letter – is a nasty word to her. But then the less educated you are, the more you have to have something to cling to and identify with. This country couldn't be run by a democratic government, it's simply not ready yet. One's job is to make sure it's a sound thing they're clinging to. And of course educate them so they can work that out for themselves. Christine – my wife – thinks this is an old-fashioned and paternalistic idea. Or imperialist or something. We argue about this.'

He stopped. In fact, what they argued about was mostly of a more niggling, personal nature. They used to argue about large and noble topics, but recently these had shrunk to attacks upon himself. The global subjects were mainly reserved for when they had company.

‘Ah, here it is.' He picked up a jagged piece. ‘I know that one's partly enjoying it here through being a big fish in a small pool. I didn't have a quarter this responsibility in England, you know. But it makes things worth doing. One's decisions aren't watered down by six people above you, or argued out of existence in committees. In England one's a cog in a big machine. It sounds selfish but I'm not just talking about me. Lots of people feel this. Nowadays there's very little room for quote individual initiative unquote.' He held the handle against the piece of cup; it fitted. ‘Here, well, one has an identity.' He took the glue brush and painted the edges. Then he pressed them together. ‘I'm waffling on a bit, aren't I.' It surprised him, the way he was talking.

‘This is much better than the wireless. Do go on, Ronald.'

By now he did not feel able to correct his name. Nor did he want to, in fact. To her he was Ronald – more articulate, more attractive, more tenderly protective than Donald, with opinions that were not criticized but listened to, her blue eyes widening as if he were the first person to say such things. She must be nearly as old as his grandmother but this did not matter. In a sense she seemed younger than Christine. Despite her brittle bones she seemed softer and more receptive. More feminine, in fact. He passed her the glue. It was a Dickensian pot with the brush sticking out of the top. What was it about Christine? Nothing he said could alter her. She had the shuttered look of the safely committed. He could make no difference; she made him powerless.

He kept the handle clamped to the cup. ‘My family – I mean the men – all had something worthwhile to do. They could make a difference to things. My father fought in the war.' Christine would say: he shot down three Germans. Call that an achievement? He could not answer this but he knew it was not quite the point.

In a moment he would mention his grandfather. Mrs Gracie would understand him if he said ‘Proud of their country'. In Britain you could not say that any more; the words, like so much else, had been devalued. But they meant more than people realized. His grandfather, like his father, had actually been prepared to die for what he thought was right. It was not blind indoctrination or sheep-like mindlessness. It was something to do with belief. They had not sat there looking at a thermometer.

With Mrs Grade he could use those words, but even he felt trapped by their dwindled meaning. She leant over, the newspaper creaking, and picked up the teapot spout. Christine would say it was to do with male domination.
Everyone with a prick is an imperialist
, she had said once with half the Saloon Bar listening. That Roz was there of course. Today in the bazaar she could not laugh at this. He had hoped, so much, that this place would change her.

‘They were stretched and tested,' he said. ‘Up to now I've never had a chance to be that. They made their mark.' He thought of the flat in Crouch End, number 144b, looking down on to other people's gardens. ‘Here we have a lovely garden that's ours. I meet people who're actually making the decisions, who change things. One can change things oneself, in a smaller way. My wife thinks I'm a snob and like meeting people who know the Prime Minister.'

‘Charming man, of course, quite brilliant. He can talk the birds off the trees. Picked it up in Oxford, no doubt. Are you a university man, Ronald?'

‘Christine went. I went straight into Cameron's. You see, my mother was only living on a widow's pension and my grandmother got very little. I felt I had to get a job.'

‘I can tell your wife's pretty. I must meet her.'

He paused, holding together the handle and the broken piece of cup. He loosened his grip; they eased. He pressed them together. ‘She's rather got into this Women's Lib business.'

‘Lib?' She looked up from the teapot. ‘Oh yes, they burn their underwear.'

‘She's always – well, been swept up into things.' He remembered her in the sixties, a clever girl with her hair wrenched into those little plaits, swaying her head to dreamy music. Now she swayed to rousing chants. She bought these movements like wholesale fitments inside her head. He considered this lazy; it meant that after the initial investment she no longer had to question them. This made him irked and stifled. But how much had she really changed inside?

‘Such a beautiful teapot, Ronald. It will never be the same. The damage has been done.'

‘I'm so sorry.' He paused. ‘It's all to do with recognizing women's rights, that sort of thing. They say some worthwhile things; sometimes I just feel it's the way they say it. Their missionary zeal.'

‘We used to have a lot of them here, of course. I suppose they've all gone now.'

‘I beg your pardon?'