The House of Hidden Mothers (11 page)

‘I mean, I know she thinks I'm not … I mean, if she wanted me to be more Indian, why hasn't she taken me to India? Kept me in touch with family there? Why didn't she teach me Hindi? I only know a few Hindu prayers because of Nanima, not her! If she thinks I'm … inauthentic, it's mainly her fault, isn't it?'

Lydia might have privately agreed with Tara, but she felt unqualified to mine this particular cultural seam. Jewish issues she could do – most of the people who had trained her were Jewish and she thought she had a handle on the guilt-mother-communal-trauma-heritage stuff. But this, this was her friend whom she loved, and her friend's daughter, who was suffering, and she felt torn and compromised. Maybe now was the time to put that right.

‘I'm confused, Shyams, because you say you want a baby, you say you've ruled out adoption, yet you're still going ahead with … What? Something. And Tara's still not part of this massive decision. Shouldn't she be?'

‘Lyd, I have spent the last twenty years putting Tara first. I gave up my job for her for years, I put up with a shitty marriage for her for years. I went without so much so she could have the kind of education my parents couldn't afford for me. I may not have done the best job with her, but I did
my
best.'

‘Right. So, honestly, do you think that possibly you want a baby because you're hoping to do a better job with the next one?'

Shyama thought she must have misheard, but Lydia's steady gaze confirmed what she had just said. Now she remembered why they had stopped taking holidays together – because there was always a point where Lydia's heavy social drinking tipped over to sullen, determined self-destruction, a point where kind, measured Lydia turned into a viper-tongued virago, lashing out at anyone nearby, but mostly at herself. Ken had seen his wife through two stints of rehab and her adoring clientele knew nothing of her bouts of self-medication. And Lydia's friends kept a quiet eye on their social boozing and prepared themselves for the occasional bouts of drink-and-dial she would inflict upon them during the early hours of some endless night. But it meant she stood on shaky ground when she decided to tell her nearest and dearest exactly how they were screwing up their lives.

Shyama became aware of her own accelerated breathing, and she briefly wondered whether beneath the fury simmered a layer of skin-prickling shame.

‘Well.' She finally found her voice. ‘Thanks for the free session. Just glad I caught you sober.' She paused at the kitchen counter. ‘I've been talking it through with Priya anyway, and it was her idea. We're going to find a surrogate.'

The sound of Lydia's cup smashing into the sink coincided nicely with the slamming of the door.

Shyama was still shaky when she parked in her usual space on the forecourt of Bhupinder's Khalsa Stores and hurried past the shopfronts with their wares displayed outside: iridescent garlands of bangles; boxes of sparkly stick-on bindis, including the triple-layered Big Macs, as Tara called them; food stalls offering up cones of buttered lemon-tanged sweetcorn and plastic tumblers of freshly crushed sugar-cane juice; hardware stores stocking appliances you would only find in this part of town: circular metal spice boxes with snugly fitting little pots inside them, one for each masala; grainy black griddles, slightly curved to give breath to every chapatti; an orgy of Tupperware, because there's no such thing as a leftover; a cornucopia of serving dishes and novelty-shaped plates with different compartments for various nibbles; alarm clocks that sang out the call to Allah; mini elephant-headed Ganesh gods to stick on your dashboard (double insurance in case of accident); holy threads and bootleg Bollywood, and every staple half the price of the supermarket.

The pavements were already thronged with shoppers. Five years ago this area had been considered a no-go ghetto; now it had been repackaged as a vibrant pocket of London's multicultural heritage, with the help of some strategically placed murals – mosaic elephants always went down well – and a glossy leaflet urging visitors to ‘Follow the Spice Trail!' which led them to the doors of the businesses that had paid for the leaflet in the first place. But nevertheless, it had worked and Shyama was grateful for it.

She still felt that nudge of pride as she rounded the bend and saw the distinctive red-and-gold logo of the Surya Beauty Salon like a beacon up ahead. The business –
her
business – was doing well, although it had been a huge risk, investing what little savings she had left after the divorce in a new venture. But she had seen what other places were charging for traditional treatments such as threading and sugaring and knew she could undercut them, if only she could find the right location. And it had come up: a former chemist's right here in Little India, as the area was now called in various tourist guides trying to big up East London and its many attractions. She had found the right staff – young women from India who wanted to make some real money on a short visa, who worked hard, knew their stuff and were so fast they could have threaded a gorilla in under ten minutes.

She paused at the large picture window, taking a moment to watch her staff work their magic on the row of customers seated in their leather chairs, their faces tilted to offer up an eyebrow or an upper lip. Beside them, the girls held their thread between their teeth and one finger, heads bobbing like chickens as they expertly found each rogue hair, trapped it between twisted thread and yanked it out by the root. Their skill, coupled with the reasonable prices, now brought all kinds of women through the salon's frosted-glass door. The Indian girls were training up other young women Shyama had found locally – she liked the mix of
desis
and homies. Her workplace was a noisy female retreat where a woman could walk in wearing the stubble of the world and walk out feeling like a million rupees. Thank God for my hairy sisters, Shyama thought as she pushed open the door.

Shyama knew Priya was in the salon as soon as she walked in. From one of the cubicles at the back came the sound of furious expletives, inconveniently raising the eyebrows of all the women sitting in their soft leather chairs, whose threaders had to pause at every ‘Shit!' and ‘Bollocks!' that shattered their concentration.

‘How far gone is she?' Shyama muttered to Gita as she hurriedly removed her coat and flung it over the stand near the reception desk.

‘I think just half a leg left,' Gita whispered, her index fingers still wound round with thread as her customer sat patiently, a palm placed on either side of her eye socket, stretching the skin in preparation. Gita fired something off in Hindi and a few of the other girls giggled companionably. They could have been sisters, her employees, these round-faced, sloe-eyed women, all with long tied-back hair, neat centre partings and a tiny red bindi nestling between their perfectly shaped eyebrows. They all wore short white Nehru-style jackets over their own shalwar kameezes, saris and jeans – no logo other than a small embroidered sun over the breast pocket. Surya had been Shyama's first choice of name when she knew she was carrying a girl. She liked the idea of calling her daughter after the sun itself, a child full of light, warmth and fiery goodness. But her husband had vetoed it, wanting something more ‘user-friendly'. After an emergency Caesarian, a blood transfusion and liberal doses of morphine, Shyama would have said yes to anything. But she had compensated for her own missed opportunity by naming her salon Surya, thus proving Tara's pointed observation that her business was the child she'd always wanted.

Shyama roamed a practised eye over the room as she made her way towards the treatment cubicles at the rear, from where Priya's swearing had now subsided to a generalized sort of wounded moo-ing. She smiled apologetically at the regulars who were in varying stages of treatments: women mummified under thickly caked face masks, or turbanned in towels like patient Nefertitis.

Gita tapped her on the shoulder gently, a spool of thread in one hand, a thin folder in the other. ‘
Didi?
That info you wanted on the Moroccan argan-oil products?'

After so long together, Gita still never called Shyama by her name, only ever addressing her as
didi
, respected elder sister, a habit Shyama found touching and ageing all at once. The bond they shared went beyond that of a boss and employee; they had met when Gita had come in one day all those many years ago for a leg wax. Despite Gita's careful efforts to conceal them as she undressed, Shyama had spotted straight away the bruises mottling her thighs and wrists. She was as frail as a bird, all thin-boned and hunched against the gale of her husband's daily abuse. Having just been through her own divorce, Shyama found it impossible not to listen, then advise and finally encourage her to escape the marriage that was erasing her. As is so often the case, the main reason Gita stayed and endured was money: she couldn't afford to leave her husband. Not until Shyama offered her a job, and found beneath the droopy feathers a skeleton of steel and a ferociously loyal heart.

And then, gradually, word must have been spread by Gita amongst her network of friends and their acquaintances, because women started to trickle in looking for something more than a threading. Maybe seeing that Shyama had been able to walk away from her own marriage without becoming a crack-whore or being struck by lightning had provided the nudge these other unhappily married women needed to flee theirs. Customers would call her over and enquire in hushed tones if she could recommend a cheap counsellor or a good lawyer or, in more extreme cases, a nearby refuge where they could take their children. Who would have thought there were so many of them? Amongst all the plucking and preening, so much suppressed sorrow, so much anger or regret or just never-before-asked questions, which came to the surface in that space where women finally stop and breathe while their hair gets washed and their scalps get massaged and their faces are treated with gentle respect. Maybe the very act of beautifying themselves made them think, who is this for? For someone who has not seen my worth for many years? For myself? How can I justify spending money on apricot scrubs and French manicures when I willingly lay my face in the dirt as soon as he walks through the door?

Shyama had felt powerful in her role as beautician/confidante, it suited her aggressively self-sufficient lifestyle at this single-and-proud stage in her life. Now, looking into Gita's placid eyes, she wondered what her reaction would be when she found out what her
didi
was planning next.

Shyama smiled her thanks at Gita, hurried to the last cubicle at the back of the salon and knocked gently before entering. Priya lay spreadeagled in matching lacy underwear as Neha disposed of a heap of pink wax strips, each one furred with small black hairs.

‘She's evil!' Priya moaned, raising a shaky finger towards Neha. ‘I think she drew blood this time.'

Flipping the pedal bin expertly with a dainty foot, Neha rolled her eyes. ‘You're worse than the kids who get their ears pierced! Next time I'm gonna give you a lollipop to shut you up!' Neha's cockney glottals, mingled with a Punjabi twang, always caught Shyama by surprise, so at odds were they with her serene classical beauty. ‘God knows how you had kids, innit?'

‘Darling girl,' purred Priya, running her fingers over her baby-smooth legs, ‘that's what drugs are for. For our next session I may just book an epidural.'

Priya reached into her mammoth handbag, unpeeled a note from a whole roll and handed it to Neha, who snatched it appreciatively before bustling off to her next client.

Priya lay back on the treatment couch and stretched lazily. ‘It's bloody agony, but I feel so clean afterwards. What's the face for?'

Shyama hadn't been aware she was scowling. The sight of Priya's perfectly toned body didn't help her mood. She was all honeyed limbs and gym-honed muscle, the only imperfection the barely visible Caesarian scar curved like a rueful smile just below her navel. Shyama herself had always rather regretted that she had ended up not giving birth naturally; certainly her NCT teacher had made a point of congratulating all the mummies who'd managed to squeeze their babies out without medical intervention. All she said to Shyama was, ‘Never mind. Next time, eh?' According to Priya, both her kids had needed emergency Caesarians – ‘One was stuck and the other was just bloody lazy!' – though Shyama suspected the real emergency had been Priya's panic at the thought of having a vaginal cavity as big as a bucket. ‘Too Punjabi Princess to push' should have been written on her admittance form.

‘I've just had a bit of a row with Lyd,' Shyama muttered, nudging Priya sideways so she could slump on to the couch beside her.

‘Ah, told you she wouldn't take it well.' Priya sighed. ‘What did she say about the surrogate idea?'

‘I don't know, didn't give her a chance. She said … she implied … doesn't matter. Didn't know she could be that mean without alcohol.'

‘I hope you didn't say that. Shyama?'

‘I can't stand it when women judge other women, when they should know, more than anyone else, how bloody hard it is!'

‘Have you forgotten already?' Priya stifled a yawn. ‘Who gave you the hardest time after you split up with Shiv? You thought it would be your dad's weirdy-beardy mates, shouting for you to shave your head and padlock your pants.'

‘I'm sure some of them were thinking it.'

‘But the ones who actually said it to your face? Their wives, right?'

‘Not exactly. It was just … they didn't know what to do with me. Divorced single mother, the first in their circle. I think they were worried it might be infectious.'

‘How times have changed, sweetie!' Priya laughed. ‘I think you started a trend.'

‘I remember once going to this party with Mum and Dad. It was only a few months after he'd moved out, and the hosts were so embarrassed at having to find a single place at the dinner table, they actually put me in the TV room with the teenagers and kids, with a tray on my lap.'