Brian Degas - Specials - Based on the BBC TV Drama Series - The complete novels in one volume

‘Of course I’m surprised,’ she admitted to Miss Brownlow. ‘Yes … of course I’ll meet her.’

At that moment, Maynard was crossing the office and passing behind Viv. ‘Staff on phone means a customer gone,’ he admonished her in an adolescent singsong voice.

She made an obscene gesture behind his back.

‘Today?’ Not today, she wanted to protest. ‘Lunch-time?’ Not lunchtime, not today. ‘I guess I could.’ She didn’t know how in hell she could. ‘Okay, I’ll wait for you here …’

Maynard was still keeping a wary eye on Viv. Yet immediately after ending her conversation with Miss Brownlow and replacing the receiver, she picked it up again and dialled another number. When the connection was completed, she tried to speak softly in a low voice to the love of her life (or, at least, of the moment).

‘Ginger? It’s Viv. About lunch …’

It was obvious he guessed what she was going to say, so she didn’t have to suffer through it.

‘I’m sorry. You’re a love.’ She blew him a wet kiss. She doubted whether its sensual texture, let alone moisture, would survive the transmission to reach his ear, but gave it all she had anyway. ‘Mwah! Sweetie.’ She would have to demonstrate first-hand what she meant sometime later when they were alone together.

In a hurry she replaced the receiver and turned around – only to find Maynard standing behind her, open-mouthed, in a state of shock.

Mrs Shah hovered around the stove figuring how to look busy with nothing much left to do, while her children, Anjali and Sanjay, finished their late breakfast. Though at times concerned about her son, she was always worrying about her daughter.

‘It is ten o’clock, Anjali,’ she cautioned, making a conscious effort not to sound too abrasive.

Anjali questioned her mother’s memory with a gentle reminder. ‘Ma? Tuesday I have a late start at the hospital.’

Observing her brother nonchalantly half-eating his breakfast and half-reading his newspaper, Anjali decided the time was appropriate to approach him lightly.

‘I see you’ve got a new friend.’

Sanjay put down his newspaper and looked up slyly at his older sister.

‘You mean Dev? I thought I saw the two of you in the kitchen together.’ He winked at her. ‘Fancy him, do you? He’s a good-looking fellow. But you’re much too old for him, Jelly Baby.’

He took another couple of sips of coffee before continuing. ‘Anyway, he’s up here visiting his uncle for a week or two, then he goes back to London.’

Speaking casually, Anjali tried to disguise the extent and purpose of her interest. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘He came along with Bati,’ Sanjay replied, then looked to his mother. ‘Ma? I need more coffee.’ Mrs Shah complied without hesitation. He switched his glaring eyes to Anjali. ‘You know, you’re sounding more like a policeman every day,’ he said sarcastically.

Their Uncle Ram, brother of their mother and adopted ‘father’ of the family of three, wandered into the kitchen. Apparently feeling stiff and sore at the old age of 60, Ram tried a tentative stretch of his tired limbs. As usual, his mood was cranky first thing in the morning.

‘Don’t all get up, it’s only your Uncle Ram,’ he mocked.

Sanjay needled Anjali at the earliest opportunity. ‘You’re just in time, Uncle. Anjali is giving me the third degree.’ He glanced at his sister to see if his jabs were getting to her. ‘About a friend of mine. I think she’s lusting after him.’ That should do it.

‘What a nonsense!’ Anjali muttered.

But Uncle Ram was suddenly interested, mildly rebuking her. ‘I will decide if it’s a nonsense.’ He turned to young Sanjay.

‘What boy are you speaking about? Do I know him? What is his family?’

An unfeminine and unbecoming grunting noise indicated Anjali’s irritation, but Sanjay was only too happy to respond.

‘He’s visiting from London. His name is Dev Patel. You know his uncle – Prem Ghai, the one who sells spice.’

Uncle Ram flattened his lips, clearly impressed. ‘Prem Ghai is a very major businessman.’ His calculating look at Anjali suggested he might have underestimated her.

‘You are a slyboots,’ he told her, ‘and no mistake.’

Anjali was unimpressed. ‘Uncle, look at me, and watch what my lips say. I have no interest in this boy. I do not wish to be interested in this boy. This boy is of no account.’

Just then the doorbell rang. Mrs Shah was relieved and thankful for the chance to answer the door and escape another family squabble.

His mother now beyond hearing him, Sanjay’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then why ask these questions? Are you prying into my affairs again? Is that it? You see I have a new friend? So you snoop. Now you’re in the police you think everyone is a criminal.’ Angry and disgusted, he stormed out of the kitchen.

Uncle Ram flapped his hands helplessly. ‘He is right.’

‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ Anjali answered sharply.

‘There you go! I say something, and you contradict. You have no respect. I am the head of the family now that your father is no longer with us. You would do well to heed my advice.’

In the brief silence that followed, Mrs Shah returned to the kitchen from answering the doorbell.

‘It’s Mrs Patel,’ she announced. ‘She’s in the other room.’

Uncle Ram checked his watch. ‘I am late already, but tell her I can spare a few minutes.’

Mrs Shah shook her head. ‘No, no. It is Anjali she wishes to see.’

In the office of Cougar Coaches sitting opposite Bob Loach was a young man of 16 by the name of Kevin, about to be taken on as the new grease monkey. Loach looked at him and smiled, then turned his gaze to Noreen, who was checking Kevin’s references.

‘Fantastic!’ Noreen proclaimed. ‘He got a C in Woodwork.’

Loach winked at Kevin. ‘I’m not taking him on to give a lecture in French, you know, Noreen. He’s just an apprentice.’

Noreen intercepted the male club wink, abruptly deciding to examine callow Kevin a bit more closely. It was hardly a pleasant errand given his unwashed hair, unshaven face and the sweatmarks under his armpits.

‘True,’ she reluctantly concurred with her husband. ‘But I think Kevin has a lot to learn about personal hygiene. Haven’t you, Kevin?’ She paused for a brief moment, to see if he understood what she meant. ‘Beginning with what it means.’

Loach glowered at Noreen. ‘All right, lad, go see John Barraclough. Tell him you’re hired.’ He offered a last word of advice. ‘Remember, Kevin. We all have to pull our weight here.’

Noreen returned the references to the boy. ‘In other words, luv, the only passengers we carry pay to get on the bus.’

Kevin nodded, getting to his feet while mumbling his thanks, then stopped at the door. ‘Hope your thumb gets better, Mr Loach.’

Noreen jumped in before Loach could reply. ‘I’m sure Jack Horner will watch where he sticks his thumb next time.’

His expression unsure, Kevin made a quick exit.

When he was gone, Loach turned on Noreen.

‘Look, Noreen …’ he grumbled.

But she was already back at work and didn’t bother to look up.

The mother of Raj Patel was not crying; she was weeping. For her there was little comfort in surroundings of the Shah home decorated to resemble an idealized memory of Bombay. For her there was nowhere to hide from being treated as an alien untouchable in a pervasive and powerful class society. For her son she felt powerless, helpless, terrified.

All this convulsive anguish Anjali could feel as well, holding Mrs Patel’s hands and trying to calm her.

‘My boy is a good boy,’ she sobbed. ‘You work with the policemen. You tell them that. My Raj could never do what they say he did. You tell them they have made a mistake.’