Thicker Than Soup (20 page)

“And you liked him?” She couldn't grasp the idea of marrying a man she didn't know.

“I thought he was handsome. He was educated, and well mannered. I thought, yes, this man will give me a good life. It will be happy.” She gave a wry smile. “And it was the right decision at the time. To reject him would have saddened my parents very much, and anyway, there was no reason to do so. Sally, life is about compromise and understanding. Good family life comes from balancing the needs of everyone; it leads to happiness. When I was a girl my parents wanted me to be happy, which meant marrying and having children. My mother wasn't educated. She had no idea about study and university. I didn't question it. It wasn't an imposition; it was just growing up. And getting married wasn't an imposition either, it was what I expected and accepted.”

Sally baulked at Rachel's reasoning but she was beginning to understand it. “Your marriage to Daoud is a good marriage. It wasn't arranged. He was your own choice.”

Rachel's eyes twinkled. “We were wise and experienced enough to consider a second marriage for ourselves. But we sought our parents' approval.”

*

Over the coming days Sally mulled over Rachel's words and speculated how love, articulated like this, was meaningful. She and John had expressed love, but had only discussed it in an abstract way, seeing it as some ethereal quality that enriched their lives rather than providing worldly guidelines with which to shape their future. She'd never taken love far beyond the starry eyed, idyllic beliefs established in childhood and adolescence defined by romantic songs, literature and films. Boy meets girl, flaming passion, the rosy glow, the violins. And whilst rationally she knew this to be illusory, subconsciously she'd searched for the flame and finding it with John made it reality. But she'd been enticed by a false flame. If – was it only two and a half years ago – she'd had respect, compatibility, and mutual expectation in mind, and if…

‘If', her father had used to say, was a big word.

*

With Pazir and Karim's grandmother away, Sally had agreed to stay with the children until Arif returned from work, but with Sammy there, and his baby-talk Urdu already better than his English and easily understood by the other children, the English lesson deviated into Urdu again. “English please. I will only reply if you ask me in English!”

“My father will like too much my biriyani.” Pazir had laboriously translated the recipe in her neat handwriting. “But he is old fashioned,” she told Sally, “He cannot cook anything. I am going to write a cookery book for him.”

“Your father will like …” Sally prompted, and waited for Pazir to correct herself, then agreed to supervise the cooking. “You can teach me too, because I need to be taught the secrets of biryani, and Karim and Sammy can help.”

Sammy tried to climb on his mother's knee, insisting he too, could cook biriyani, but Pazir shook her head vigorously. “I can make the most delicious biriyani, but Karim and Sammy can't cook. Karim is a boy and Sammy, you're too small!”

“Nahin choti, larka barra!”

“In English, Sammy!” Karim laughed.

Consoling her son that he was indeed, not a baby but a big boy, Sally nodded her head at Pazir in mock agreement. “Yes, it is a problem. Boys cannot cook. And what happens? They grow into men who cannot cook either. You would think that someone should teach them before they become men, wouldn't you?”

Seeing the wisdom of Sally's words, Pazir agreed. “But they have to keep the secret of the biriyani,” she insisted.

“Sammy, it's the black bits we don't want. We eat the white bits.” Pazir scolded as Sammy's plump fingers scattered rice whilst Karim saw only amusement as peppercorns cascaded to the floor.

By the time Arif arrived home the kitchen had been cleaned and Sammy had been necessarily bathed. But the meal was ready and Arif's praise brought a rarely seen flush to Pazir's face. As Sally cleared the remains of the meal and the children settled in front of the TV she practiced Urdu on Arif, regaling him with tales of the cooking process. “You should have seen Karim grinding the spices,” she laughed, “they were flying everywhere and he sneezed so strongly that you'll be relieved to know we started again!”

Arif's laugh triggered his mild, nervous sounding cough and then he thanked her for staying late. “Please, stay, and take tea,” he invited and settling into a chair with her cup she prepared to enjoy his company. She'd noticed his hair was slightly longer and thought it suited him. Then she saw his solemn face and realised he had something to say, that this wasn't the sort of friendly chat they'd often had. She tensed. Were the children not making enough progress? Or were the lessons not sufficiently disciplined?

His voice, too, was serious. “I think you will be planning to leave us soon?”

“Yes.” She knew he was aware that she would soon be returning to England. “I'd like to have some time with Daniel and Yalda in Lahore before I go; perhaps my last two weeks.”

“You have been here now for almost four months.” She waited to hear what was on his mind. “The work has gone well; Pazir, especially, has improved her English, for which I thank you. You are good with my children and they like you too..er, very much.” He smoothed his hands along his trouser legs and coughed again. Sally waited. “You and I, Sally, we are similar in age.” The disparity went unchallenged as Sally pondered the personal comparison. “I admit that I am… a little older, but not so much. As you know, I am a widower. I am able to offer a good home, and I would be father to Sammy. And of course, as a doctor, am fortunate to have a stable and secure livelihood.” He stopped for a moment as if unsure of himself then took a deep breath. “Sally, I propose that we marry.”

Sally blinked. Had she heard correctly?

“This is not good form and I apologise. It would have been better if I had first spoken with your mother but that is not possible. I have spoken with your uncle, Daoud. He has not objected and says I must speak to you directly.” He paused, and then spoke less assuredly. “I am not sure of my words. Please forgive me.”

As a proposal, it both astounded and thrilled Sally. Irrationally, and shockingly, she thought he must somehow have known of her nocturnal fantasies. But he couldn't possibly have, and she focused on what he'd said. Yes, he was a widower. But so recently, only three months had passed. Her voice returned. “I'm flattered. But Faiza… It's too soon.”

He repeated himself. “It's because you plan to leave that I speak now.” Apologising if he had offended her, he assured her that marriage needn't take place until a more appropriate time, and reaffirmed it was her imminent departure that forced his untimely proposal.

But what of love? He hadn't mentioned love. During the months she'd been teaching the children there'd been no indication of regard, romantic or otherwise, and the proposal was coolly rational. Had he too, she wondered, been indulging in a hidden interest that might be deemed inappropriate? The thought brought a blush to her cheeks.

Arif spoke. “I do not expect an answer yet. Please take some time. You will have questions. My religion perhaps? Though many who marry into the faith convert, I would not ask it of you. It is not necessary. Though it is the tradition, The Quran asks only that a Muslim marries ‘people of the book'' which includes Christians – and Jews too. My faith is important to me, but I would not ask that of you; it is too important.” A white handkerchief appeared in his hand. “I know that your culture expects marriage to be a union of….,” he coughed, “hmm, of love. I believe this too. My marriage with Faiza was a good marriage. I learned to love her as she did me. I have a regard for you. And you are a beautiful woman. I will come to love you too.” He mopped his face with the handkerchief. “I would feel better if you could say something.”

Her hand trembled on the chair arm. “I….I'm…I don't know what to say. I'm flattered by your proposal, but my plans don't – didn't – include a future in Pakistan.” Her words sounded negative; she needed to think, to consider the impact of his suggestion on her and Sammy, on her family and friends, in England as well as in Pakistan. Her mother's voice told her, ‘It's a crazy idea! Are you mad?' yet she almost accepted because of its recklessness.

“I hope I have not offended you?”

“No. No, of course not. I'm just…a little surprised. I need to think.”

“Of course. I would prefer a considered response.”

The smile that crinkled his eyes and reflected his uncertainty was, Sally thought, incredibly attractive.

*

A hint of autumn chilled the night air but Sally refused a taxi, choosing instead to walk and rationalise her thoughts before she joined the others. It was an outrageous proposal, and she wondered how different it might have been if he'd known of her fantasies. An image of Arif, dropping passionately to one knee was a joke that Sally might have once shared with Diane, yet would shock Rachel.

Rachel's words came to her; respect, compatibility, mutual expectation; the foundations of marriage. And Arif's proposal suddenly made sense. It was carefully considered, as she might have prepared a proposal for the board, those many moons ago. But there were no violins and she wondered how much she needed them.

*

Over the coming week she tried to visualise life with Arif. He was calm and reliable; a rock to her uncertainties. But he was sombre. Humour was important; would they laugh together? He'd laughed at Karim's efforts with the spices, and their conversations had often been animated. His recent widowhood was good reason for solemnity, but a proposal, though serious, lent itself to hope and cheer. Didn't it? She wished her friend Diane was closer; she'd be calm, dispassionate, and honest. Rachel, she knew, could not be unbiased. And Daoud, as Arif's friend of many years, would find impartiality difficult. She had at times, imagined herself and Sammy living in Pakistan, but not seriously. Sammy had adapted to life in Pakistan very quickly, but what of his roots in England? And vague dreams of a man, even a husband, and perhaps another child had always been firmly set in England, with an interesting job and her mother. England was home, and Sammy's too. He might speak Urdu, but like her, he was English.

Would Arif accept her as a working wife? She couldn't be a housewife.

And what about the violins? Where were they?

And what of her mother? Sally swallowed. It would be painful for her mother, upsetting her deeply to have her daughter and grandson living so far away. She didn't travel much further than Hastings, and flying half-way across the world to visit her daughter would, Sally thought, never happen. If Pakistan was to become her home, she would have to travel to London at least once, if not twice every year.

But was her mother a reason to refuse a new life for herself and Sammy? Sammy was thriving in the company of aunts and uncles, and he loved Karim, and Rachel's twins too. And Pazir was already a big sister to him. He adored her. Earlier that day, when Sammy had slipped and fallen, it was Pazir who had tickled away his tears.

Sally tested new imaginings; Arif. Pazir and Karim. And Sammy. Here in Abbottabad. And she found it wasn't a bad picture. She'd discovered a family life here in Pakistan that she couldn't give Sammy in England. It was, she thought, time to look to the future.

The ceremony had already started when John crept into the back row of the Registery Office. Mouthing his thanks to a couple who let him pass along the row to an empty seat, he squinted into low autumn sunlight that painted enormous Georgian window patterns on the wooden floor and saw the sun-hazed backs of Diane and Malik who faced a narrow faced, bespectacled man. Malik was speaking, repeating words the man had said. “….why I, Malik Farmara Njai, may not be joined in matrimony…” He looked across rows of heads; there were more people than he'd expected. He scanned the rows; seven in front of him, six seats at each side, calculating that must be almost a hundred people present. He'd expected less with it being a Registery Office wedding. Two rows of hat-topped heads and suited shoulders lined the front right rows; Diane's family, he assumed, recognising her mother, half veiled in navy gauze. And a few rows behind, a row of women would be Diane's friends. He wondered if any of them were alone. The registrar was asking everyone to stand. He rose, then froze. The long dark hair. The red hat. The tilt of the head. Diane had told him that Sally and Sammy were in Pakistan! He gripped the back of the seat in front of him and released his breath. Leaning forward unobtrusively he tried to see, but she was partly obscured by others. Where, he wondered, was Sammy? Had she not brought him to the church? He swayed gently to the left then the right. He couldn't see a child. Was there a man? Women were at each side of her. He puzzled why Diane or Malik hadn't told him. What were they thinking of? He looked back along the row he'd pushed into, wanting to leave. He'd slip away; miss the reception. The ceremony finished and Diane and Malik were walking along the carpet, coming towards the back rows, with their guests following out from the front. He couldn't escape. She'd pass whilst he was still in his row; she'd see him when she passed. He rubbed his damp palms against his jacket; saw the red dress, the hat. She'd lost weight, was thinner. He saw her face. It wasn't Sally. It was someone else. The eyes, the nose. The mouth. Not hers. John swallowed, shuddered, and breathed. How he could have mistaken this woman for Sally, he told himself, was unthinkable. She was different, so different.

Her name was Lisa and she was Diane's cousin. She taught music at a school in Bristol and played cello in a string quartet. He bought her a Bacardi and coke, then another. They danced a bit, and talked. Later, at the end of the evening, he took her home. And stayed.

*

The bar was quiet. A mournful looking middle aged man studied a pint of beer whilst an older couple warmed themselves next to the log fire. His father was already there, waiting for him and looking small, John thought, at the end of a carpet that had been designed to hide dirt. Seeing him stoop as he stood, he realised age was beginning to disguise the man he called his father. “Pie and a pint?” he asked.

*

Wiping foam from his upper lip, John murmured his appreciation. “Mmm. That's a good pint. Any messages from Mum?”

“Just her love. She said you'll be round on Monday to go over the accounts.” He drank from a half-pint. “You're ok, then?”

“Sure. Yes, I'm fine.”

“Busy weekend?”

“Mmm. Yes. Always is, these days.”

Reaching over an adjoining table for an ash tray, he repeated. “So you're ok then?”

“Yes. I said so, didn't I?” If this was feeling all right, John thought sardonically, he wouldn't want to feel any worse. Life wore like a heavy overcoat that he wished he could take off occasionally.

“You did. Yes, you did. Could do with a holiday, eh?”

“Yeah. But no chance of that before January.”

“You need a good number two, that's what you need.” Michael smeared bright yellow mustard over a chunk of pork pie and popped it into his mouth. Within seconds his eyes were watering and he cleared mustard from the remaining morsel. “Oh dear me,” he coughed, “that mustard bites back!” And knowing that, in only the second year of business, a good number two was a dream he changed the subject. ”You went to Diane's wedding?”

“Mmm. Mum's flowers looked nice.”

“Yes. She does a good job with flowers. Good time?”

John stubbed his cigarette into the ash tray. The bar was depressing; he wished they'd met somewhere else. “Ok.”

“Sally there?”

“What's this? Twenty questions?”

“I just wondered – I thought she'd have been there, and… well, Sammy too, and well, your Mum and I, we wondered…”

“Dad, they're in Pakistan. So they couldn't come, but if they had, I wouldn't have gone.” He watched another drinker join the man at the bar. “So, what was your day like? Golf?” He'd grown accustomed to the occasional seemingly nonchalant enquiries about Sally or Sammy and just as nonchalantly, he evaded their interest.

“I think he's yours, you know. I think he looked like you.”

His father's voice had been low, almost inaudible. “It doesn't change anything, Dad. He's Sally's. And Sally has him. So I can't.” The truth was that Sammy was a part of him in a way that he didn't understand. “I don't know if I'm Sammy's father but I think I might be. I couldn't have loved him like I did if he wasn't my child, could I? There must be something biological that makes that happen, isn't there? Surely, you can't love a child completely if he's not yours.” Realising his gaff, John stopped. “Oh! Dad, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean that you and Mum….. Look, I'm sorry.”

Michael drained his glass. “I don't know if you can love a child of your own more than a child who isn't. That's the honest truth John. But we loved you as much as we could. We still do. But we didn't have a child of our own, so we can't know, can we?” Regret sat heavily on his face.

“I know, Dad. I haven't always made it easy for you, and I know you had to work hard with me. Maybe it would have been different if I'd been a newborn when you adopted me. I don't remember anything from before but there's a door, a locked door, and there's a child behind it who's me, knocking and asking to be let in. In the story of who I am, the first chapter is missing. I've looked at men and women in the street and wondered, ‘are you my father, are you my mother?' You've no idea how many new beginnings I've given myself.” His laugh was flat. “My great uncle? Rothko! My mother? A artist's muse, and a brilliant cook. My father, a dastardly bastard but irresistible. There's more, many more. They're just the good ones.” He chewed pork pie, willing the jelly to melt in the warmth of his mouth, but which was, like the pastry, solid. He'd made pork pies, hand raising warm pastry round moulds, and reducing liquor from simmered pig's trotters to pour over the succulent chunks of meat. They tasted nothing like these lumps of hardened putty that needed mustard to make them edible. “This pie's rough, isn't it.”

Not ready to be diverted, Michael continued. “Your mother and I, we don't know much about your real parents, but you have the adoption certificate and your birth certificate too. Their names are on them. You can find them if you want to.”

“No. I don't want to.” He couldn't explain that behind the locked door were fears of what he might find. “Hey, we're having a pint, not a psychotherapy session.” He stood up. “My round. Another half, or a pint?”

His father caught his hand as he picked up the glass. “I'll listen if you want to talk to me. Or if not, you could talk to the man you saw when you were ill. He was helpful …”

“Thanks. I'll think about it. But let's just have a drink now, eh? Half?”

*

Talk to a psychotherapist? Sure, he could talk about the voices he heard in his head and a psychotherapist would listen. But everyone had voices like that, and one of his told him he didn't need a psychotherapist. Given the last year, there'd be something wrong if he hadn't pondered the connections and parallels of his own and Sammy's childhoods. If he hadn't been saddened, disturbed, upset, he wouldn't have been human. A therapist might use scientific sounding words to describe thoughts but it didn't change anything; it didn't fill the gaps. Michael and Frances had reshaped his whats and ifs and buts and he knew he'd been lucky. He should be grateful for that luck, and at a higher level, he was. But deep inside the demanding voices that searched for truth gnawed at the voices of rationality and reason, and refused to let sleeping dogs lie. Or deceive.