The Cambridge Curry Club (5 page)

‘Look, girls, how is it that all the manky trousers and tweed caps in England land up at Lady Di’s posh shop only? The more she wants to impress her friends, the more rubbish we get. Funny smell in here.’ Heera sniffed. ‘Smells like cat pooh.’ She thrust her hand into the bag. ‘It
is
cat pooh!’

Swarnakumari wailed. Heera dragged the offending bag away and commanded, ‘Give me your soap
dispenser
, Swarna!’

Swarnakumari removed it with reluctance from her handbag. ‘I will also go and wash my hands,’ she said. ‘Dirty, dirty shop. Much better for me to go and help in the old people’s ward at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. When I see those poor helpless people I tell myself, I am not staying in Cambridge when I am old, but Your Uncle has got so used to life here, he likes this English law and order. Just the other day he showed me the Cambridgeshire County Council blue library van. It had stopped outside old people’s flats so that elderly people could climb into the van to borrow books. Your Uncle told me so proudly, “See, Swarna, this is why I like this country. I can see where my tax money is going.” No, Your Uncle will not leave England.’

At the precise moment when Heera marched towards the telephone to do battle with her employer, ‘Your Uncle’ folded away his newspaper. Two hours earlier, Mr
Chatterjee had embarked upon his daily trek to the newsagent next to the Methodist Church, bought his Bengali newspaper and savoured the headlines. As he walked away from the till, he sneaked a ritual glance at the covers of the girlie magazines that Mr Patel, a
family
man, placed on the highest shelf and always upside down.

Peering sideways, Mr Chatterjee wondered about Newton’s law of gravitation and whether the falling apple could ever have remained suspended in mid-air.

CHAPTER FOUR

All cats are grey in the dark

M
R
C
HATTERJEE TWITCHED
the net curtains at the bay window of his semi-detached home and peered
outside
. It was 8.13 a.m., and as always, Mondays to
Fridays
, the woman emerged, wheeling her bicycle out of her doorway. A freckled toddler sat stoically on the child seat, and the woman bent over the strap,
displaying
exposed breasts to an expectant Mr Chatterjee. With a flash of black fishnet tights and the twirl of her skirt, she was gone.

Every weekday morning, the sight of the woman was as wholesome as a portion of tropical fruit in a breakfast of toast, juice and tea. Growing up as a boy in Calcutta, as the city of Kolkata was then known, he had been accustomed to the British legacy of thick white bread, and as a creature of unswerving habit he rejected
new-fangled
wholemeal, wheatgerm, organic, rye, poppy seed and barleyseed varieties. The white slice emerged every morning, lightly browned from the toaster. The popping sound soothed his waiting ears, and, thick and respectable, the bread stared up at him from the white and green patterned Johnson Brothers plate, waiting for the corners and edges to be carefully buttered.
Thin-cut marmalade came next, followed by a single slice of mild Cheddar cheese and his cup of Earl Grey; not for him the nostalgia-inducing vapours of ginger tea laced with cardamom.

Mr Chatterjee was a man of method, and order his only god and guru, although he dutifully accompanied Swarnakumari once a year to the Bengali community’s Durga Puja celebrations in London. Mr Chatterjee
surveyed
his household with pride; everything was in its place, and all the clocks obeyed the same master, as did the weeds.

He had perfected a daily regime that started with the head, not the heart. Every Saturday he vigorously
massaged
coconut oil into his receding hairline. The oil seeped into every corner of his being, soothing away self-doubt and dandruff. It coated every thirsty, curious hair until it lay down satiated and limp. Yoga face
massage
followed, as he slowly pinched his sallow forehead, cheeks and nose to nervous life.

On Thursdays he walked from his neat front lawn to the Rock Road Library, reading the newspapers there for hours. Mr Chatterjee followed British politics closely, and was informed, if conservative in his views. On Wednesdays he strolled to the city centre and spent the afternoon at Heffers, Waterstone’s and Borders, often browsing through the old books outside the Fisher Hall. Once a month he accompanied
Swarnakumari
to the Sainsbury’s at the Coldhams Lane
roundabout
, and every Tuesday he drove her in their white Vauxhall to the local Tesco at Fulbourn. The trolley always carried the same brand of soap, detergent, juice, cornflakes and honey.

On Mondays he wrote letters of complaint to the
local authorities and sent readers’ views to the newspapers. He always wrote each note in a neat, rounded hand with a blue Parker fountain pen.
Respected Sir/Madam
, he would begin, drawing attention to the overflowing bin in the park, the litter left by
school-children
walking on Queen Edith’s Way and the pupils smoking in the quiet lanes.

He wrote to the heads of various schools, accusing them of moral turpitude. In his view, despite their school uniform, their female pupils looked like young women of dubious character. He listed a number of suggestions: skirt lengths well below the knee,
stockings
thick and opaque, shoes flat and sensible and the hair neatly tied back with school ribbon. No
cosmetics
or jewellery, nor smoking in uniform or ‘
mingling
’ between boys and girls outside the school gates.

Overhanging boughs on Trumpington Road were a danger to cyclists and walkers, he wrote to the City Council, and the bus service down Queen Edith’s Way was disappointingly irregular.

Peering through the net curtains, he hurried to the door. Habituated to Mr Chatterjee’s simmering excitement, the postman ceremoniously handed him the post on an imaginary silver salver. The sight of the buff envelopes filled Mr Chatterjee with nervous
suspense
; he opened each letter with care. Those from the Inland Revenue were sharp and advisory, others from the credit-card companies and retail outlets
relentlessly
unforgiving. It was the latest stern summons from the DVLA local office for repeated road offences that captured his attention. He penned an immediate response:

Despite his failure to convince the DVLA and other authorities of the misdeeds of the elusive Langley Tonner, Mr Chatterjee had engineered a more recent coup of which he was proud. New kitchen units had been ordered from a leading local DIY firm; they were delivered with five items missing, including the new sink tap. Incensed, Mr Chatterjee telephoned the company.

The girl at the other end loved her vowels less than her nail extensions, but he understood that Customer Services could do nothing, for Customer Services was not the same as Sales, and Sales Orders were at a Norwich number. After listening to Vivaldi’s
Primavera
four times, he was transferred to a queue with Westlife easing the pain. Sales had little contact with the factory near Basingstoke that delivered the items, and the
factory
recommended he try Customer Services instead.

Mr. Chatterjee wrote an irate letter to the company director, sealed the envelope and carried it to the post office, where the friendly woman recommended ‘recorded delivery’. His further purchase of a weekly stamp booklet was a secret indulgence, producing the excitement generated in lesser beings by a lottery ticket.

Seventy-two hours later, the missing units had arrived safely, although Customer Services had been unable to specify a time of delivery.

Mr Chatterjee took the new items of unsolicited mail to his garage with an air of quiet achievement. Tying a fresh bundle, he placed it on the existing stack. It was thirty inches high and consisted of five hundred and seventy-one letters and leaflets and brochures, weighing sixty ounces. Ever since he had heard of a retired
gentleman whose photograph had appeared in the
Daily Mail
displaying seventy ounces of junk mail, Mr Chatterjee had been determined to compete,
ambitiously
setting his sights on a two-year record.
Swarnakumari
never visited the garage, and it was yet another of her husband’s secrets of which she was unaware.

Having completed the important business at hand, Mr Chatterjee turned to the
Victoria’s Secret
catalogue that arrived with regularity in the post, requested by the rascally Langley Tonner at Mr Chatterjee’s address. He stared at the bold eyes of the models on the pages, their flirty posture as they slung their fingers casually over a bare hip or a bikini strap, bronzed bodies sheathed in tiny garments of lace and crochet. He felt unease tinged with self-disgust meeting the gaze of the young girl with the golden beach skin. She looked fourteen.

Shortly after his retirement, Mr Chatterjee had begun to surf the Internet. Reluctantly discontinuing his subscription to the
National Geographic
, he now attempted to find material online on the tigers of the Sundarbans. His search for ‘wild animals’ led him directly to a website of girls clad in faux fur bikinis. Surprised but not unappreciative, Mr Chatterjee decided on further explorations with a click. He was confronted next by a
Teen Lusties
live video with free sound and chat, no credit card, no hidden charges, and was to regret his mistake once he was flooded with regular offers on
Beach Babes
and
Barely Legal
Sluts
along with guaranteed breast and penile enhancements. Puzzled over his automatic transfer to an
Asian Babes
Home Page, he was annnoyed that his ethnic origins had become public knowledge on the Internet. The
pneumatic images of a girl called ‘Shonali’ were
particularly
disturbing; the name sounded Bengali, and he wondered why an Indian girl would bring such shame upon her community. Disgusted, he resumed his search for a heater for Swarnakumari’s conservatory, which, in turn, led to a flood of intriguing adult inducements ensuing from the word ‘heat’.

World news occupied centre stage several times a day; he listened to the radio and watched television until the headlines were as familiar as a shloka or
mantra
. He hastened to share the information with
Banerjee
, who made clucking noises of disbelief, shaking his head at the evil in the world that had so narrowly missed Cambridge and the Banerjee and Chatterjee households. Together, they mourned the old days, each tragedy serving to highlight and underline their
present
wise life choices. Banerjee began listening to the news himself on his new digital radio, ahead by two additional bulletins while his friend took a nap. He was thus able to refer to items in the afternoon bulletin of which Mr Chatterjee was as yet unaware.

Mr Chatterjee took his constitutional twice a day; the benefits of regular exercise were balanced by the opportunity it provided as the Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordinator to observe his neighbours, their homes and their habits without embarrassment. Mr Chatterjee firmly believed that a Bengali man’s home was his castle, and he its commanding military officer. Mondays to Fridays, Swarnakumari served him macher jhol,
corchori
, posto, sukhto, macher tok, mutton kosa, begun baja, chingri macher malai curry, amer chutney, dal, chapattis and rice. On Friday evenings, he had a gin and tonic.

On Monday evenings he and Swarnakumari visited the Banerjees on Nightingale Avenue for a game of bridge. He drank malt with Gaurab Banerjee, who had made the mistake of nominating his wife the
commanding
military officer of his castle. A fiery woman with a stentorian voice, Mrs Banerjee always glared menacingly at her husband as he poured a second whisky and announced, ‘That is enough.’ At this,
Banerjee
would subside without protest into his leather sofa. Mr Chatterjee, who never had a second glass, watched the public humiliation of his friend with
disapproval
; a woman should know her place, and if she did not – well, it was up to the man to firmly escort her there.

Gaurab Banerjee’s daughter Madhumita had married an Albanian classmate at Columbia University and now lived in San Ramon, California. That was like losing your daughter forever, thought Mr Chatterjee sadly; how often in a lifetime would and could the Banerjees meet Madhumita in San Ramon without the Albanian son-in-law in tow? At least, ventured Banerjee in
hesitant
defence, Heinz would learn Bengali. Madhumita had promised. Their children would have a fair
complexion
, he added.

The Albanian son-in-law from Tirana went by the name of Gjynejt. His parents called him ‘Gjelosh’, while his friends called him ‘Haxhi’. Madhumita called him ‘Ferrok’. Banerjee was bewildered. As
Gjynejt-Gjelosh
-Haxhi-Ferrok was addicted to ketchup, he had been nicknamed ‘Heinz’ by his American classmates. Banerjee was relieved. Heinz was a German or Austrian name; it could even be Swiss. It sounded respectably Western and European. San Ramon was full of Indians,
added Banerjee; there were plenty of temples and Indian restaurants all over California. The latest craze was for Chinese-Indian food, he said – spicy Chinese food with a touch of Punjabi. Mr Chatterjee shuddered.