Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘I’m still not happy about you going on your own,’ Tejpal said.

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ She sat on the sofa, her reflection warped in the fifty-inch TV screen that dominated the room.

‘We could have scattered the ashes here,’ Tejpal said.

‘It’s not what he would have wanted.’

‘Then maybe take Sabrina with you, if I can still get a ticket.’

Sabrina, Tejpal’s wife of four years, looked up from her iPhone. She seemed horrified, as if she’d been asked to donate a limb. ‘I really don’t think so.’

‘And what was wrong with Heathrow?’ Tejpal said. ‘Why are you going all the way to Manchester?’

‘Maybe she’s meeting someone,’ Sabrina suggested, laughing. ‘A secret affair. How funny would that be?’

‘Sabrina!’ Tejpal said. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

Sabrina sighed luxuriously and as she stood her emerald sari shimmered against her long brown arms. ‘I want to go. The table’s booked for eight.’

He started to lace up his shoes, presenting everyone with a view of his head. Forty this year, he was receding determinedly. So much so, it looked as if he’d taken to some sort of spray-on thickening agent. Narinder smiled discreetly and bent to her newspaper. She read a paragraph, until she felt forced to look up again, and saw Sabrina mouthing something to Tejpal. And then Tejpal spoke:

‘Narinder, actually, I wanted to say that while you’re away we thought we might get the place valued. You know, to get an idea.’

She nodded. She wasn’t surprised. She’d overheard Sabrina on the phone to one of her friends about the matter, about getting out of this dreary old house, about the problem of the sister. ‘That sounds good,’ Narinder said.

‘We’ve not decided anything, so I don’t want you to worry. And of course you’re part of this family as much as anyone.’

‘But we wanted to be upfront with you,’ Sabrina said, taking over, as if she thought her husband was pussyfooting. ‘We want to move closer to my family. They can help with children and whatnot. If we ever get round to having any,’ she added in a pointed aside. ‘And there’s nothing really keeping us here. Tej’s office say he can get a transfer easily enough.’

‘But nothing’s been decided,’ Tejpal said, a little desperately. ‘And you can stay with us, you know, as long as—’

‘Or you could start your own life,’ Sabrina said. ‘There are loads of great one-bedroomed flats around. I printed some off the net for you. And you could get a job or something. It’s not too late. Because don’t you think you should work? Like, live in the twenty-first century?’

‘When did she have the time?’ Tejpal said.

‘I just think women died so we could work and be equal. It’s disrespectful to their memory if we just sit around.’

‘For God’s sake, Sabrina! She was looking after Dad for ten years. What the hell did you do?’

‘And what the hell did you do? And why should I? He wasn’t my dad.’ And then, muttering, ‘Everyone loves a martyr.’

Tejpal had let Sabrina believe one version of the story. That she had forsaken her future to take care of her ill father. In reality, when she returned home from Sheffield, without her turban, her kara, her kandha, and told her family she wasn’t going to marry — not Karamjeet, not anyone — Baba Tarsem Singh had slapped her. It was the one and only time in his life he’d done that. Tejpal bellowed, a frantic Karamjeet tried to talk her round, to the wedding, to God. She said she’d made up her mind and nothing could change that, however much she might wish it. Baba Tarsem Singh was forced to apologize to Karamjeet’s parents, lowering himself in front of everyone. Less than a year after Narinder’s return he had his second stroke, leaving him unable to care for himself. He lived for another ten years and then one morning Narinder came into his room, his toothbrush and glass of sugared water on her tray, and found him sitting up against the headboard, his heavy head sunk forward and turban falling off.

*

You’d think the rani was coming. His mother had said so at least a dozen times in the last week. He didn’t care. He was excited. It wasn’t often he had visitors, and he’d not seen her since that damp, formal day in the solicitor’s office in Southall, when he’d waited for her to come and sign the divorce papers. Afterwards, they’d shaken hands and she’d hurried off down the road, unfurling her umbrella, hoping to catch the 2.15 back to Croydon. And now here he was, all these years later, waiting again.

A knock on the window startled him. Avtar. ‘The door’s locked,’ he mouthed.

Randeep’s hand went to his forehead, in apology, as if to convey he was losing his mind. He got up to let him in.

‘Is she staying a few weeks?’ Avtar said, eyeing all the food laid out on the kitchen counter.

Randeep carried on to the front room and sat down, clasping and unclasping his hands.

‘What time’s she coming?’ Avtar asked, sitting down too.

‘Her train gets in at 11.35. She said she’d get a taxi. Do you really think it’s too much for lunch?’

‘I think it’s too much for Switzerland.’

Randeep frowned. ‘Oh well.’

‘Why so nervous, man?’

‘Be serious, yaar.’

Avtar pointed. ‘New haircut?’

The taxi turned into the cul-de-sac and parked outside a modern semi with a neat stamp of a front garden. She didn’t remember ever coming to this part of Sheffield before. Beauchief, the address in her hand read. It was one of those new estates, where every house was of the same orange brick.

The front door opened before she’d even stepped out of the car. The bright sunshine pushed his face into shadow, but as she came down the driveway the light softened until he was standing before her and she could see him perfectly: the thin pockets of flesh that now cushioned his eyes, the inevitable downward turn of his full-lipped mouth. The hair at the side of his head, down to his sideburns, had greyed shockingly. He was still as thin and tall as ever, but looked perhaps a decade older than the thirty-one or so years she guessed he must now be.

‘Narinder?’

‘It’s good to see you, Randeep. It’s been a long time.’

He took her suitcase and showed her through to the front room, where she hugged Avtar. He’d run to fat. His face was bloated, pudgy, as if melted slightly in the summer heat.

‘You haven’t changed,’ she said.

‘Oh, I think we both know that’s not true,’ he replied.

Randeep brought in nibbles and glasses of mango juice, setting the tray on the coffee table. ‘Lunch won’t be long. I hope you’ll stay.’

‘I don’t think so. The flights. And I’ve still to get to Manchester.’

He said he understood. ‘It’s great to see you. Really. It’s made me very happy.’

‘It doesn’t take much,’ Avtar said, popping peanuts into his mouth.

Randeep ignored him. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’

She accepted this with a small nod. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the twins’ weddings. Thank you for inviting me, though. For contacting me.’

‘It’s because of you we’re living here, Narinder. We would have invited you to Lakhpreet’s wedding too — ’ a nod at Avtar — ‘but it was a very small affair.’

Narinder looked to Avtar. ‘Congratulations. I didn’t know.’

He shrugged, which she wasn’t sure how to take.

‘Do you live close by?’

‘A twenty-minute walk for most people.’ He tapped his foot against the table leg — a dull, hollow sound. ‘Forty for me.’

A door opened, closed, and now someone was coming down the stairs. ‘My mother,’ Randeep whispered. ‘For which I apologize in advance.’ This elicited a smile, which was gratifying.