The Year of the Runaways (43 page)

‘But it’s not true,’ Vidya said. ‘The rules changed years ago. I could kill him.’

‘So what will you do?’ Narinder asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where will you have the baby?’

Vidya threw her hand in the air and kept it there, as if waiting for a ball to drop into it. ‘He can sort it out,’ though whether she meant God or her husband Narinder wasn’t certain.

By their third meeting they were sharing more, though both women seemed to sense that much was being left unsaid, and had to be. Narinder liked her. She was funny, often at the expense of the stern old women who thought they owned the canteen. ‘Enough hair on her lip to weave a menjha,’ Vidya would say, as Narinder tried not to laugh. Soon and more than anything else she looked forward to the mornings Vidya would be there.

‘You should get a job,’ Vidya said.

Narinder took the thaals from her and started hosing them down at the sink.

‘I said you should get a job.’

‘I know. I’m thinking. I’ve never had a job.’

‘All day alone in that flat isn’t good for you.’

‘I don’t have any qualifications.’

‘Not all jobs need qualifications.’

Narinder squeezed the giant bottle of washing-up liquid until her fingers touched through the plastic. All she got was bubbles and farts.

‘Well?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Vidya collected and returned with more dirty dishes. ‘You’re very strange.’

‘That I am,’ Narinder agreed.

‘You’re brave enough to come and live in a strange city on your own. But you’re too scared to do anything else.’

Narinder had never thought herself brave. She only did things when called upon, when He told her a great injustice was occurring right in front of her face.

‘Our gurujis led me here. I wasn’t being brave.’

*

The curve in the roof of the bus shelter forced Avtar to kneel with ankles crossed. Climbing had never been difficult for him. As a conductor he’d often monkeyed up onto the roof to confront fare-dodgers. From here he could see all the way to the yard of the chip shop and its white back door, beside which was the stack of empty chicken crates. He looked at his phone. It was twelve minutes past. Maybe the shop had got busy. But then the door opened and Harkiran emerged, briefly, and dropped into the top crate a bulging carrier bag. Avtar gave a small fist-pump. Now all he needed was the miss-call from his friend to confirm everyone was out of the way. And here it was, his phone buzzing happily in his hand. He threw himself to the ground and sprinted up the road and down the side of the shop, skidding to avoid being seen in the window. He snatched up the bag without really even looking at it and fleetingly thought of Dhano the film horse as he pivoted and set off again.

‘Isn’t that stealing?’ Randeep said, in the kitchen.

Avtar flattened the bag into a circle around the chicken and then, with both hands, and with something approaching reverence, lifted the meat out and onto the wooden chopping board. It was large and fleshy and plump-legged and kingly. Yes. It looked majestic.

‘So you stole it?’ Randeep said again.

‘Shall we just starve, then? That bhanchod gave my job away.’

‘Still,’ Randeep said, though he had to admit the chicken looked like the best chicken ever. He could hear the saliva in his mouth.

‘Do you know how to take the bits out?’ Avtar asked.

‘The bits?’

‘You know.’ He flicked his eyebrows to the right, as if indicating someone over there.

‘They have bits?’ Randeep said.

‘Of course they have bits. What did you think they had?’

‘But aren’t they taken out before . . . before they get to us?’

Avtar looked at the chicken. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I’m not sure. Where would they be?’

They turned the chicken over so it rolled slightly to one side, and peered in, nostrils doing the opposite of flaring.

The chicken – chopped and curried – provided two meals a day for three days, for all of them. At the end of the third day, Gurpreet slurped up the last of the gravy, licking his spoon clean in a predictably vulgar manner.

‘Good work, Nijjara. You got the next one ordered?’

‘No,’ Randeep said and looked to Avtar for confirmation. But Avtar had a guilty touch about him. ‘Bhaji, think of the risk!’

Chuckling, Gurpreet rested his hands on his turban. ‘Not even a year and stealing like an old hand. You’re on your way.’

They didn’t steal a chicken, in the end. They stole a whole crate of them. The night before, Avtar lay awake calculating how many chickens he could sell and at what price. Each crate contained twenty, he remembered, and at least ten crates arrived every morning. Malkeet wouldn’t miss the one. He wouldn’t even notice. And Avtar figured he could get maybe five pounds for a whole chicken.

‘Two hundred pounds a day?’ Randeep cried, as they watched for the delivery truck.

‘Shh! And it’s one hundred. And I’ll have to give Hari something.’

‘Wow. That was nearly a whole week on the hotel. But what if we’re caught?’

‘Drop the chickens and run,’ Avtar said, and they looked at each other and laughed.

When the truck came past –
Northern Foods Ltd
– Avtar shimmied up onto the bus shelter and watched it reverse onto the forecourt, obscuring his view of the shop. The delivery guy got out – a friendly Scot called Gordon, Avtar recalled – and the flaps of the truck opened with a squeal.

‘What’s happened?’ Randeep asked him.

The crates were levered onto a pallet and wheeled to Hari. Then Gordon saluted – ‘OK, boss,’ he used to say – and less than a minute later the truck was on the road again.

‘It’s gone,’ Randeep said.

‘Yeah,’ Avtar said, still watching.

Tochi came out and carried one of the crates indoors. It would take him at least five minutes to unwrap twenty chickens and perhaps another five to arrange them in that massive fridge of theirs. He saw what must’ve been Hari’s hand gently closing the door, and then his phone glowed.

‘Go!’ Avtar said, jumping down, running.

They slowed at the corner, making certain the door was still closed, then rushed forward again. Avtar unclipped the catches, detaching the crate from its stack, and gestured urgently for Randeep to grab the other end. And though they started off with it lifted up to their chests, by the time they shuffled past the bus stop their arms were at full stretch and the crate like a swing between their thighs. The chickens were heavy.

All the chickens were sold by the following morning. Avtar sent a text round to every single fauji and scooter he knew, saying he had twenty chickens, each one enough to feed five men two meals a day for three days.
Only 5pd. Jaldi!
Their last sale was to a cheeky scrote of a Bangla who bought three chickens, intending to eat one and sell the other two at a profit.

‘Right. The next lot I’m pricing at eight pounds,’ Avtar said, coming back into the kitchen. ‘But in the meantime . . .’ He grinned and handed Randeep his share. ‘Money! We’ve got money! Can you believe it?’

‘We’re rich!’ Randeep said, circling the money around Avtar’s head, as if he was a groom. ‘We’re rich!’ and they did a little bhangra around the kitchen table, arms aloft, laughing, making up the tune as they went along.

Randeep passed Narinder the envelope, feeling a little smug. ‘Early this month.’

She smiled, which surprised him. She never smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Randeep. I’ll see you soon.’

‘We’re making good money now,’ he blurted out, keen for her to stay.

‘Oh, that is good news. Are you still at the hotel?’

‘No, no, that ended – ’ he counted out loud – ‘nearly two months ago now. We’ve gone into business.’ He waited for her to be impressed.

‘Business?’ she said, though she wasn’t really listening any more, distracted by Tochi coming up the road.

Randeep could feel his face filling with a meld of embarrassment and jealousy. Didn’t she know how humiliating it was for him to be seen standing on her doorstep like this?

Without looking at them, without a word, Tochi sidled past and disappeared into his flat.

‘Sorry What were you saying?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, deflated. ‘I should go.’

‘Me too. I have plans.’

‘Oh?’ Was she doing something with him? ‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘I am, yes.’ She smiled again, wider. ‘I’m going swimming!’

It had, of course, been Vidya’s idea. At first Narinder pleaded that she’d never been swimming and didn’t even own a swimming costume. Then, once a suitable costume had been sourced, she said she couldn’t be in a pool with naked men. The thought of it seemed outrageous. A week later Vidya announced that she’d found a pool that offered once-a-week ladies-only sessions. ‘We’re going. No more excuses.’

Narinder emerged from the changing rooms in a neck-high elbow-to-knee number. ‘Why are you trying so hard not to laugh?’ she said to Vidya.

‘I’m not! You look great.’

‘I look like a seal.’

There were only three other women in the pool, all brown, and the whole place was thick with the smell of chlorine. At the shallow end, Vidya climbed in first, then waded out, her arms in a circle above the water.

‘Is it good for the baby?’ Narinder said.

‘Just get in, you chicken!’

She clutched the chrome rail and touched her foot to the water. Cold. But not too cold. She put her foot in again and this time left it there. She looked at it, at the water and light rippling over her toes. She lowered herself in, the water coming up over her shins, her knees, all the way up to her thighs. It didn’t stop. It felt like she was being taken over. Shivering, she turned round to face Vidya.

‘Come over here,’ Vidya said. ‘You’ll be fine once you start moving.’

So she started pushing through the water, arms in an X over her chest. The shivering ceased.

‘Isn’t that better?’ Vidya said.

‘It’s still cold.’

‘You need to get your face wet.’

‘What?’

Vidya cupped her palms under the water and splashed Narinder’s face.

‘Pehnji!’

‘Now do this,’ and she pinched her nostrils together and dunked under the water. When she rose back up, her face was glistening, hair drenched. ‘Your turn.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Just do it!’

She placed a palm over her face, covering her mouth and nose, and bent to meet the water, not going down vertically like Vidya, but forwards, as if she was bowing for prayer.

Afterwards, Narinder rubbed her hair dry and retied her turban and they stepped back out into the shallow heat of the day.

‘Let’s come again next week,’ she said.

‘You enjoyed it, then?’

They returned to the gurdwara and from there Vidya said she had to head home. Her husband would need his roti before he went to work. ‘But why don’t you come over later?’

‘To yours?’

‘I’ll cook. And you’ll be doing me a favour. It can get a bit scary when he’s away at night.’

She said her prayers, fully if not carefully, then raced home. The day was only getting better. Is this what it felt like, she wondered, to be part of the world, to have the world take you in its arms? She knelt in front of her image of Nanakji and thanked Him for all He was doing for her. Then she chose a mustard salwaar kameez with a white trim, tied on a matching mustard turban, and caught the bus to Vidya’s.

They lived in an unpainted room in a shared semi to the north of the city. The bed took up most of the space. Under the window was a writing desk, too narrow for the three large oval doilies it was dressed in, and the curtains were a lurid red. Narinder helped bring the food up from the kitchen.

‘You’ve made so much. And it smells so good.’

‘I thought you could take some with you. It’s all freezable.’

They ate side by side on the bed, a little inelegantly as the mattress was high and the desk didn’t quite come to their knees. Bhangra tunes blasted from the room next door and several tenants seemed to be arguing. Children screamed.

‘It’s all apneh,’ Vidya said. ‘Faujis.’

‘Does the council own the house?’

Vidya clucked her tongue. ‘A Panjabi. A proper gurdwara sardar type.’

‘Really?’

‘To look at him you’d think he shat pearls. You won’t believe how much rent he charges.’

‘That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why’s it your fault? Our own people are the worst at bleeding us dry.’

The door opened and a man came in, stopping when he saw Narinder. Short, thin, dark. He had stained teeth and ringworm on his hands. He looked as tired a man as Narinder had ever seen.

‘What happened?’ Vidya said.

‘We were sent home.’

‘Why? What happened?’

He nodded at Narinder. ‘Sat sri akal, pehnji.’

She’d already pulled her chunni over her turban and now she brought her hands together under her chin. ‘Sat sri akal, veerji,’ she said, seeing as they were Haryana folk.

He looked at the spread of food on the desk. ‘Heat me some up, will you. I’ll wash my hands.’ He left for the bathroom.

Vidya sighed and, one hand to her belly, slid off the bed. ‘Because of course using a microwave is beneath him. I won’t be long.’

Narinder sat in the dim room feeling that she should leave soon. She heard the toilet flush and through the seam of light where door met wall saw the husband cross the landing and go down the stairs. After maybe a minute, with no sign of either of them, Narinder opened the door and leaned over the top rail. The husband was speaking.

‘Are we that rich that we can waste food on strangers?’

‘Oh, janum, don’t be like that. She’s a friend.’

‘Let her family feed her.’

‘She’s not got anyone here. I feel sorry for her. She lives alone.’

Maybe the husband made some sort of face.

‘Arré, you do know she’s sikhni. You can see that much?’

‘I know exactly what kind of unmarried girls live alone in this country.’

Narinder retrieved her bag from the room and slipped downstairs. They met her in the hallway, the husband’s hand on Vidya’s shoulder, as if warning her.

‘It’s late,’ Narinder said. ‘I should go.’

‘You don’t have—’ Vidya began.