Thicker Than Soup (23 page)
Authors: Kathryn Joyce
*
Later, with her book open on her lap, Sally fought the heaviness of her eyes.
“Ah, I fogot!” She jumped as Arif suddenly got up from his chair and crossed the room to his briefcase. “Daoud gave me this for you this afternoon; we were at the same meeting.” He handed Sally an envelope. “I hope all is well? I didn't know you had seen him recently â as a doctor, that is.”
Sally's tiredness evaporated. She hadn't yet told Arif about her visit to the maternity clinic a few days earlier; she hardly dare admit to herself that she might be pregnant again. “Oh I expect it's my usual check-up,” she told him, “it won't be important. I'll read it later.”
Arif returned to his newspaper and she lifted her book as if the letter had interrupted some exciting passage.
“We haven't been to Lahore for too long.” Arif's was reading the back page, the sports news. “Perhaps we should visit Daniel and Yalda next week.” He peered over the top of the paper. “What do you think?”
“Yes. Of course. We should go.” She continued to stare at her book.
His paper covered his face again. “Oh! What a coincidence.”
“Arif. Tell me. Why do you want to visit Lahore next week?”
He peered round the side of the paper and grinned. “You know me too well my dear. The West Indies are playing Pakistan at the weekend. Imran Khan will be playing; he is very special. Why don't you call Yalda and if they are free I will book flights from Islamabad. It will be quicker than driving.” He folded the paper. “I know you well too. You are not a good actress; for a start, your book is upside down.”
She glanced at the book, which wasn't the wrong way at all. But he'd caught her out.
“Why are you pretending that a letter from Daoud is too dull to read?”
“I'm⦔ She stopped. “I'll open it.” Sliding her finger under the seal she pulled out the paper and scanned the brief paragraph. The words
congratulations
, and
fourteen weeks
jumped from the page and even though the letter merely told her what she knew, confirmation made it real. She passed the letter to Arif.
“Pregnant?”
She nodded.
“Butâ¦..”
She looked at him. Was he disappointed? “You are displeased?”
“Butâ¦No. It is a surprise. Did you miss your pills?”
“No. But I was sick. Do you remember? It spoiled our weekend before Sammy and I went to London in August.”
“That was⦔ He counted months on his fingers, “three, nearly four months! Sally. Oh my goodness. You are well?”
She nodded and bit her lip. Tears had sprung into her eyes. She wanted a baby; it was good news. But there'd been so many disappointments.
Arif almost fell over his paper as he moved to embrace her. “My beautiful wife, don't be unhappy. It is wonderful news. It is perfect. So long as you areâ¦.. are well.” He kissed the top of her head then took her hands. “But you must be careful. Sit down. What about your school? You cannot do it ⦠your mustâ¦.”
“I'm well. I'm very well. You'll be saying I must put my feet up soon!” His attentiveness was as amusing as welcome. “I promise I'll be careful, and I'll organise the school so I don't have to do so much. Rachel can manage; weâll get another teacher or reduce the numbers of classes until I can work properly again.” The news brought as much anxiety as joy. “Arif, we neither planned nor expected this. It's not in our hands and we must try to neither fear nor hope too much. Inshallah, we will have a child of our own. Daoud will take good care of meâ¦us!” She rested a hand on her stomach and barely whispered, “I hardly dare believe it.”
*
Every twinge or nauseous moment was a torment of worry that once again shadowed her pregnancy, though this time it was apprehension rather than misgivings that clouded the months. When, one bright and fresh February morning Daoud suggested a Caesarean section, Sally agreed readily and a week later the sight of a healthy and perfectly formed daughter was an intense relief â as well as a thrilling surprise.
“Arif!” Both she and the baby were cleanly presentable by the time Arif was permitted entry to her room. “It's a girl!” Experience had taught her that boys and men were something of a mystery whereas girls were intuitively understood, and she tingled with excitment at this prize she held in her arms.
“But you convinced me we were going to have a son. We do not have a name to give to a girl!”
They agreed on the name Hiba, meaning gift.
Nine days passed before Hiba snuffled peacefully in the small room that had once been their dressing room and where Sally, unable to take her eyes from the tiny face that slept peacefully in the lace trimmed crib, marvelled at the perfection of the tiny fingernails, the miniature rosebud lips and the dark hair that already curled. The discomfort of healing wounds mattered nothing; after months of anxiety she could hardly believe the tiny, fragrant mite that lay in the cot was theirs. She recalled how she and John had taken Sammy home six years previously. John had carried Sammy in his carrycot into the kitchen and looking around uncertainly had deposited him on the kitchen table as if he were a bag of shopping. Hiba's homecoming had been orderly by comparison; Arif had carried her in his arms as if a new baby arrived every day and laid her gently in the waiting crib. Hiba was, of course, Arif's fourth newborn and with Sammy, the fifth child to live in this house. It was a family home and he was father to both her children, including Sammy. One day, when old enough to understand, she'd tell Sammy about John. She'd find the words to explain what had happened but in the meantime Arif was his father and now he had a new sister as well as an older sister and brother.
In the distance she heard Sammy's voice calling, “Ammi. Ammi. Aap kahaan hay?” sounding like any other Pakistani child.
“Mien yahaan. I'm here. Just settling your new sister into her crib. Come and hug me. I've missed you so much!” Tucking the cover round Hiba, she turned as Sammy ran into the room. “Hey big brother!” At six years, her son was no longer a baby. His dark hair was as unruly as the day he was born but now it topped a tall, athletic frame that â except for the face which was still an urchin-like version of John's â could have been Arif's. “Come and tell me what you've been doing whilst I've been away.”
*
Arif brushed his almost black hair carefully in the mirror as he prepared to join her in bed. She'd missed his presence whilst in the hospital, and watching his vanity, it amused her that he succumbed to â as so many middle-aged Pakistani men did â dying his hair. But it couldn't be denied that the dark hair contributed to his youthful appearance. He was still an attractive man. If someone had told her, six years previously that she would find herself in Pakistan, married to a good man, with two children and two stepchildren, a comfortable home, and running her own successful language school, she would have deemed it impossible. Remembering the old adage of her mother's, she counted her blessings.
“You're looking very pleased with yourself.” Arif met her eyes in the mirror.
“I was thinking how fortunate I am.”
“
We
are!” Arif corrected her. “We are fortunate indeed.” He climbed into bed and pulled the wool blanket over them both. “Yes, fortunate we are. You are home again and we have our daughter.” He sank into the pillow. “Does Hiba cry loudly?” he asked, “I hope she won't disturb the night.”
He was a good husband but a traditional Pakistani man and Sally knew that it would be her duty to look after Hiba's needs, day and night. Arif's contribution, to provide for whatever was needed, was something he would do without question. “She's too tiny to make a big noise,” she reassured him, and teased him with an afterthought, “for now⦔
*
Just before dawn a whimper broke Sally's sleep and she slipped silently from the bed. “Shhh.” She touched Hiba's cheek then gently shifted her tiny daughter on to her lap, wincing at the pull of the Caesarean wound. Hiba soon suckled greedily and she relaxed into the rhythmic tug at her breast, remembering the quiet, almost meditative experience of feeding Sammy and looking forward to the same intimacy with her beautiful new daughter.
*
At the photographer's request, Arif's mother pushed Sally's dupatta away from Hiba's face, and tried too, to push Sammy's mop of hair into more orderly behaviour. The picture captured, Arif called Pazir and Karim into the group. For almost an hour they gathered, rearranged, re-grouped and smiled until at last, the photographer said it was enough. Proofs would be ready in a few days, and copies a few days later; ready to send to her mother in England. And to Diane, who would like to see Hiba too. Sally would put a picture in with her reply to a letter that had arrived a few weeks ago, telling of, amongst other things, a contract Diane had secured to test ready-made meals for a supermarket chain. She had, amusingly, sub-contracted a curry recipe to John. Sally never asked how John was, but seeing his image in Sammy every day couldn't help but wonder occasionally where life's passage was taking him. Marriage and Hiba, and of course, her acceptance of Islam, had shaped her own life, but to her mother-in-law's occasional chagrin, she was still the English Sally she'd always been. Arif's mother had worried what âpeople' would say when a new car had arrived for her shortly after the marriage and had asked why Arif didn't employ a driver if taxis weren't âgood enough' for his wife. Fortunately, more enlightened than many of his compatriots, Arif had made it clear that he thought her car sensible, both in practical and progressive terms. A similar argument had brewed over the intention to work, and failing again to win her son's support over his wife's âbehaviour', her mother-in-law had declared she would pack her belongings and live elsewhere. But a few days of treats and gentle kindnesses had placated the bruised sense of decorum and eventually she'd accepted, albeit coolly, that progress didn't always please. Sally knew that progress began to please when she accepted a lift to the market and then again, when eventually she'd allowed herself to be driven to the language school where she'd basked in the reflected respect her daughter-in-law received from those around her. The final approval had been Hiba. The new baby pleased her mother-in-law greatly and Sally's place as a most agreeable daughter-in-law was secured.
The only cloud on her horizon was the distance between her much blessed life and her mother's home. Kissing Hiba's tiny fingers, she told her of London and the grandfather she would never meet and the grandmother who lived in London, and promised to take her to meet her. Very soon.
They (whoever âthey' were) said that if you hadn't made it by the time you were forty, you might as well forget it and John couldn't help feeling that registering Seagrams as a limited company and signing a lease for the third restaurant just before his fortieth birthday were auspicious. Outwardly he insisted it was merely another birthday but privately he acknowledged the marker as being of some significance and the change of business status made little difference other than it had been the catalyst behind his new VW Golf. And Seagrams Cider Barn would be the third â lucky three â restaurant. As Managing Director, he stood a little taller.
If this fortieth year was a marker, it certainly wasn't the finishing post. Even with six years of hard work and tenacity behind him, John knew he couldn't relax. Seagrams had been the only restaurant in the village when he'd opened, but growing confidence in the economy and the lowest inflation in six years meant that new restaurants were popping up like mushrooms. Locally, two pubs were now producing food that was good enough to distract the less discerning of his diners, an Indian restaurant had opened â influencing him to introduce a tikka dish to his own menu â and Bath's proximity kept complacency at bay.
*
Lisa's alarm buzzed and he let her slip quietly from the bed. Their liaison â not a relationship, he insisted â had lasted for almost four years and as he saw it, had little to commend it except, like one of Alice's kittens, it had an inconvenient habit of purring along. When they spent weekday nights together, mornings started at Lisa's house for the convenience of her school days, which she began always with cello practice. In minutes a deep, sonorous tone forced him below the covers until, once tuned, something her more advanced pupils might practice later in the day drifted more melodiously up the stairs.
Lisa seemed to find the impending fortieth milestone amusing, and from the vantage point of some eight junior years suggested minor lapses in his memory indicated he was on his way over the hill. Or paradoxically, at forty, life was about to begin. Clearly it couldn't be both.
Heavy eyed and weary, he recalled the celebrations that had gone on late into the night before. Too late, for a week night. But it wasn't every day he signed the lease, the architect's drawings, and the Venture Capital contract. Until yesterday, the funding had been simply numbers with a lot of noughts, but now it was in the bank with personal guarantees that negated any protection the limited company status might have given. Daunting and exciting in equal measure, the project could either make him a rich man, or break him. But the cider barn project excited him. His third Seagrams. As a listed building, the visual character of the building had to be retained but the architect promised a contemporary light filled interior; a theatre in which his food would play the leading role. In the torpor of sleep drugged imagination the medieval barn became a huge conservatory, as luminous as if the sun was rising from its very foundations.
Stretching an arm from below the covers he pushed the door shut on the cello. His first stop of the day was to be Bristol's Asian market for spices, then on to Bristol Seagrams for the catch-up with his chef, Frick. Dividing time between two restaurants had worked well but that wouldn't stretch to three restaurants and though Alain advised him to hire chefs and focus on management, he didn't want to. He thrived in the kitchens. It was where his creative energy came alive. Only from the kitchen would the integrity and personality that was the heart of Seagrams continue to grow. But Alain did have a point; someone had to oversee the business and he'd been thinking of Julia. She'd been with him since the start of Seagrams, he trusted her, and he knew she could do it. But would she?
It was still early for him, but with Lisa now making kitchen noises, he got up. Condensation blanked the bathroom mirror, and helping himself to a clean towel he wiped it clean. His face, he thought, had a acquired a certain, distinguished maturity, and seeing a long eyebrow hair he scowled as he tugged it out, wondering if this sign of premature aging was inherited.
*
Fresh coffee teased John's nose. “For me?” He pointed at the coffee maker.
“Sure. Help yourself.” Lisa went to âdo her face' leaving John to contemplate the hint of Sally that still lingered in her wake. Dropping two slices of bread into the toaster, he picked up the previous day's newspaper and read the sports pages until a click of heels sounded on the tiles behind him. “I'm off. See you on Friday. Don't forget to ring the barn dance musicians and the disco man.” She offered a cheek and John kissed it dutifully.
“Mmm. I'll do it later. Pick you up at seven on Friday.”
Holding his birthday party in the cider barn had been touch and go, but with the lease now signed all was possible. Having forgotten to make the calls the previous evening, he changed his watch to the other wrist. As a prompt, it never failed.
*
Sweet Potatoes. He'd go to St. Paul's to get sweet potatoes, and he could get garlic there too. Negotiating the morning traffic he compiled a shopping list in his head. Tomatoes, onions, fresh herbs, lemons, cucumbers. And yogurt; thick yogurt for the raita. And spices for the tikka; cardamom, cumin, turmeric, good hot Indian chilli powder. If he grouped the four spices there were eight things to remember. Lisa might suggest he was over the hill, but there was nothing wrong with his memory.
*
Laden with shopping bags as well as paperwork, John pushed through the double porch doors. “Morning.”
Julia waved and continued her phone call. “Not on a Saturday for three weeks. I'm sorry. No, no tables at all. Yes. Your name and number? Thank you, I'll certainly call if we have a cancellation.” She scribbled in the diary then came to help with the bags. “You've been busy.”
“I have. Frick here?” The Irish chef had acquired his nickname when, on joining Seagrams, he'd introduced himself in rapid Irish that had reduced Frederick to Frick. He passed a bag to Julia. “This is for the run through; the rest is being delivered later.” He flexed his numbed fingers. “I thought you were at Bathampton today?”
“I was. But I swapped to see your Salmon Tikka. Curry spices are difficult for wine but once I've seen and tasted it I'll know what to recommend. Frick's in the kitchen doing something to the fish.”
Over the years, Julia's personality as much as her commitment and ability had made her a key member of staff, and his thank you â rewarded with one of her broad smiles and oft repeated âno worries' â applied to more than simply being relieved of a few heavy bags. “Well, it's good you're here; I wanted to talk to you.” He shook his head at her questioning eyebrow. “In a âmo. I need to sort this out.” He grinned to deflect any doubtful significance and went in search of Frick, who was, as Julia intimated, cleaning the salmon fillets.
“Morning Frick. Good, you've started.” He stacked the vegetables in the racks and put the spices and a sheet of typed paper on the counter. “The recipe's here. Once you've skinned the salmon it needs cutting into inch slices and marinading. The spices are here too.”
Frick said something at speed that John assumed from the tone to be assent and he returned to the dining room where Julia had two cups already filled with coffee.
“I suppose you would know of noteworthy English wines, wouldn't you?”
“Sure. There are some.” It might have seemed an offbeat question, but Julia tuned in quickly. “There're more vineyards now, and buyers are starting to show interest. It's still fairly tentative, and the wines are more expensive. Generally drinkers don't trust them. But there are some nice sparkling wines and some of the whites and rosés are pretty good. Not many reds though. I can get some to try if you want; Peter's got a few.”
“Good idea. Local is the way forward now.” With a flourish, he pulled papers from his file. “That's the deal! The new restaurant is going ahead.” It would, he told her, work with local food producers as much as possible, which of course, included wine. Then he told her that he hoped she would manage the three restaurants. “So, what I want to know, Julia, is how you might do it â and if, of course, you want to?”
“That's two questions.”
“True, but it's as good as one. Think about it and let me know?”
“I know now. The answer's yes.” Like John, Julia trusted instinct. “Of course I'd like to think about how it might work though. Give me a few days?”
“Sure. Same time next week?” John had his thoughts already, which included a rise in her salary and a car, but he knew those weren't the things that would motivate her. She thrived on challenges. “You'll want someone at each restaurant you can work with, and you'll need to liaise with me too. And you'll need to factor in travelling time.”
“Time's the easy bit. Peter's so often away buying his wines and now Adam's at boarding school, time is what I have.” The word âtime' sounded like a commodity. “I'll have something for you this time next week.”
She'd responded as he'd hoped, and happily he added the sweetener. “We need to look at your role too, Julia. Perhaps a new title for the new job? Something with Director in it? I'd like you to be involved at a higher level. Can you think round that too?” Her eyes widened, just slightly, but enough to know he'd read her well. He raised a hand in a high five. “Exciting, eh?”
*
Frick had started to prepare the vegetables, and John prompted him to wash the spinach three times. “It was picked this morning and came with the field; I paid the earth for it!” he joked. “Anyway, it was so good I bought it all.” The dry ochre skin had already been pared from the sweet potatoes and setting the mandolin, John sliced the hard orange flesh into spaghetti-thin strands whilst Frick briefed him on the weekend. A waiter had called in sick on Friday and put pressure on the others, but, said Frick, the others âdid' busy in their sleep so it had been another good weekend. John wilted spinach leaves whilst Frick threaded strips of salmon and slices of sweet red pepper on to damp wooden skewers and placed them under the hot grill.
“Watch this Frick â it happens quickly.” John dropped clumps of sweet potato into hot oil as Frick leaned over to look. “Keep an eye on that salmon too,” he instructed as he extracted a crisp golden cluster of sweet potato and placed it carefully on absorbent paper. “The raita's ready?” Frick nodded. “Great. You do the second sweet potato and I'll do the fish â there's nothing special about grilling fish.” A pungent aroma of charred spices filled the air as he turned the skewers. “Ok. We're done. Now, this dish is visual; I want it plated like this.” He shaped a round of spinach in the centre of a large white plate then topped it with crossed skewers of tikka. “You must â pass the lemon â work quickly or the salmon will be cold.” The fish shimmered under a drizzle of lemon juice and he lightly balanced a sweet potato tangle on top. “Easy! Your turn; you do one.” He dropped a small pot of raita on the plate and took it into the dining room “Hey Julia. You want to try this?”
“I do.” She exchanged a glass cloth for a fork and picked off small pieces of potato and fish. Then she tried it with raita, and finally, fish and spinach together. “Got it. A medium Sauvignon Blanc, not too dry. Or if it has to be red, then Pinot Noir. It needs something to stand up to the flavour of the salmon without overpowering it but that doesn't clash with the spices.” She took another forkful. “That's a real nice dish. Looks great too. I love the colours.”
John picked off a piece for himself and hoped her new role would keep her from the temptation of a fine restaurant, though he doubted she would endure the formality and pomp many of them nurtured.
*
Free evenings, so few and far between, were to be taken advantage of, and John was showing off his new home to Diane and Malik as much as celebrating the new venture. Diane had fallen in love with the gleaming kitchen. “It's from a new warehouse place,” he told her, “in Warrington. It's Swedish; you'd love it.” Meanwhile, Malik coveted the leather Habitat sofa and made himself comfortable next to Diane who was, with Lisa, browsing the mail order catalogue looking for outfits for Lisa's sister's (also Diane's cousin's) imminent wedding.
“Red. You look great in red.” Diane held her finger on a red dress as she reached for pen from her handbag and in doing so dislodged an envelope that fell, unnoticed by her, to the floor. As John stooped to retrieve it a photograph slipped from the envelope and in an instant he saw Sally, some children, and a man. In the slow motion seconds of the moment he nudged the picture under the sofa and pushed the letter back into Diane's handbag.
*
When everyone, including Lisa, had gone home, John retrieved the photograph. Sally looked composed and elegant in her Pakistani clothes, and still very beautiful. A tall, severe looking man rested a possessive hand on her shoulder. He'd be the husband, and probably father of the two older children and, he thought, the baby. But it was the younger child who took his attention. The boy leaning nonchalantly against his mother's side was Sammy. Aged around six. John knew he'd be seven now; his birthday fell two weeks before his own. Sally had written a note on the back;
June 1987. With love from Sally, Arif, Pazir, Karim, Sammy and Hiba.
Diane had told him that Sally had married in Pakistan, and at the time he'd persuaded himself he had no feelings about it. But now, bile-like jealousy rose in his throat. This new family; the solemn man, the other children, excluded him forever. The man looked old, certainly older than Sally, and almost a grandfather to Sammy, a thought that gave him sour satisfaction. Sammy's little-boy face was perfect, as beautiful asâ¦a memory stirred. He found and rummaged through a box of old photos until he saw the folded card, edged with embossed holly and reindeers. Inside was a picture of himself at eight, pleased as punch as he sat on Santa's knee. Putting the picture alongside the family group he saw Sammy's dark, unmanageable hair, the pointed chin with a hint of a cleft, the cheeks made round by a smarty pants grin, and saw himself. In that moment he knew with absolute clarity that Sammy was his son. Retrieving the old Doc Martin's shoe box from the bottom of his wardrobe he found the blue baby record card identifying Sammy's blood group from amongst his jumble of passport, electoral role registration, qualification certificates and other personal documents. Tearing it in half, then half again, he tossed the pieces into the bin.
