Cathy Glass - Run, Mummy, Run

‘Aisha?’

‘Yes, hello Mark.’ She smiled.

‘I’m so very pleased to meet you, very pleased.’ He shook her hand. ‘The traffic is appalling, I hope you haven’t been waiting long?’

‘No, not long.’ She smiled again and noticed how blue his eyes were and how they sparkled as he spoke, and that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

‘Good. Come on, get in or you’ll be drenched.’

He cupped her elbow and steered her protectively across the crowded pavement to his car. She felt pleasantly conspicuous as he opened the passenger door and then waited while she got in. He unhooked her seat belt and draped it over her shoulder and into her lap; then closed the door. Aisha watched as he crossed in front of the bonnet – took in his well-defined features: the firm angular jaw suggesting confidence; his upright manner; his slightly thinning fair hair. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, she thought, more rugged: a man with presence who was at ease with himself. A man’s man, she thought.

The driver’s door opened with a rush of cold air and the interior light flickered on as Mark got in. ‘What a dreadful night,’ he said. ‘I do hope you haven’t got wet.’

‘No,’ she said, and ran her hands over her plaited hair, which was only slightly damp.

She glanced sideways at him and saw the little patches of rain on his shirt and a few beads of rain glistening on his forehead. He smiled and, reaching behind her for his jacket, took a freshly laundered and pressed cotton handkerchief from the pocket and dabbed the moisture from his face. She watched, transfixed – the act appearing intimate and magnified in the confines of the car. Briefly checking the result in the interior mirror he stretched out his legs and pushed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket. A car horn sounded behind them.

‘Patience,’ Mark said evenly. ‘A little patience goes a long way.’

Which, Aisha realized, was exactly the type of thing her father would have said; he had a maxim for every occasion.

Mark clicked on the indicator, but before pulling out suddenly turned to her, concerned. ‘Aisha, you are happy about using my car, aren’t you? Say if you’re not, and I’ll park and we can get a taxi.’

She smiled, and dispelling any reservation she may or should have felt said, ‘Yes, Belinda said it was OK, although I would like to know where you’re taking me.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I should have said. I thought we’d get out of the city. Do you know The Crooked Chimney, just off the A1? Coming from North London, I thought you might. It’s had some excellent write-ups.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and felt comfortable that they were going somewhere she knew. ‘It’s not so far from where I live. I’ve never eaten there though.’ Another horn sounded and Mark looked over his shoulder and began to pull out.

‘I used to go there regularly, a while back,’ he said, straightening the wheel. ‘The menu’s a bit conservative, but not at all bad.’ He glanced at her. ‘You do like English food, don’t you? You know, meat and veg?’

‘Yes, I was born here,’ she said. And she knew straight away she shouldn’t have said it – that quick retort her father chided her about: ‘You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one day, Aisha,’ he said.

‘I didn’t mean—’ Mark began.

‘No, neither did I. Sorry. It’s just that I’m used to the question, and often put a lot less subtly. I love English food, and Italian, and Indian. In fact, I eat almost anything.’

‘Great! That’s settled then,’ Mark said and then fell silent as he concentrated on manoeuvring across the two lanes of traffic to turn right. ‘Now,’ he said after a moment. ‘Belinda suggested we should talk about our childhoods as a safe topic to begin with. Best not disappoint her?’

‘No, indeed,’ Aisha laughed, and glanced sideways at him again. ‘But you go first, Mark, I’m sure your childhood was a lot more interesting than mine.’

‘I doubt it, but if you insist … Stop me when you’ve had enough, I don’t want to bore you to death on our first date.’

First date , she thought, suggesting he was already thinking of more. She settled herself back in her seat and looked through the windscreen. The wipers continued their steady, almost hypnotic rhythm as she listened to Mark’s rich, mellow voice. He told her about his early years in Perth with his parents and younger brother, their move south of the border, and eventually to London. She was pleased he’d suggested using the car, with just the two of them cocooned in the semi-darkness, and Mark having to concentrate on his driving. It gave her time to adjust and relax rather than suddenly being on display in the stark illumination of the underground, or opposite him in a restaurant close to where they worked. When Mark reached his teenage years in his life story, they were on the A1. He stopped talking and glanced at her. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard plenty now. I could go on all night. Your turn.’

Aisha smiled and briefly met his eyes. ‘My childhood was very different from yours, a world away. It might help if I tell you a bit about my parents first.’

Mark nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d be very interested.’

‘They were born in Gujarat,’ she began, ‘which is on the west coast of India, in a village not far from the port of Okha. Their families were poor but my father had his sights set on coming to England, right from an early age. He had a very menial job first, working in one of the government’s offices, but he worked his way up in their accounts department. Much of his money went to supporting his younger brothers and sisters but eventually he managed to save enough for the plane ticket here. He tells how he arrived with all his belongings in one bag and trekked the streets until he found a job as a clerk with a firm of accountants. He studied in his spare time, and once he had a decent income and a permanent address, he sent for my mother. They were married in a registry office and I was born a year later. My father made a lot of sacrifices to get where he is now and he is a very proud man. He’s strict with me and so is my mother – she wants me to do the right thing. My father would give my mother and me anything, but he’s frugal. I suppose it comes from knowing what real poverty is. He won’t ever buy anything unless he has the money.’

‘There’s nothing wrong in that,’ Mark said. ‘I know too many people sinking under the debt of credit cards. We live in a gotta-have-it-now culture. Never mind if you can afford it. I think your father’s attitude is right.’

It pleased Aisha considerably that Mark agreed with and upheld her father’s principles, and it gave her the confidence to continue.

Presently they turned off the A1 and Mark braked as a sudden squall sheeted against the windscreen and momentarily blocked their vision. He upped the wiper speed. Aisha looked out of the side window at the trees bending over in the wind.

‘I’m glad I’m not driving,’ she confessed. ‘My car is old and doesn’t like the rain. I’m always worried about being stranded with a breakdown or flat tyre.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re safe with me,’ Mark said. ‘She hasn’t let me down yet.’

And, yes, Aisha felt safe sitting beside Mark, his broad shoulders squared into the seat, his large hands covering the steering wheel, she felt very safe indeed. Mark emanated a confidence, an assurance, that whatever befell them he could deal with it. He was someone, she decided, who’d had enough experience of life to be in control of it rather than at its mercy, as she sometimes felt.

The sign for The Crooked Chimney presently appeared out of the trees, swinging in the wind and rain. It had always reminded Aisha of the signboard for The Jamaica Inn – the pub on the edge of Bodmin Moor: the oil painting of the old inn sign creaking as it swung from its tall metal stand. Mark made the left turn then drove a little further along the B road and pulled into the restaurant’s car park. The car’s tyres crunched over the gravel to one of the few remaining spaces on the far side.