No Place of Safety (10 page)

Downstairs in the hall Ben had just answered the phone.

‘Oh yes – Mrs Ingram. I know the name . . . and yes, I had heard of your concern . . . I assure you . . . Mrs Ingram, the police have been here, they have searched the place for drugs, and they're perfectly satisfied . . . I do think the police are the people best qualified to conduct a drugs search, don't you? . . .' (Ben's tone was impeccably diplomatic, and he managed to maintain it where other people might have let show that it was wearing thin. Up on the landing Mouse stirred, interested.) ‘I'm happy to talk to you any time, Mrs Ingram. I'm sure you support anything that helps the homeless, don't you? . . . But most of the people here have no home to go back to . . .'

Mouse had heard enough. He dived into his belongings, retrieved a package, and tucked it behind an old chest of drawers that stood by the wall of the landing. Then he struggled down the stairs, rucksack bumping on the bannisters, and as he passed Ben in the hall he aimed a vicious kick at his ankles, which he diverted at the last moment to
connect with the leg of the telephone table. It must have sounded like a shot at the other end.

‘Sorry, Mrs Ingram. Something fell over,' said Ben, as the front door banged. ‘You were saying?'

What Mrs Ingram was saying was that she thought she ought to come round to the – what was it called? – to the
Centre
to talk to him, that she couldn't say when that would be because she'd have to consult her diary, but it was probably best for her visit to be unprepared for, wasn't it, so that she could see the refuge as it
really
was . . .

It was all said in the manner of a school matron planning an unscheduled raid on the dorms. It was also vaguely insulting, though voiced with a blithe disregard for the implications of what she said. Ben was momentarily wrong-footed, failed to question what right she had to inspect or judge, and fell into some cliché about having ‘nothing to hide'. There was silence at the other end, which enabled him to right himself. He said: ‘I shall look forward to seeing you,' and put the phone down.

But he was worried. He stood for a few moments in the hall, thinking over the conversation he had just had. What if Mrs Ingram came while he was out, and talked to Alan or Katy? There was no teenager on earth capable of the tact and self-restraint that a sparring match with Mrs Ingram's type called for. He had known women like her all his life: single-minded, persistent, but not very bright. If he was not mistaken the woman's whole endeavour would be for her own advantage or advancement – whether material, psychological or social. A phrase from his childhood schoolbooks came to his mind: ‘The creature hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright with it . . .' Keats, was it? He thought he had heard that destructively selfish purpose getting from the eyes to the voice in the conversation he had just had. And it was a voice he could have sworn he had heard somewhere before, or one very like it, though probably it was years and years ago. Ben's had been a picaresque life in his early years, and on his travels the pattern had been to leave people behind rather than take them with him.

‘No, not like that.' He heard Katy's clear, teenage voice
from the kitchen. He shook himself free of reminiscent thought and went through to find her trying to stop Simon carving up and throwing away most of the runner beans he was stringing. Simon himself did not show any sign of shame at his total lack of domestic skills, but when Katy tried to show him how to string them without ruining most of the bean itself, he suddenly said:

‘I can hoover.'

They were so surprised at him offering even the most trivial information about himself that they could not believe their ears.

‘I beg your pardon?' Kay said.

‘I can hoover. I always did the hoovering at home.'

‘Well,' said Ben, ‘why don't we set you on to giving the whole place a good hoovering over?'

Even he, so skilled in getting the right tone, was unable to keep a trace of false heartiness out of his voice. But when they got out the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in, Simon showed there was something he could use his bulk for: starting in the dining room he gave the place a thorough going-over, moving the furniture with ease, getting into corners, adjusting the suction for obdurate bits. Ben raised his eyebrows at Katy, and they smiled at each other: another problem solved.

 • • • 

‘Can I come in?'

Mr Haldalwa's reception of him at the front door had been far from friendly, but Charlie Peace was used to that. Flourishing his ID under his eyes and insisting that he read it had resulted in some modification of his hostility.

‘Of course, of course. You come through, Mr Peace.'

The hallway was wide. The semi that the Haldalwas lived in was large and distinctly upmarket: the part of Headingly they had chosen would certainly not have given them many Asian neighbours. It was a house of someone who was doing well in the world, or who had been doing well.

If he did not have Asian neighbours, he certainly had family. When Charlie was ushered into the living room he found, seated on armchairs and the chairs from the dining
table, ten or twelve people, the women in saris, most of the men in Western dress or a modified form of it. They all looked at him dark-eyed, saying nothing. This must be Midge's extended family. There were lots of things to be said in favour of the extended family, but at the moment Charlie couldn't think of any of them.

‘I was hoping for a word with you in private,' he said, turning to the head of the family.

‘You talk before these people. Are all family members. We here to talk family matters. No secrets here.'

‘Very well . . .' But it was difficult to frame the warning he wanted to give Mr Haldalwa before so many veiled, unwelcoming eyes. Charlie ignored the offer of a chair and stood, looking at Razaq Haldalwa alone. ‘Mr Haldalwa, I gather you made an attempt to bring your daughter Mehjabean back home by force yesterday. If you repeat that attempt you could be –
would
be – in very serious trouble. Let me spell that out: depending on what charge we decided to bring, you could be facing a considerable jail sentence. I hope I make myself clear?'

There was a moment's pause, then Mr Haldalwa spread out his hands ingratiatingly. He was not, Charlie guessed, a cruel or tyrannical man, merely one under pressure. But ingratiating himself was part of his way of life, and he naturally resorted to this mode in the present situation.

‘You're taking this too serious, Mr Peace, much too serious. This is just a little family dispute.'

‘That would make no difference to the charge.'

Mr Haldalwa rubbed his hands.

‘It's what they call a clash of cultures, eh? Different peoples, different ways of going about things. You must know that from your own life, Mr Peace.'

Charlie held him in his gaze.

‘If you mean that I think and react the same as if I'd been brought up in Jamaica, then you're wrong, Mr Haldalwa. I don't, because I was brought up in London. I relate more easily to other Londoners than I do to Jamaicans. And Mehjabean's been brought up in Leeds. Some of her ideas are your ideas, but a lot of them aren't.'

‘You know my daughter?'

‘I've talked with her.'

‘Is it wrong to expect a child to honour her parents?'

‘No.'

‘To follow her parents' wishes?'

‘Yes, it is, if they conflict with strong feelings of her own. Look – I'm not going to argue this clash of cultures thing with you, Mr Haldalwa, especially when I'm badly outnumbered. I'm only interested in the law, and seeing it's obeyed, right? And if you don't leave your daughter to sort out her own wishes and feelings, then you'll be in deep trouble.'

Mr Haldalwa shook his head.

‘You make too much of it, Mr Peace. I only wanted to talk to her. Tell her she was being silly, that I would never force her into a marriage that she didn't want.'

‘Hmmm. That wasn't what it sounded like.'

‘I tell you, is all at an end. Mr Siddiq, he withdrew. Mehjabean, she can go on with school and university.'

This was an item of news that was proffered very late in the conversation. Charlie mistrusted it.

‘All that you must work out with her. Perhaps you could find some third party to arbitrate. I wouldn't recommend her to come home before the situation is very, very clear. Meanwhile, if there is any attempt to force her back, force her into marriage, by
anyone
– ' he looked around the assembled family, particularly at the men, stern, blank-eyed – ‘then we will come down on that person very, very hard. I hope that is understood.'

There was silence – not a flicker of a response. As Charlie turned and made his way down the hallway he decided that he didn't know what effect those family members would have on Mehjabean, but by God they terrified him.

 • • • 

Ben had rather thought that Mrs Ingram would leave little time before paying the threatened visit. She had given the impression even over the phone of a woman who would not let the grass grow under her feet – or, to put it less politely, her voice suggested a woman who, once she had got an
idea, would charge ahead with it without thought of the consequences. Since she had also given the impression of being sophisticated yet unsubtle, he had to acquit her of any charge that she had deliberately chosen the worst possible time. Yet that, coincidentally, was when she came, on the evening of the day she had telephoned.

There had been a knock on the door at the end of supper. Rather expecting a Conservative lady, Laura Ashley in dress and bossy of manner, Ben, when he opened it, had been confronted by a fleshy Asian who seemed to be in an attitude of propitiation that did not come naturally to him.

‘Mr Marchant? Don't shut the door. There won't be no trouble from me. I just want a little word with Mehjabean.'

Ben stood four-square.

‘I'm afraid we have already had trouble with people who say they just want a word with Mehjabean.'

‘Her father very sorry about that. He's had a visit from a policeman and it won' happen again. This is different. I'm Mehmet Siddiq. Mehjabean may have told you my name. I want to tell her all this stuff is at an end. No more question of marriage. I withdraw. Is over.'

Ben nodded, standing his ground.

‘I see. Well, that's somethin' I can tell her – '

‘If I can just have a moment – tell her I'm sorry – '

But his voice and accent had penetrated through to the dining room where the Centre's residents were still sitting around after supper, and it was not difficult for them to guess that some further harassment of Midge was in the offing. First out into the hall was Zak with Pal, and both went to stand beside Ben.

‘You get away from here, you old fart. Midge don't want nowt to do wi' you.'

Pal's bark was not the bark of a watchdog or guard dog, but – infected by the general hostility – he did his best. By now the hallway was filling up with a motley and ragged army of defenders, and Mr Siddiq took a step backwards, down on to the front path, from where he had to look up at Ben and his supporters, putting him further at a disadvantage.

‘Look, I don' want trouble. You just tell Mehjabean – '

There was jeering from the hallway. Mr Siddiq turned, and as if on some theatrical cue there appeared at the gateway that Laura Ashley-clad figure that Ben had expected earlier, hands on the gate, looking at the scene with an expression of feigned shock and barely concealed pleasure. Mr Siddiq turned back to the faces opposing him.

‘You tell her. You tell her is all over.'

Then he brushed past Mrs Ingram and hurried towards his car. There was silence from the refuge. Visitor and visited looked at each other, neither attracted by the sight. When Alicia spoke it was in the hushed and carefully articulated tones that Mrs Thatcher used to use in interviews when she wanted to be most threatening.

‘Obviously I've come at an inconvenient time. I'll be back when things are more . . . normal.'

To Alan, standing behind Ben's shoulder and watching this second visitor also retreating to her car, there had been an oddity in the woman's words. She had paused before the final word, and if he'd merely heard her he would have thought she was searching for that last word. But looking at her as well she seemed to him to be momentarily nonplussed by something she had seen. Some
one
she had seen, perhaps? Presumably, therefore, someone standing in the doorway. As they stood there watching the billowing russet tints of her dress as she opened her car door, the telephone rang.

‘Right – battle's over!' said Ben, shooing them out of the hall and taking up the handset. It was Charlie Peace.

‘Mr Marchant? I thought I'd tell you I've been to talk to Mr Haldalwa.'

‘I know.'

‘Oh? Has he rung you or been round?'

‘No, the suitor has.'

‘I see . . .' Ben could sense Charlie considering the implications of this. ‘Was it a friendly visit?'

‘Yes. At least on the surface. He said he wanted to talk to Mehjabean.'

‘Did he?'

‘No. I said I'd give her a message.'

‘I think that was wise.'

‘Then things got rather out of hand. One or two – well, more actually – of the residents came into the hall, and there was some hostility.'

‘A fight?'

‘Oh no, nothing like that.'

‘Then I shouldn't worry too much. I presume he wanted to assure her that she could go back and live with her family.'

‘That seemed to be the message. That the marriage was off.'

‘Yes, that was the message I was given. I don't know whether I believe it. What are you going to advise her?'

‘I don't advise. But we'll talk it over. I don't see any need to rush things myself.'