Thicker Than Soup (13 page)

Victoria Park Gardens were, as most gardens are in late January, bare and dank, though bunches of snowdrops and aconites were starting to hint at colour. It had always been a favourite spot where, at this time of year, an empty bench could be relied on. Sally pulled Sammy's buggy round to face the watery sun so that it warmed him as he slept and pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat. It had been a year in which John was a daily thought and everyday activities induced his image. That morning marmalade had dropped on the morning paper and a few days ago, when her mother had touched up the woodwork round the front door, the smell of white spirit invoked his presence – and absence. As a matter-of-fact girl, one who lived in the present and looked to the future, backward tugging anchors were troubling, but after the flat and most of their furniture had been sold and she'd received a cheque without even a note from him, the solicitor's impersonal communication had closed their lives together. Since then, she'd become adept at forcing her mind elsewhere – at least for most of the time.

Sammy woke. “Hello little one.” He was walking, and talking a bit, and babyhood was disappearing. “You've had a nice sleep, and we're going home now.” Sally replaced a mitten he'd removed as smiles became grumbles and he demanded freedom.

“Anma, Anma!”

“Yes, yes. We're going to see Grandma, but keep your mittens on.” Life with her mother had its conveniences and Sammy loved his grandma, but it wasn't what she wanted. She needed a home for herself and Sammy and had half-heartedly looked at several flats. But the next move had to be significant; it had to be a home. A duck waddled across the grass, at home in its park and unruffled by the cold wind that rumpled its feathers. It quacked its song into the pale day. “Duck, Sammy. Quack, quack,” she pointed, tucking his mitten encased hand below the blanket. Perhaps a holiday, some sunshine, she thought, knowing as the idea formed that it wasn't the answer. She wanted more than a diversion. She was seeking a life.

Her perfect son, almost hidden beneath his warm covers, glowed pinkly in the winter air. Drawing crisp cold air into her lungs she strolled with him through the park, pondering the more urgent challenge of what she should do about a letter that lay in her bag. Diane had written that she and Malik were marrying and hoped it would be possible for Sally as well as John to come to the wedding. Torn between the desire to see her friend marry and an aversion that clashed with an undeniable desire to at least see John again, she was at a loss to know how to reply. In the year of remorse, regret, anger and finally bearable sorrow, she'd reached a plateau; but could she manage the wedding? Perhaps, she thought, if she didn't take Sammy – the evidence of her downfall. The idea of herself as a fallen woman brought a grin to her face and she looked at her son wondering how such a term could have ever been associated with this beautiful, precious perfection!

*

At home another letter was waiting, and to her excitement she saw it was from Pakistan. Slicing carefully into the flimsy folds she looked quickly at the signature; it was from her cousin, Aamina, who she'd heard about long ago in some of her father's stories, and then sometimes in the decreasing – since her father had died – exchange of letters. She read it quickly then again, more slowly. Few women in Pakistan, she believed, went to school or work, and it surprised her to find Aamina had finished a Bachelor's degree in Business Studies and was planning to move on to her Master's. The course, Aamina wrote, was conducted in English (another surprise), and she asked if Sally would like to exchange letters to help improve her language. The letter reawakened forgotten fantasies that had formed when she'd exchanged letters with an Indian girl, a penfriend arranged by a Geography teacher at school. When the girl hadn't replied to her second letter Sally had concluded that life in London must have been too ordinary for her exotic friend, but Aamina's letter recreated visions of magical markets and delicious spiced foods, and, excited at the prospect of hearing about her father's family, she began to form a reply in her head.

*

Along Roman Road, aromas of cumin and cardamom-infused frying lamb and displays of mangoes, papayas and yams tempted Sally. Later, she decided, she would write descriptions of the shop selling sari silks, another selling yams and lentils, and try to create images of life in London for her cousin Aamina. She smiled to herself at the irony that she would be writing about a life that Aamina might find unexpectedly familiar. A display of golden mangoes caught her attention and she bought two, wondering how much they would cost in Lahore. She'd ask Aamina. She'd like to know about life in Pakistan. Her father had captivated her and Matt with stories of his life but he'd left in 1947. Much would have changed in thirty-six years. Recalling her lost Indian penfriend Sally vowed to make her letters interesting.

At home her mother was trying to encourage Sammy to give her his spoon rather hold it in one hand and use the other to feed himself. Shrugging off her coat, Sally took the dish of food. “Here Mum, let me take over.”

Seeing his mother transformed Sammy's disgruntled complaints into a lip-smacking smile. “Mam mam mam…”

Taking advantage of the distraction Sally took the spoon from his hand, loaded it with mashed potato, and filled the smiling mouth in front of her. “Good boy!”

Watching, his grandma tutted. “Little tinker.” She rinsed a milk bottle and dropped it in the Tupperware milk bottle carrier. “I'll put the kettle on.” The silver foil top, also rinsed, joined others in a box on the windowsill.

As Sammy accepted spoonful after spoonful without further displays of independence Sally chatted about the activities of the days. “Oh, by the way, I bought those.” She indicated a paper bag on the table.

“Mangoes. Ooh, lovely. Your father loved mangoes. He's always nudging me to buy some; they remind him of home.”

Sally looked at her mother. “What did you say?”

An abashed smile lifted the corners of Jane's mouth. “Well, I mean they reminded him of home. I see them in the street and I think to myself, I'll get some of those. I feel like I have to, remembering how your father always wanted me to buy them.”

Sally remembered the mangoes, or more precisely, the mango fool her mother had made and the rest of the family had made predictable jokes about. But it wasn't mango fool that fired her excitement. “No, I don't mean that. You said they reminded Dad of home. Mum! You're fabulous! You've just given me an answer! I know what I'm going to do.” Sally experienced a rush of exhilaration and could hardly bring herself to say it out loud. But she knew she was going to do it. “I'm going to Lahore!” She turned to Sammy and clapped her hand. “We're going to go on holiday, Sammy. We're going to Lahore.”

The air-cooler blocked most of the window, though propped against pillows, Sally could just see a triangle of washing lines where her heat stiffened laundry, washed by a maid with detergent coarsened hands, waved solidly. She'd quietly tried to launder their things herself but both the maid and her aunt had protested and she'd backed down.

Tucked into the edge of the cooler were the three photographs she'd brought with her, their edges curling in the heat. The larger one showed her parents smiling happily, eating ice-cream on Brighton promenade one sunny afternoon a few months before the accident had killed her father. It was the latest one she had of him and she'd wanted his family to see him happy in his English life. Below it was the photo of Jai's wedding, creased and shabby edged from handling as she'd tried to absorb the faces of these people; her uncles, aunts and cousins, who she would meet in Lahore. In the bottom picture her sepia grandparents stared out fixedly. Her grandmother must have been about fifty but looked younger than the serious moustached man standing stiffly behind her. It was this woman that Sally had longed to meet, the one who her father had repeatedly and proudly told her she resembled.

On the mattress next to her Sammy twitched his baby dreams and she eased to one side to let cooled air from the enormous box contraption blow between them. The three weeks since their arrival in Pakistan had fused sights, sounds, and senses and she was grateful for the parting gift Diane had given her, a journal, that had prompted her to record the kaleidoscope of clamour and bustle that had filled her eyes and invaded her heart. Brought up with the notion that daytime activity was right and proper and anything else was undeservedly self-indulgent, Sally found the enforced afternoon rest each day trying and afternoon siestas had become writing time. As the household rested she immersed herself in the buzz and bedlam of Lahore life, writing anew and re-reading days that had passed. Opening the book at the beginning she started to read.

All excitingly different three weeks ago, now already familiar. But reading again evoked the excitement of that first journey from the airport in Islamabad to her aunt's home in Lahore.

Fanning her still sleeping son she skipped to the meeting with her grandmother.
…long grey plait coiled tightly round her head, framing her nut brown face and eyes that glistened like river washed gemstones. Words failed and we embraced. All I could think of to say was “I'm so happy to meet you.” My grandmother didn't let go of my hand for ages and all my nerves disappeared!

Sally recalled the clamour of hugs, kisses and gifts. Even little Ipsita had dutifully kissed Sammy which he'd enjoyed enough to kiss her right back! Of all the greetings, only Aunt Zarah's had felt merely dutiful and her un-kept promise that they'd be spending a lot of time together was, as she neared the end of her stay, not something she was sad about.

She turned a page.
…Yalda showed us to our room. It's quite dark and small, and Sammy and I sleep together on a mattress on the floor, which is no different than any of the others. It was already after six so I bathed and dressed Sammy for bed and everyone was very amused to see the pyjamas, as bedtime, even for Sammy, doesn't happen until around midnight.

Sammy had adjusted easily to the afternoon siestas, and Sally wished she could escape the heat so easily. She read on.
…Later in the evening I was encouraged to leave Sammy playing with Ipsita and in Saima's care whilst Daniel drove Yalda, Aamina and me to Liberty Market where, although it seemed unnecessarily extravagant, Yalda insisted her tailor would transform the gifts of fabric into new shalwar kameezes. The market made me feel quite dizzy. Instead of rows of stalls, it turned out to be a noisy, brightly lit shopping complex full of restaurants, malls, shops and street vendors. Apparently shopping areas are called markets here. The whole place thronged with mostly women, even though it was after nine o'clock. I thought there must be a holiday or a festival but Yalda said not, and that this was normal. It's cooler to shop in the evenings and everywhere stays open until people go home!

On our way into the covered area we passed rows and rows of garish sandals and glitzy handbags and near the entrances were piles and piles of wraps, shawls and stoles which we had to squeeze by to get into a warren of fabric stalls. Thankfully Aamina took my hand and guided me past dozens of alcoves where owners sat or stood, watched TV, or shouted their wares and prospective buyers haggled over damasks, silks and chiffons. I hung on to Aamina as we squeezed through the crowds. Even so, elbows dug into me and my toes were trodden on many times. Yalda was quite majestic, dismissing stallholders' invitations to view their glittering or sequined fabrics, many draped across headless mannequins. “Ugh! Made in China,” I heard her say several times. Loudly.

We went down some stairs, passing soft drinks sellers who looked at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable; I was relieved that I'd borrowed Saima's shawl and that my long shirt covered my bottom. Below stairs was an Aladdin's cave of riches! I saw one artist (for that's what he must be!) painting iridescent peacocks, copying from a piece of fabric on to soft silk to create a matching dupatta. Another man stitched seed-like beads on to stretched silks – I worried about his eyesight. Shop windows displayed scarlet wedding dresses woven with gold thread and jewels, which Aamina said cost more than a lakh rupees, which is quite a few thousand pounds. I thought people were poor in Pakistan!

We caught up with Yalda in a small workshop, where she'd already opened up my new fabric pieces. She told me to choose from styles on a sample rail at the back of the shop, but when I turned I saw a false half-ceiling, just above my head height, with four men sitting cross-legged as they whizzed fabric through sewing machines. I was horrified! I told Aamina, very quietly, how dreadful I thought it was but she was more interested in pulling samples from the rail. She laughed and said that I shouldn't worry as the men were all part of the family and that they earned plenty of money because they did good work. I didn't like it and didn't want to have them make my clothes but Aamina assured me they'd be much worse off if everybody was like me because they'd have no work.

Though Sally had visited the market a number of times since, nothing would replace the impact of the first time. In a few days, when she and Sammy went home, she knew she would read and re-read these journals to keep these memories alive.

She'd take some of the clothes home, at least one for herself and one of Diane. Her mother, she knew, wouldn't wear such a thing. The others she'd leave behind – the maid would be glad of them.

And one day, she promised herself, she'd return. She knew already that she'd miss them all very much, particularly Rachel, Daoud's wife, who she'd met after collecting the clothes from the Market. They'd returned home to find an extraordinarily beautiful woman remonstrating with two noisy, excited boys who on seeing Sally, had switched smoothly from Urdu to perfect English, “Look, here's a new auntie for you,” she'd told the boys. “Do you want her to think that boys do not know how to behave in Pakistan, eh? Now say hello nicely to auntie.” Dutifully the boys greeted her in unison before running away giggling. “I'm sorry,” Rachel had said, “We've been travelling for many hours and they're letting off steam. You must be Sally. I see the family eyes.” She introduced herself and her ‘naughty' twins, Sohail and Tariq. The room became crowded as Daoud, her uncle from Abbottabad appeared with three more, older boys who he'd introduced as his older sons, and a minute later, Sammy had hurtled into the room and thrown himself at her legs. Conversation had been impossible and Yalda's instruction to prepare to go out to dinner was welcomed. But Sally had realised they must have forgotten how young Sammy was. “What about Sammy?” she'd asked, “he's too young. I can't go!”

Her protest had been brushed aside. “Of course you can,” Yalda had assured her, “there'll be lots of families. Saima's bringing Ipsita and Rachel's bringing the twins.” Rachel had nodded and she'd guessed this beautiful new aunt of hers was not much older than herself.

Aamina had helped her to wash and dress Sammy and she tried to glean more. “Rachel's very beautiful.”

“Isn't she!” Aamina had chatted readily. “Rachel is Daoud's second wife.” She'd rubbed a flannel over Sammy's face. “Daoud's first wife died in childbirth. It was very sad.” There'd been a respectful pause. “But then he met Rachel and married her. Do you know she's twenty years younger than him! Unbelievable! He's ancient; I think fifty seven or maybe eight and she's only thirty seven!” She'd shuddered dramatically. “Can you imagine sleeping with someone who's almost sixty?”

Amused at her cousin's chatter Sally had protested that Daoud was still attractive, even at fifty-seven, and soon, dressed in her new clothes and feeling exotic, Aamina had announced them dramatically. “Ladaa! Here we have the handsome Master Sammy and his beautiful Ammi, wearing this season's exciting creations by Malik Malik, tailor of repute!” Sally had fussed self-consciously with the strangeness of her dupatta until Daniel had moved forward and placing an arm round her shoulders had said, “You look stunning. I am proud to call you my Pakistani daughter.” In that moment Sally had both missed her father and loved her new uncle.

The big surprise had been the discovery that Rachel had been born in Middlesex, which explained her perfect English. But the story she told Sally was very different from her own. Coming to Pakistan as a twenty-year old bride in an arranged marriage, she'd met her husband only once before. She'd lived with his family near Peshawar where, without friends and not allowed to leave the house alone, she'd been homesick. Joy at the birth of her baby son a year later had turned to sadness as her mother-in-law took over the child, and when, another two years later, her husband became sick with TB and died, his parents accused Rachel of being a bad wife and mother and demanded she return to England, alone. But she'd stayed in Pakistan, hoping to see her son again. Sally had asked why she didn't just take him, and Rachel had replied, “I'm a woman and this isn't England.”

*

When sounds of movement came from her grandmother's room Sally was eager to restart the day and finding the light switch in the half light of the tiny, windowless kitchen at the back of the house, she turned it on. Then off and on again, and found load-shedding – which Sally had soon discovered were all too frequent power cuts – had begun. In the dim light, she felt around for the candles.

“Sallyji. Chai. Very nice.”

“Saima!” Sally jumped. “I didn't hear you! Haan, yes. I'll make a large pot – I heard Daadi stirring too.” It amused Sally how English blended with Urdu, and with so many English words a component of the language, her self-appointed task of learning was less difficult.

The kettle whistled its alarm call and soon the household settled into familiar camaraderie, sipping sweet milky tea and chatting. Their grandmother's bent fingers slowly but skilfully plaited Aamina's oil-shined hair and Sally recounted how she'd once squawked as her mother had pulled out knots caused by her father's attempt to dress her hair for school. Saima ran fingers through Ipsita's dark, baby hair, already curling round her tiny neck, and Sally hugged Sammy and kissed his mop of uncontrollable spikes.