A Woman's Place (16 page)

‘Come on, then.'

She took a step towards him and slid her hands up his chest, then down over his shoulders, and pulled him out of the coat – the precious new coat, which slid unheeded to the floor. Light from a street lamp gleamed over her skin and showed the outline of full breasts and brown nipples. She began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt as his arms hung helplessly at his side.

In a moment his shirt and a Damart vest had joined his coat on the floor. Karen's eyes danced as she ran her fingers over him, lightly. Goose-flesh rose on his arms. He was conscious of his lack of manly hair and the chill on his bare back.

‘What you're supposed to do, Fred, is this.' She took his hands calmly in her own and placed them on her breasts, then helped him massage them, palm to curve, round and round, rubbing the pert nipples with his thumbs. He gasped, then looked down at her in amazement.

‘Oh, Karen, you're so lovely!' was all he could manage, before she leaned up against him, arms around his neck, put her mouth to his, and enquiringly put her tongue inside.

They stood together and she writhed obligingly for several moments, thinking how much more palatable Fred was than she had imagined, and what a good idea this was of his. Her healthy
young body would enjoy itself thoroughly tonight, and she would ensure that Fred, too, would sleep content. As long, of course, as nothing came of it.

‘Mmm,' she murmured. ‘You're not bad yourself. Got any condoms?'

‘What?'

‘Condoms. You know, Fred. Don' wanna get pregnant, do I? Or catch anything.'

‘Er, no. Haven't you?'

She disengaged and stared at him. ‘No – you're the first boy I've kissed in ages. That's why it's so … “nice”, as you put it. But d'you mean to say you were expecting me to do it without? That's not on, Fred.'

He blinked at her helplessly. ‘I could go and get some from an all-night chemist, if you like,' he offered weakly. The question had simply not occurred to him. ‘Or maybe Anthony or Lachlan…'

‘Yeah,' she shrugged regretfully and reached for the sweater. ‘Well, I'm tired, anyway, Fred. I'm going to bed. If you find any, just knock on the door.'

And with that she trudged sleepily up the stairs, the sweater trailing behind her, leaving Fred to watch her retreating body in utter anguish.

Elsewhere her mother was having more luck.

The kitchen was still cosy from the cooking and full of homely, satisfying smells. In a corner a big dishwasher steamed and whirred. A long line of dark green empty bottles testified to the thoroughness and generosity of George's hospitality. The rest of the house still had lights blazing, but it seemed almost to be slumbering.

For the moment she relished simply being held close; he was so much taller that he could rest his chin on her hair, and did so, softly stroking her head, as on the first occasion when they had embraced. A clock chimed the half-hour.

“‘Had we but world enough, and time…”' he murmured. She had forgotten that George the soldier was accustomed to take the lead – and to get what he wanted. He leaned back and smiled at her, the request clear in his face.

She knew the piece. “‘Time's winged chariot hurrying near”?' The smile played around his eyes but he did not answer. She tried again.

‘That poem is called “To His Coy Mistress”. He's telling her not to mess him about. To get on with it – or, at least, let him get on with it. Is that the message, George?'

She wanted him to respond, but still he would not, teasing her, requiring her to match his growing need, to make the journey at his side, willingly. She touched his face, tracing the fine lines across his brow, down the bridge of the strong nose, and so to his lips. He kissed her fingertips, one by one.

‘If I sleep with you now, George, will we still be friends? I want nothing more. But I won't accept anything less.'

He nodded quietly, but there was an amused flicker in his eyes. Thus it was agreed, without further words, for George himself wanted no more. For the time being at least.

‘Only there is one thing,' he cautioned as they climbed the broad staircase arm in arm. ‘I call it “making love”. Old fashioned, maybe. Will that suit?'

Gracefully he led her into his bedroom and removed from the bed a coat which had been left behind. He unbuttoned her jacket and kissed her neck and shoulders, all in a steady, controlled way; his hands were strong and cool and it was a delight to let him caress her as and where he wished. His love-making when it came was strong but measured and sure, as if he knew himself very well, and considerate of her. It was not until later, after they had rested a little, that she moved suddenly and flung hungry arms around his naked body: then a fire seemed let loose in him and he took her again with great driving power, until they were truly together, calling to each other in the night, two lonely
people whose capacity for love had never faltered.

Love. There was no other word. Once long ago with Roger she had pulled away from her lover, sweating and panting, and had thrilled him with rough sexual words that had made him laugh. Her husband used to say ‘I love you', but in a perfunctory fashion, and was as likely to pat her rump and mutter, ‘I needed that', before sloping off to the bathroom to clean up. But George said little: only at the moment of climax he called her name and laughed out loud, as if he had forgotten the joy of a woman's loving body, moving under him in rhythmic sympathy with his own.

He cradled her head on his shoulder and pulled the bedclothes over her.

‘Warm enough?'

She nodded.

‘Then sleep.' 

Jayanti Bhadeshia tucked the ticket into his breast pocket, grasped the leather briefcase more firmly and headed for the departure lounge of Kampala airport. The flight home would give him time to think.

Last time he had left this airport it was 1972. Barely nineteen but already a man, he had shepherded sisters and his mother through those doors into the packed and terrified crowd. He had tried ineffectually to protect them from the prods of Amin's Nubian guards, glassy-eyed brutes who ransacked the luggage and tore gold bangles from the women's arms. When towards the end of a seven-hour delay he had visited the toilet, he had been confronted by a huge African, military tags gleaming on sweaty chest, armed with a wicked leer and a machine-gun. On the slippery floor were tufts of bloody hair and a couple of teeth. Without a word Jayanti had handed over his wallet and signet ring. The acrid smell of blood and urine and terror had never left him.

He squared his shoulders. Those days were far behind him. So was the misery which followed, their arrival in freezing England able to speak only Gujarati and Bantu. He had learned ‘Please', ‘Thank you' and ‘No' very quickly. Life in this sunnier part of the world had been good to them in the earlier years: he could feel almost nostalgic. East Africa may have had a turbulent history, but its rolling hills were beautiful to his eyes compared to desiccated urban England. It was good news that the new western-educated leaders were committed to peaceful progress and prosperity for their people. Or so they said.

The audience at the presidential palace had been followed by the ceremonial signing of papers which now nestled in his briefcase. It was widely if grudgingly agreed, President Mangaluso had intoned gravely, that capitalism could benefit everyone only if it were run properly by men whose first objective was commerce, not politics.

‘On the other hand,' Mangaluso had gazed at him intently. ‘I am not keen to give favourable treatment to huge multinationals and let them have their own way. The turnover of some corporations is larger than our entire gross national product. I prefer to encourage a genuinely local response to our needs. I want experienced people sympathetic to us – like yourself – to promote new enterprise. We particularly lack modern shops and distribution. That is why I thought of you.'

How smooth they are, these politicians, Jayanti reflected, and how similar the world over. There's not a flicker on that bland face. A month ago he'd never heard of me, and here he's talking as if he chose me personally.

‘I am at your service, Excellency. Exactly how can I help?'

The President sipped a chilled pineapple juice. Above them a fan turned languidly. Outside beggars drowsed in the shade as the tarmac sizzled. Jayanti, he explained, would be a free agent.

‘You can develop how and where you like. Of course it will take several years, but we seek expansion from you. You can import what you need in sophisticated goods, but you will find many of your ordinary supplies right here, though naturally our traders will need guidance to produce goods of higher quality. They will learn from you. Isn't that how Marks and Spencer operates? Why shouldn't it happen in my country too?'

In his mind's eye, and increasingly in Jayanti's, a magnificent new emporium, Bhadeshia's, rose brick by brick to grace the city centre, with smaller versions in provincial towns. Its local suppliers would grow fat with it. And from success in one country the spread throughout East Africa was guaranteed: a wonderfully bright future beckoned.

‘On your head would be heaped great honour, of course,' the President remarked, watching Bhadeshia's face carefully. ‘If your shops do become the Marks and Spencer of East Africa then you will be our Lord Sainsbury and Lord Sieff rolled into one, will you not? Maybe that is what you should be. I have met your Prime Minister. I would put words in the right ear for you.'

Jayanti pricked up his own ears. It was one thing to be recommended for the honours list by friends and relatives; to be endorsed by the President of another country in fair standing with the Foreign Office might push his chances up quite a notch.

The President had risen and shaken hands. ‘As you know, we cannot offer you any funds for this project. Nor does it qualify for direct aid. But I feel sure banks in the City of London will be interested. And there will be no strings attached by us.'

The conversation had concluded on an amicable note. Money, however, was precisely the problem which engaged Jayanti's attention as he settled back into the plush aeroplane seat. He would have to acquire land not only for the shops, but for depots, warehouses, garages – an entire infrastructure. Staff who could barely read would have to be trained in using computers. The President's virtual insistence on rapid growth was risky, since it entailed areas up-country where barter was commoner than cash. Then there was the question of who expected bribes, and how much, and for how long.

It hadn't come at an easy time. The loan for Pramila's house had been larger than expected, mainly because she had unaccountably been driven to buy a property favoured by several wealthy purchasers whose intervention had bid up the price. His personal guarantee for half the value had been given only with great hesitation. The position he had confidently presented to the mortgagee was not quite accurate. For example, those useful funds once deposited at BCCI had long since been written off in his mind but not in his books. There was the constant conundrum of playing down profits for the Inland Revenue while upping them for the bank – the machinations were beginning to confuse even their beneficiary. Meanwhile the family in India were also insistent in their pleas for money. He could not see his way to refusing any of them.

It was all very well, this assumption that because he had the trappings of great wealth there must be bedrock. The core business was founded on dozens of small local shops. On the whole they catered for the lowest-income families: anyone with a car headed straight for a supermarket. So prices were low and margins tight. A little dishonesty on the part of his managers could push him into big losses. Insurance was a nightmare, break-ins frequent. However much his worth on paper, the fragility of the figures was a source of great anxiety.

And now East Africa. The whole operation would cost a packet. Every penny he owned, and more.

‘God help us! They've gone and done it.'

Ted Bampton threw back the bedcovers, turned up the radio and hurriedly slid his podgy feet into his slippers.

‘What's that, dear?' his wife called out soothingly from the bathroom. Jean Bampton, plump, motherly and long reconciled to middle age, did not pretend to understand the political world, though her judgements, when expressed privately to her husband, were shrewd and reliable. She did, however, recognise the outraged alarm in her husband's voice.

Quickly she pulled an ancient towelling robe across her bosom and poked her head into the bedroom. The smell of English Lavender talc wafted in with her. ‘Does that mean you'll want the bathroom right away before I'm finished?'

‘Hush!' Bampton listened intently, then rose and headed for the door, taking the radio with him. As he quickly showered, shaved and brushed his teeth, Jean could hear him exclaim ‘Bloody 'ell' and ‘They can't have' to his image in the mirror. By the time he was at breakfast and rapidly putting away sausage, fried egg, bacon and tomato with a large cup of tea – she would not let him use a mug at table – his face was red and his expression very angry indeed.

He glowered up at her. ‘Did you catch that? The bloody Germans have gone and done it.'

‘Done what, dear?' Jean kept her voice neutral. The driver, hastily summoned, would arrive with the official Rover in ten minutes.

‘Set up the single currency, that's what.' Bampton took too large a gulp of tea and spluttered. ‘Created a currency union out of the blue. Treasury said it couldn't be done. Shows what they know! As from midnight all their paper currencies are legal tender in the countries concerned – that's Germany, Austria, Sweden, Benelux, Denmark – and of course the French are in: Chirac wouldn't let the Germans get away with anything. Next week new notes start circulating. So two hundred million people on the Continent will be using the same money. Blimey.'

Jean murmured diplomatically, ‘Is it bad news? What does it mean for us?'

Bampton shrugged. ‘Depends on your viewpoint. The sceptics'll be cock-a-hoop because it puts clear water between the Europeans – correction,
other
Europeans, as our new leader wants us to call 'em – and us. The speculators will lose out – that's fine by me. Euro-fanatics will see it as progress of sorts. But it means the others have gone ahead, as they always said they would. It'll save continental businesses a lot of hassle, and cash, and make them more competitive. And we're not in it.'

‘Should we be?'

Her husband pulled a face. His businessman's instincts were not to be denied. On the other hand, there was no need to take a stance until the Cabinet's line was agreed. ‘Um. At the least we should've been consulted. That's what makes me mad. But it's our own fault. The signs were obvious and we took no notice.'

The doorbell rang. Ted picked up his two red boxes and pecked his wife on the cheek.

‘Can it be put right – can we join in, or is it too late?' Bampton considered. Jean had a helpful habit of asking deceptively simple questions. Many similar queries would be put to him in the coming months, from constituents, in television interviews. He should have his answers ready.

‘Oh, I've no doubt we could if they wanted us, though among that lot we'd be the poorest. Makes you think. D'you know the only places in Europe with a lower income per head than us are Ireland, Greece and Portugal? There's some doubt as to whether Spain hasn't overtaken us already. When I was a kid we were the richest – hard to believe now.'

He opened the front door and with a curt nod handed the boxes to his driver. But Jean was not going to let him leave her in suspense. She, too, would face enquiries, in the post office, at the ladies' branch meeting.

‘So that's it? Is there no way?' she prompted.

‘Only if we have a positive vote in Parliament to say we go in, and that, frankly, is unlikely. How do you convince that bunch of flag-waving dummies in the House that banknotes designed in Frankfurt are the best thing since sliced bread?'

Roger Dickson pushed a lock of hair away from his face with an irritated gesture. He tucked the phone between shoulder and jaw so that he could make notes.

‘Peter, I have a Cabinet meeting in half an hour. We're faced with a serious crisis about the new currency union in Europe. Can't this wait?'

Peter Aubrey, the Party Chairman, was unruffled. ‘You also have a donors' lunch, remember? It can't be cancelled. You have another crisis there. Our old supporters have fallen away with a vengeance. British Airways used to give us forty thousand pounds a year and now not a penny. Allied Lyons's annual contribution was a hundred thousand under Margaret, also nothing. United Biscuits've backed out too. Do I make myself clear?'

‘It seems ironic, then, that we're accused of being in the pocket of big business,' Roger remarked ruefully. ‘What have we done to upset the biscuit boys?'

‘They claim they're international operators now and since so much of their activity is regulated from Brussels there's no point in contributing to any national political party. It doesn't help that the next general election is a long way off. Meanwhile our expenses mount. So be nice to your guests.'

‘Life'd be a lot easier if we had public money,' Roger mused. ‘That's quite normal in other, perfectly civilised countries. I can't see why it would be regarded as so corrupt.'

Aubrey snorted. ‘Make us soft, that's why. If we didn't have to tout for donations we'd never listen to our donors. And that means, Roger – please – everyone coming today expects something in return. We will have to deliver. Got it?'

‘You must look your best. The
blue
tie. Otherwise comments will be made.'

The slight rise in Pramila's voice meant she would brook no argument. Regretfully Bhadeshia returned the red-spotted tie to the drawer and took the proffered replacement.

‘I am told that in many parts of the country blue is not the Conservative colour. In Lincolnshire it is red.'

If he hoped by his greater knowledge to silence his wife he was mistaken. She sighed. ‘All I know is that when I wear a red sari, even though it is the most fashionable colour, the Tory ladies sniff.'

But Pramila had more than his accoutrements in mind. As Jayanti sat and began to pull on his shoes, she wandered restlessly around the room.

‘Jayanti…' she hesitated. Then, ‘You know my cousin Rajiv. He came for our wedding on a temporary visa and stayed.'

Jayanti looked up and frowned. ‘He is being deported? Well, he's had a good run. Our political friends have done their best. He will have to go back to India – there is no more we can do.'

‘You could mention it to the Prime Minister when you see him today.'

Jayanti exploded. ‘I'll do no such thing. Mr Dickson will think I am just another stupid Asian trying to protect illegal immigrants. I cannot have my name associated with such actions. No.'

Pramila shook her head. ‘The laws here are so strict. He has married … has a family … three lovely daughters. Nobody thinks about that. How are they to find husbands without a father – without dowries?'

‘You mean they are not going back?' Jayanti was genuinely surprised. ‘Still, British born and educated, the girls will have no trouble. More like they'll fall in love and want to choose their own partners. They'll take no notice of the family. Today's young people are all the same.'