Nest of Sorrows (29 page)

Santosh Mathur’s white teeth glistened in his coffee-coloured face. ‘We knew nothing, but our parents knew everything. This is the way in my country.’ He glanced lovingly at his shy young wife. ‘The fathers and mothers think about suitability. Much is taken into account; education, upbringing, temperament. I saw Hamida only twice before our wedding, never with the two of us alone.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Rachel glanced from one to the other, mischief plain in her eyes. ‘Did you like her?’

Hamida giggled as she stirred the pot on the fire. ‘He was told to like me.’

‘Hang on, hang on.’ Rachel lowered herself on to the brightly coloured couch. ‘This is daft, this is. Suppose you’d hated one another? Suppose you’d got wed, then found out that he snores or that she can’t cook.’

‘This does not happen, Mrs Murray,’ smiled Santosh.

‘Don’t talk so wet. Stands to reason, folk is folk no matter which side of the world they come from. There’s all the little things in life like talking with your mouth full and cutting toenails all over the bedroom. Them things on their own can ruin a marriage.’

‘We do not allow anything to spoil our marriage, Mrs Murray.’

‘Rachel. I’ve told you to call me Rachel. If I can get my mouth round your names, you can have a go at mine, so stop all this “Mrs Murraying”, if you please. Anyroad, how come you’re working in the mill? Didn’t you say you had a job doing accountancy back home?’

‘My qualifications are not recognized here, Rachel. I have to learn all over again.’

‘Why? Numbers is numbers.’

‘I need English examinations.’

‘Oh aye? Well, I’ll see what our Katherine can do about that. She has this friend called Maureen and her husband’s a money man, accounts and suchlike. Happen a new face would brighten up their office, eh?’

Santosh spread long delicate fingers towards Rachel. ‘Please, do not trouble on my behalf. Remember, I am Indian, a coloured man.’

‘Eh? What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’

‘I am sorry, but I do not understand.’

‘Just a saying, lad. Now listen to me, you big soft thing, what’s this about being coloured? I’m coloured, look, I’m covered in freckles. One of the lesser-spotted, I am, quite rare. So don’t you be setting off with a chip on your shoulder. You’re as good as any man in this street and a darned sight better educated too.’

‘I am of an ethnic minority.’

‘Oh yes? We had one of them, but the wheel fell off. Another joke, son. Don’t talk to me about minorities. My mam and dad were both Irish, School Hill scum, they were. You should have seen the way we were treated. We had to take it in turns to go to school, one pair of clogs between two. There wasn’t enough plates, so we shared and it was a race to see who could eat most and quickest. And they used to come round with their charities, bits of food and a couple of shirts for my brothers. They gave us boots, and it didn’t matter if they weren’t a pair as long as you could squeeze both feet in. I used to get clouted by the nuns because I was dirty, only there wasn’t no soap for a wash. We were covered in fleabites, and we smelled like only those from bug-infested houses can smell. I remember our Nellie blackleading her legs so’s the holes in her black stockings wouldn’t show and I’ve seen my mam cry for lack of bread to feed her kiddies. We had nowt till me dad got a better job and moved us all to View Street, but me mam didn’t live to enjoy that. So don’t talk to me about being different, Santosh Mathur, else I’ll clock you one with me clog-iron.’

He bowed slightly. ‘I am sorry. Very sorry for your poverty in childhood. No offence against your good person was intended.’

Hamida pushed a wooden spoon under Rachel’s nose. ‘Here, taste, it is not all hot.’

Rachel allowed a hesitant tongue to stray along the spoon. ‘Hey! That’s lovely, that is. You’ll have to get me some of that there garry marsala . . . what are you laughing at? I can’t master Indian in a flaming fortnight! And I’ll have one of them thingies, them poppy-dums when you’ve made some.’

Hamida retreated, head shaking with mirth.

‘And as for you,’ Rachel glared at Santosh. ‘Stop acting like a fairy cake, get the good suit out and go for a proper job.’

‘I will try.’ The black eyes were solemn now. ‘For a woman, you are very strong in personality.’

‘Hey, get away with your bother! I might be a woman, but I’ve got me head screwed on the right way round. Mind, it used to be cross-threaded, but it seems to have sorted itself out since he died.’

‘Pardon?’

She paused, deep in thought. ‘Mind you, there might be summat in what you say about marriage. If I could have arranged my daughter’s, she’d have finished up with something a bit better than what she’s got.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Aye, precisely and exactly. Anyroad, come round Wednesday for a proper English meal, and don’t worry, I know your meat rules. But if I can eat your poppy-wotsernames, then you two can get your chops round a Yorkshire pud even if I have to serve it with rice or what have you. And don’t take any notice to this lot round here. There’s not one of them worth the paper they’d be written on even if they did have birth certificates. And get that front step painted red, it’ll look better.’

She left them to get on with their meal. In his own language, Santosh said, ‘There is much strength and joy in the little woman.’

And Hamida replied, ‘There is also much of her god. We have a fine English friend and I love her.’

‘So do I.’ He grinned broadly, then, in a fair imitation of Rachel’s Boltonese, he said, ‘Don’t forget her poppy-dum!’

Arthur Bottomley stared at his pretty fiancée. It was still unofficial, because she wouldn’t yet allow him to buy her a ring, but he was getting near to pressing her for a fixed date. At least, he had been getting near. But now . . . ‘Do they have to come?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Course they’re coming. They’re my friends, best neighbours I ever had. I mean, look at me with that chest cold. Hamida was in and out like I don’t know what, fetching me potions and poultices. She cured me, didn’t she? If I get married, they’ll be there.’

He shook his large head. ‘In all that fancy palaver they wear? Whatever will the priest think?’

‘He can think what he wants, look at the soft frock he has to put on! I mean, would it be the same if Santosh and Hamida were Jewish? Would you still want them kept away? Or wouldn’t it matter because Jews are not particularly visible? Come on, Arthur, I never thought I was considering marrying a man with prejudices.’ She folded her tiny hands and looked hard at him. ‘They’re my friends,’ she repeated stubbornly.

‘Oh Rachel!’ She was under his skin and she knew it! And he knew that she knew it! Lovely red hair streaked with silver that was near to platinum, large grey-green eyes, skin that had defied time . . . ‘Have it your own way, then,’ he sighed finally.

‘I’m not so sure that I shall have it any way, Arthur Bottomley. This has come as a great shock to me.’

‘Well, look at it from my point of view. There’ll be Chamber of Trade there, happen the odd councillor – I am a man of standing. You don’t run the biggest ironmonger’s in Bolton without becoming a man of standing.’

‘I dare say. And I’m a woman of standing too, and I’m standing my ground. I want Santosh and Hamida there; if she wasn’t a Hindu or whatever they call it, I’d ask her to be my matron of honour. Still, that would be pushing Katherine’s nose out, wouldn’t it?’

‘Have you told that daughter of yours yet?’

She sniffed in a significant way. ‘No, I haven’t, ’cos there’s nowt to tell. And there won’t be either if you carry on about Indians at my wedding. I am very bigoted against bigots, Arthur. You might not be the right man for me after all.’ He was, but she didn’t need to let him know that. This piece of small-mindedness was just a tiny flaw; he was generous of spirit in spite of his concern about what people might think. ‘Happen you should marry someone nearer your first wife, somebody who does as she’s told.’

His head dropped. ‘My Emily never did as she was told, Rachel. If she had, she wouldn’t have died so young, she’d have looked after herself proper. Aye, and I might have had a son to carry on in the business after me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He smiled at her. ‘Nay, I’m the one that’s sorry, lass. Poor little devil, you are, marrying a crusty old crab like me. I’m set in me ways, see? And there’s all this talk about immigrants . . .’ He raised his shoulders in a gesture of despair.

‘What talk?’

‘Well, they’re getting pitches on Bolton market, selling stockings with no feet in them, making a bad name for other traders.’

‘Really? Well, you just listen to me, Mr Bottomley. If you want me helping on your market stall, don’t you be talking like that. It’s not that long since we had a war, and there was a million black marketeers selling bad stuff, every last one of them an Englishman. So put that with your Virginia and smoke it. I will not be told who to like. And stop tarring everybody with the same brush. And while we’re on about it, you can see to getting Santosh a proper job, summat away from the mill.’

‘But I . . .’

‘Never mind “but I”. Just do it. Get him set up as a clerk or one of them others as works in an accounting shop, same as an apprentice. He’ll not be mithered if they treat him as a starter, there’s no false pride in him. I want him out of that factory. Sharpish!’

‘Yes, miss. You should have been the teacher, not your daughter.’

‘I know that. But education was a luxury in our day and age, as you well know. So, are we having this wedding, or what?’

‘We’re having it.’

‘And Hamida can come in her sari?’

‘Course she can, you daft duck.’

‘Right, then. Give us a kiss, then put that kettle on, I’m fair clemmed. Then I’ll have to go and see our Katherine. I won’t do nothing without her blessing, even if she is a mess herself at the moment.’

‘OK, OK, keep your shirt on.’

‘Don’t you worry, I will. I shan’t even take me coat off, not till I’ve got me wedding ring!’

Kate opened her back door a fraction ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, you daft bat! Let me in, I’m fair witchered.’ Rachel dragged her dripping umbrella into the kitchen and stood it in the sink.

‘I’ve been thinking about “witchered”,’ mused Kate as she cast an eye over her bedraggled mother. ‘That and a few other Boltonisms. Witchered probably comes from “wet shod”. If you say wet shod quickly, it comes out as witchered.’

‘It’ll come out as a case of double blinking pneumonia if you don’t shape, girl. What’s got into you at all?’ She glanced round. ‘Not a bad kitchen, but hardly up to Beech Gardens’ standards, eh? What’s up them stairs?’

‘Another flat, I’m not allowed up there. This side of the house was servants’ quarters – see the bell discs over the door? When the gentry rang for service, a little marker dropped to show the maids which room. Come through, I’ll switch the fire on.’

Rachel steamed gently in front of the electric elements while Kate made coffee. It was a lovely room, and Kate had added little touches of her own; pictures, posters, a Paisley shawl draped across a worn chair. On the wall over the bed hung a huge collage made up of photographs of Melanie, some taken recently, others going right back to babyhood.

In the alcove below the window stood a table on which rested a large pad of art paper, ink, pens and brushes. A completed cartoon of Boothroyd in all his colourful glory was propped against a table leg. ‘What’s that for?’ asked Rachel.

‘What’s what for?’

‘All this here paper and stuff.’

Kate shrugged. ‘Oh, that, it’s KAZ at work, I suppose. KAZ is my cartoon name, the name I draw under. It’s Katherine Anne Saunders, only I changed the S to a Z. The duck, or rather the drake, is called Boothroyd. His son puts in an appearance in
Boys’ Laughs
from time to time.’

Rachel swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘You’ve been . . . published?’

‘Well . . . yes. I’ve been doing it for a year or so now.’

‘I see.’ The short spine straightened in indignation. ‘And you never bothered to tell me, of course.’

‘Oh, Mother! I didn’t want to tell anyone. I mean, who’s going to brag about having a strip in a comic? I didn’t want to say anything until Boothroyd Senior got off the ground, and that hasn’t happened yet. There’s a new national starting up soon, the
Mercury
, and the editor’s interested in a daily cartoon. Political stuff. No words, or very few words. Just Boothroyd being the government or whoever. I’ve sent some samples in and I’m waiting . . .’

‘Well! Aren’t I always the last to find out? Now I’ll have to order
Boy’s Laughs
every week just to see what my daughter’s up to.’

‘Mother!’

‘What?’

‘Shut up!’

‘That’s very nice, I must say. Here I am, taking a normal interest in your doings and you tell me to shut up.’

‘Well.’ Kate bowed her head. ‘I don’t want any interference or advice. I’m streamlining my life.’

‘I can see that. No washing machine, no fridge . . .’

‘I manage.’

‘Aye, I suppose you do. Any problems? Has he found you yet?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed. Anyway, he knows where I work. If there’s a problem with Melanie, he can always phone school, or he can contact me through you.’

Rachel placed her cup on a small table and studied her daughter covertly. She seemed slightly ill at ease, as if she had something on her mind. But then she probably did have more than enough to think about. Leaving home was not an easy thing to do, Rachel knew all about that. ‘Do you worry about her?’

‘Silly question, Mam. Of course I worry about her. You don’t give birth to someone without fretting over them forever.’

‘Ooh! Listen who’s talking! To use my own mother’s words, you have had the heart scalded out of me every minute since the day you were born. Not that it finishes there, mind. You still get a lot of worry over grandchildren. I hope that blinking Dora isn’t turning our Melanie as potty as herself.’

‘Mel has a lot of good sense in her head.’

‘She’s spoiled rotten.’

‘I know. But brains will out in the end.’ Kate lowered herself into the Paisley-shawled chair. ‘Well? What brings you out at half past four on a wet Wednesday? Are you on your way to somewhere?’