Stephen Leather - False Friends

‘It’s getting harder, but you know what med school is like,’ said Chaudhry. His father was an oncologist at Watford General Hospital, and had been since before Chaudhry was born. ‘Third year was much better because we had the attachments, so you actually got to deal with patients. The fourth year is all bookwork and the supervised research project. It’s a grind.’

His father nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a grind all right, but we all go through it. Just take it one day at a time. Once it’s done and you’ve passed the exams you get your degree and then you can really start to learn about medicine.’

‘Fourth year’s the worst, right?’

‘Every year’s tough, Manraj; they’re just tough in different ways. But it’s when you start working as a junior doctor that the pressure really starts.’

‘The killing season, they call it at King’s.’

‘They call it that everywhere,’ said his father. ‘Just don’t ever let the patients hear you say that.’ He smiled over at his son. ‘I’m really proud of you, Manraj. I hope you know that.’

Chaudhry nodded. He knew. And he could see it in his father’s eyes.

‘So, are you seeing anyone?’

Chaudhry frowned, not understanding what his father meant, then realisation dawned and he groaned. ‘Dad. . Please. .’

‘I’m your father and you’re my only unmarried son, so I’m entitled to ask.’

‘You have only two sons and Akram got married last year.’

‘I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to be able-bodied enough to play cricket with my grandchildren.’

Chaudhry laughed and slapped his own thigh. ‘You’re crazy. Now you want me to be a father and I haven’t even graduated. What’s the rush?’

‘There’s no rush, it’s just that I’ve found what I think might be the perfect girl for you.’

‘Say what?’

His father looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘What’s the problem? I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘You thought I’d be happy because you’re fixing up an arranged marriage for me?’

‘Who said anything about marriage? I was at an NHS conference last week and I met up with an old friend who works as a cardiologist in Glasgow. He was talking about his daughter — she’s a second-year microbiology student at UCL — and I mentioned you were at King’s. .’

‘And the next thing you know you’ve got us married off. Dad, I’m more than capable of finding my own girlfriend.’

‘Which is why I asked you if you were seeing anyone.’ He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. ‘Her name’s Jamila, and she’s from a very good family. According to her father, she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend. He was very impressed to hear that you’re at King’s.’

‘You didn’t show him my CV, did you?’

‘I might have mentioned a few of the highlights, yes. Look, no pressure, but why don’t you at least get in touch, maybe ask her out?’

‘It’s not going to be one of those chaperoned things, is it? With half the family tagging along?’

His father laughed. ‘What century do you think you’re living in?’ he said. ‘She’s on Facebook. She’s been told to expect you to ask to be a Facebook friend, to chat online for a while and see if you get on.’

‘You’ve already told her about me?’

‘Her father has, yes.’

‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘We’re not planning anything. I told you, I met her father at a conference and we got talking. You can at least get in touch on Facebook, can’t you? I don’t want her father to think that we’re snubbing her.’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘Okay, I suppose I can do that.’

‘Manraj, there’s no pressure here, really. There’s no need to make a big thing about it. It’s not like when your mum and I were introduced. Back then they almost put a gun to my head.’

‘Seriously?’

His father laughed again. ‘Of course not seriously,’ he said. ‘But I was left in no doubt that I’d need a pretty good reason to turn her down. Things were very different back then and most marriages were arranged.’

‘And you were okay with that?’

‘Your grandfather is a pussycat these days, but thirty years ago he was as tough as they come. He was born in Pakistan, remember. Or British India, as it was then. He came over with nothing and it wasn’t like it is now, with benefits and handouts. The people in his village paid for him to come to the UK and when I was old enough to marry it was time for him to pay the piper.’

Chaudhry leaned forward. ‘You never told me this before.’

His father shrugged. ‘That’s the way it worked. Your mother’s grandparents helped pay for my father to come to this country. I had citizenship so if I married her then her parents and her grandparents could come too. Which is what happened, of course. Our marriage helped their family, and that was only fair because they’d helped my father.’

‘And what if you hadn’t liked her?’

His father laughed out loud. ‘We’ll never know,’ he said. ‘But I did have a few tense moments, I can tell you. They sent over a photograph but it was a group photograph and her face wasn’t clear because she was wearing a headscarf. There was no Skype back then and no Facebook. We managed a few phone calls but she was shy and she didn’t speak any English.’ He shrugged. ‘I tell you, I was bloody shaking when I got off the plane.’

‘You flew to Pakistan to meet her?’

‘To marry her, Manraj. It was a done deal by the time I arrived in Pakistan.’

Chaudhry’s jaw dropped. ‘And that didn’t worry you?’

‘I understood that I had an obligation to my father. How could I have refused? It would have been a slap in the face for him and for everyone who had helped him get to England.’ He sat back on the sofa. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well. We were met at the airport by her parents and they drove me to their village in this rickety old truck that seemed to be held together with string. The first time we met her whole family was there, so were my parents, and she had her face covered. The minutes before she took down her veil were the scariest in my life. Then she did and. .’ He grinned. ‘Wow. That’s what I said. Wow. I remember how everyone laughed. She was a lovely girl, Manraj. Like a supermodel. Her hair was just amazing; it came down to her waist and was so soft and shiny. And her skin. . I tell you, the first time I touched her arm I-’

‘Dad, please,’ said Chaudhry, holding up his hands. ‘Enough. I get it.’

‘Get what?’ said his mother, arriving with a tray of tea things and a plate of chocolate cake that she had baked specially for him. She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat next to her husband.

‘I was just telling him about Jamila,’ said his father.

‘Oh, isn’t she lovely?’ said his mother, picking up the teapot.

His mother wasn’t supermodel fit any more, thought Chaudhry, but she was still a lovely woman. The woman he’d known had always been cuddly rather than fit but as he looked at her pouring tea he could see what had attracted his father. She had high cheekbones and flawless skin the colour of the milky tea that she handed him. Her eyes were wide, with impossibly long lashes, and her hair was still as lustrous as a model’s in a shampoo advertisement. It was hard to imagine her as a simple village girl unable to speak English. His mother was always immaculately dressed, either in a traditional sari or in a western designer outfit, and she was always well made-up, even if she was just popping down to the local shops.

‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her,’ said Chaudhry.

Mrs Chaudhry looked over at her husband. ‘Didn’t you show him the picture?’