The House of Hidden Mothers (46 page)

‘Oy! Stop kicking me, little pony!' she laughed at him, and then stopped herself. She kept forgetting: she shouldn't do this. Eat well, rest, think happy thoughts, yes. But not this: not the chit-chat in the nights, because he woke up and wanted to play whenever she lay down. She knew exactly where his body lay: there was his funny foot under her rib, his naughty knee in her side. He did circus tricks, little monkey somersaults and tumbles as she watched her stomach ripple and dip with each move, cheeky show-off. Just because he ate what she ate, pissed with her, laughed with her, missed the smell of ploughed fields with her, made her jump when he got hiccups, made her wince when he turned over, fed on her blood and her breath, that didn't mean he was hers. I am just your safe house until you hatch, little chick, Mala crooned to him. She tried her best not to make it sound like a song.

Toby sahib was taking it badly. He came and went like a ghost – a very rude ghost, as it happens – leaving a room and banging the door only a minute after she entered it. Most nights he would remain in his room, Skyping India or on his computer, the tap tap tap like the parrots pecking up the seeds on her windowsill. Now they knew where to come, they never left her alone. The ledge outside her room was caked in birdshit, and they squabbled in furious feathery clouds. Even the novelty of finding their discarded emerald feathers wore off when she realized that within a day the shimmering green dulled to a flat lifeless brown.

Mala and Toby still ate together – he still wolfed down anything she put in front of him – but it wasn't the same without Prem, Sita and Tara all there, chattering away. He reminded her of her husband, the way he ate with his arm around the plate, protecting it as if someone was going to take it away; no conversation, just eat, burp, go.

She knew why. The empty space in the house that was Shyama-shaped was a force field between them, and yet he looked at her all the time when he thought she wasn't watching him.
Chalo
, that was exactly like her husband in those long-ago days when she wondered why he stared and didn't touch. It had meant something then, because she had been his wife. But this time, how could she know what to do when she didn't know what she was to him? She carried his son, not through an act of love, but for money. The child lived in her and yet had nothing of her – half Toby's, half some other woman's. Although she had more claim to the baby than Shyama did – there was nothing of her in the boy. But I am in this kitchen and she isn't here. I am feeding this man and carrying his child, and she isn't here. And he has stopped being kind to me because she isn't here. All these thoughts jumbled through Mala's head as she washed saucepans and rinsed dishes. She dropped the dishcloth on the floor, bent without thinking to retrieve it and gasped as a sharp pain jabbed at her side.

Toby sahib was next to her, quick as a flash. ‘Mala?' He sounded panicked.

‘It's OK. I will sit …'

Toby led Mala to a chair, rinsed the dishcloth and began finishing off the clearing-up. ‘I'm sorry, you shouldn't be doing this. My mind's been … No more housework, OK?' He handed her a glass of water and paused before asking, ‘Mala … did you tidy up my clothes?'

Mala nodded, enjoying the cool moist glass between her hands. ‘It's not OK?'

‘Not really.' Toby fidgeted, this was horribly awkward. ‘They're my things. Personal, you know?'

‘Sorry. I get bored. That is all. No insult meant, Toby sahib.'

Toby immediately felt ashamed. She looked so small, hunched in the chair with that absurdly huge stomach in front of her. I did that, he thought, then shook his head to fling the crass observation away. What was the matter with him? He was either sneakily following her every move, spying on her because he couldn't stop wanting to look at her belly, to touch it, or he was ignoring the poor woman, punishing her for … what? He wasn't sure. When Shyama was here, he knew who they all were: the couple and their surrogate, Mummy and Daddy waiting for their employee to safely deliver their son. But since Shyama had gone, all the boundaries and definition had faded to nothing but watermarks. He was lost without one of the women. He was someone else with the other.

‘Toby sahib?'

‘Mala, for God's sake, how many times … how can you call me “sahib” when you're sitting there, looking like that? That's not an extra helping of pudding in there, that's a baby we made together, so please, please, drop the “sahib”. OK?'

In the silence that followed, a tap dripped like a pulse. They had both heard the word he had used. Together. They both decided to pretend that they hadn't.

‘OK, Toby, mate?'

They laughed in the manic way that everyone laughs when something unspeakable has just happened, over-compensatory guffaws, until Mala clutched her side again and Toby was next to her again. She waved him away, wiping tears from her eyes.

‘I must ask you one thing,' she said when they had both recovered enough to share a companionable cup of tea.

‘Anything,' Toby said expansively.

‘We are not going to buy something for the baby?'

‘Such as …?'

‘Only a few weeks away and we have nothing. Not for me, you understand, but maybe a bed for him? Some clothes? Just in case,
hena
?'

This floored Toby. That was much too soon. He wasn't ready. Shyama had emailed him the details of the private maternity unit in a large teaching hospital where the labour would take place. He had been there a few times now and had met and liked their obstetrician, Mr O'Connell, the tall Irish consultant with the kindly eyes and worryingly large hands. So he knew where to go if anything started happening, but that was about it. He had been to no antenatal classes, done no breathing exercises to pant along through the labour, had no idea whether she might like her back massaged or what kind of music she might want playing when Junior emerged into the world. The nearest he had come to research was watching a few episodes of a documentary series set in a maternity ward, which he had stumbled across while channel-hopping one evening. Shyama had watched one with him, sharing anecdotes about Tara's birth. ‘She's lucky– it took three goes to get my epidural in …'

Shyama got misty-eyed every time a baby was born, no matter whose it was. But then she wearied of watching what was effectively the same story over and over again with a different set of women each time. She had been through it, she had a history that Toby could never share with her, reminisce about. And now it was going to happen again, albeit in a slightly different way. He would not be able to stand around with other men, regaling each other with competitive expectant-dad stories: how her waters broke on a bus or in the back of the car as they got caught in traffic; how she swore and nearly broke his hand with every contraction; how long, how bloody long it had gone on for; how his first glimpse of his child had affected him – whether he cried or stared or fainted. It had been agreed ages ago that Shyama would be with Mala during labour – for her to have Toby watching her push and pant was obviously out of the question. They had also agreed that they wouldn't insist on a Caesarian, as so often happened in the surrogacy clinic; they wanted the baby to come when he was ready. And they hoped, if all went well and Mala agreed, that Toby would be called in to cut the cord – something he had done many times with livestock, as he had pointed out to Shyama.

‘Yes, but you have also lassoed animals in utero and yanked them out with a rope. Try not to do that with our baby, will you?'

That had made him laugh. Why the hell wasn't she here?

‘I wanted to buy all the nursery stuff with Shyama,' he said helplessly.

‘I understand. But when is she coming back? Do you know? It is just that … babies are not like trains. He can come whenever he wants to now.'

An hour later, Toby and Mala were walking around the same department store that Shyama had visited just a few weeks earlier. This time, the sales assistant – the one who had mistaken Shyama for a grandmother – handed them the New Parents' Checklist, and beamed.

‘Oh, not long for you two, by the look of it! When's your due date?'

‘December the fourteenth,' they both said together.

Alarmingly, the store had already started its Christmas season. It was busy, piped carols playing in the background as early-bird shoppers hovered around gift displays with furrowed brows, as if ticking off checklists in their heads. The baby section was an oasis of calm amist the chaos, the one department that did steady business all year round.

At that moment, Priya was heading for the ladies' loos, confident of a shorter queue in the baby section. She had already done her Christmas shopping, naturally: a pleasing blend of fun and educational presents for her children, Maya and Luka, and a surprise romantic four-day trip to Venice for Anil and herself just after New Year. She thought they needed some time away together: she had let things slip, they both had. She had just purchased some new underwear for the occasion, which lay folded in frothy layers in her bag. After spending so many years perfecting the art of seduction, maybe it was time she used some of her techniques on her husband. As she passed the first rails of Babygros and bootees, she wondered if it was time to buy something for Shyama's impending arrival. She had clucked her tongue at Shyama's insistence not to buy anything until the last minute – silly superstitions, she had her kids' nurseries designed and ready two months before their due dates. Anyway, surely it was OK now, and that hat with the baby-bear ears attached was to die for. Her phone rang, buzzing like a trapped bee inside her bag.

‘Lydia!' she exclaimed with pleasure. ‘Sorry about the other night. I hope I didn't keep you up …'

Priya had been busy photocopying and scanning various legal documents, following a call from Toby, whose printer had broken down. The papers all related to registering the baby as a surrogate birth in the UK and making Toby and Shyama the legal parents. It had taken a good hour to complete the task, emailing the papers to Shyama's lawyer and making hard copies for safety. So close to the birth, everything had to be ready: Shyama's panicked calls from India to both Toby and Priya had spurred them into action. As it happened, Lydia had been round at Priya's for supper whilst the rest of the family were at the cinema. They had intended to have a girlie catch-up; instead they spent most of the evening talking about their far-away friend and her complicated life as the printer hummed and regurgitated papers in the background.

‘So you haven't seen her at all since she came back with her baby mama?' Priya was astonished.

‘Only at the police station. I thought there would be some sort of … reunion then, given the circumstances, but …' Lydia sipped her cranberry juice.

‘Well, thank God that worked out OK. Can you imagine, her daughter in prison with everything else going on? You got her that amazing lawyer, didn't you? She didn't even thank you?'

‘She did,' Lydia admitted. ‘But since then, nothing.'

Lydia had been more hurt than she'd let on. She was hoping that once the baby arrived, once the worry and waiting were over, she and Shyama would find their way back to each other. Tara's occasional emails told her she was thriving in India. That girl had needed a reinvention, not an intervention, and maybe now her daughter was more at peace, Shyama would forgive Lydia, although she still wasn't sure if there had ever been anything concrete to forgive. It all seemed so long ago.

‘Lyd, I'm in Mallinson's baby section … want me to pick up something on your behalf for the kid? Can I send you a picture of this adorable hat? … Shit.'

On the other end of the phone, Lydia heard heavy breathing; rustles and crackles popped in her ear. ‘Priya?'

‘Lyd … can you hear me?' Priya's voice was a whisper now, she sounded as if she was at the end of a wind tunnel.

‘Just about … what happened?'

‘They're here!'

‘Who?'

‘Oh my God … they're buying a bloody car seat … buggy … half the bloody shop!'

‘What are you—'

‘Toby! And her!'

‘Mala?'

‘Who else? Wandering round like a happy couple. This is
so
not right. I'm going to say something …'

‘Wait!' Lydia's tone was sharp enough to rein in Priya, who was now hovering behind a display of musical potties. ‘What can you say?'

There was a pause. Lydia could hear the faint strains of ‘Silent Night' in the background.

‘Shyama's not here, they need stuff,' Lydia eventually said.

‘I could have gone with Toby. I've had kids!'

‘Listen, I know it must look strange, but from what I understand from all those contracts you were printing out, once Mala has this baby she signs a piece of paper and then never has any contact again. Do you begrudge her choosing a couple of romper suits?'

‘Romper suits went out in the sixties,' Priya answered. And then, ‘I know what you're saying, Lyd, but you can't see them … Should I tell Shyama?'

‘No. What can she do from out there? Maybe she told them to go ahead and stock up. They've left it rather late already – maybe she knows.'

Priya would bet her entire designer shoe collection that she didn't.

Toby didn't even bother checking the total when he handed over his credit card. He was feverish with anticipation; every purchase brought his son closer to him: the tiny vests, the downy soft blankets, the pleasingly hi-tech rocker, the basket which sat on its own wooden cradle. Baby in a basket, like Moses. It was real. He was going to be a father and this was how fathers felt: complete, expansive, generous, a provider. Shyama had always outearned him, she probably always would, and whilst he appreciated and accepted her generosity (what choice did he have?) and tried to repay it with his support, practicality and muscle-power (yes, he took out the bins, he mended things, he ran errands for her parents), he also wanted to be the kind of man who could whip out a bit of plastic and buy whatever made his woman happy, without sneaking a horrified look at the receipt afterwards. The few times he had insisted on paying for a meal, a book Shyama had seen and admired or a pair of earrings she'd cooed over in passing, she had thanked him warmly and shown off her gift to her parents afterwards, and yet there had always been a slight awkwardness about the exchange, a sense of charade about it, as if they were playing roles in a badly written scene, because they both knew that the house they lived in, the food they ate, much of the life they shared, was only possible due to her, and had very little to do with him. Now Mala's happy face was radiating rapture, lit up like a lamp, eclipsing the decorations, all sparkle and shimmer.