Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘I’m sorry,’ she said on the phone.

‘You won’t be serving alcohol. I understand your position on that. This’d be in the mornings when no one else is there.’

‘But it’s under the same roof. I’m not allowed.’

She did agree to attend the second interview, for a role in the womenswear section of a large department store. She’d never been interviewed and was so nervous she didn’t eat. But she thought it had gone well. Two interviewers — a man and a woman — and they’d poured her a glass of water and said they were going to keep things informal by just going through her CV and asking a few competency-based questions. Nothing too taxing, they’d said. She’d left riding a wave of relief and pleasure and as she walked out of the store and into the new world she allowed herself some optimism.

‘Lack of retail experience,’ Carolyn said, when she called to explain why Narinder hadn’t got the role.

‘OK. Thank you.’

‘Don’t sound so despondent. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Christ, it takes my Mal five weeks just to put a shelf up. And I’ve got two more lined up already. One tomorrow and one for a week on Monday.’

She didn’t get those either. Both jobs were in supermarkets and both, again, cited a lack of experience. Narinder thanked Carolyn for letting her know, then switched off her phone and held it in her lap. No one wanted her. She couldn’t see a way out. She walked to the doorway of her bedroom and gazed at the photos of her gurus, at the shrine, expecting some sort of solace. She could feel none. For the first time, it just looked like pictures of old men. She forced the thought away and took up her gutka and sat down and started to read, out loud, filling her mind with as many words as she could.

When Carolyn next called, she said she had something that was right up Narinder’s street.

‘It’s at one of the smaller libraries. Part-time assistant. As soon as it came on the board I thought of you.’

‘Thank you. That sounds good.’

‘Oh dear. I hope you sound less like a miserable Marjorie in the interview.’

Narinder smiled. ‘I’m sorry. It sounds great.’

‘That’s better. Now,’ Carolyn said, her voice offering total discretion, ‘what were you planning on wearing?’

She didn’t take Carolyn’s advice, that maybe she should replace her headwear with something less ‘statementy’ — A headscarf does the same job, surely? — and might she also consider trousers on this occasion? She wore a plain sky-blue salwaar kameez with a chunni of a deeper blue, and she topped it all off with a black turban.

The library was a bus ride away, in Dore, on the other side of the city, and abutted a doctor’s surgery. She was buzzed through and saw that, in the children’s aisle, some sort of mother-and-baby group was in progress.

‘Narinder, is it?’ a woman said, splitting from the group.

Her long, flowery skirt was elasticated at the waist, and her blouse as white as her hair. A gold brooch, like a fat sun with short rays, was pinned at the neck.

‘Ji. Yes. I’m Narinder. I’m sorry if I’m late.’

‘I’m Jessica,’ the woman said, bringing her hands together in a clap. ‘And I could not be more delighted to meet you.’

They sat in the staff kitchen, drinking tea and discussing things Narinder would later struggle to recall. They’d spoken about India, and Jessica’s time there in the Sixties, and there’d been something about some modifications she was having made to her bungalow. Narinder sat there listening, nodding, waiting for the interview to begin. But then an hour had passed and Jessica said she had to get things ready for the afternoon sessions. So when could Narinder start?

‘Oh!’ Narinder said, her hand leaping to her mouth. ‘You mean — I’ve got the job?’

‘I think you’d be perfect.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!’

‘There’s no need to thank me, dear. I need to get the paperwork through, so shall we say two weeks from Monday?’

‘Yes. Yes. That’s — I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

Jessica squeezed Narinder’s hand and left the room, telling her to take as long as she needed. Tears had come to Narinder’s eyes. It felt as if for the first time in years some joy had entered her life.

She was desperate for the two weeks to be over. She cleaned the flat, she went for long walks, she read the gutka; anything that might urge the hours on and stop this grim staring at the walls. She was proud of herself, and it didn’t matter that pride was one of the feelings she shouldn’t submit to. She couldn’t help it. She had a job. A real job. And she’d done it all by herself. She wanted to tell someone, anyone, but the only person who presented himself was Mr Greatrix, looking at her over his clipboard.

‘I trust you got the written notification of your first warning?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She handed over what she’d withdrawn from the bank. ‘I think that brings us up to date.’

He looked surprised, suspicious, even. He counted it. ‘Yes. Well. That seems all in order. Of course the warning still stands. If you miss any future payments—’

‘I won’t.’ She could feel herself about to say it: ‘I’ve got a job.’

She washed the clothes and turbans she wanted to wear during her first week and set them to dry across the radiator and on the rungs of the dining chairs. Then she stood by the window. It was a clear afternoon, a suddenly eloquent sky. Two girls in blazers were coming up the hill — school must have started again — and beyond them, rounding the corner, her downstairs neighbour. Bizarrely, he was rolling a large rubber tyre up the hill. She watched him for a while, then moved away from the window in case he might see her.

She made plain roti, which turned out far too doughy, and ate this with a sabzi of chickpeas. Then she went to the shop and bought milk and electric tokens. Her clothes had dried by now, so she ironed and put them away. Her first-day suit she hung on the back of her bedroom door, giving it a final brush and shake, ready for a week’s time. It was eight o’clock. With nothing more to do, she brushed her teeth and went to bed.

Maybe minutes passed, maybe hours. She wasn’t sure. The clock flashed 12:00. She checked her phone: 02:21. She was sure she’d heard something. A banging, maybe. A rumbling. It might just be him downstairs. She slipped out from under her duvet and peered through the long slit where the curtains met. The angle was too straight. She could hear voices, indistinct, but could see nothing. Neighbours? She went through to the front room and to the window there. She folded the curtain aside and looked down, then immediately leaned back, stupidly letting go so the fabric flapped a little. It was Tejpal. Others, too. She put a hand to her chest, as if they might hear its thudding, and inched forward again, peeling the curtain back by increments. They were looking up at her. She flattened herself against the wall. And now she could hear him, shouting.

He wanted to talk, he said. They’d all been so worried and they just wanted to make sure she was OK. She listened from the dark of her room. ‘Narinder! Come on!’ he said, as if she was being adolescent, unreasonable; as if all he was asking for was a lift to the cinema.

She waited for them to go, and when their voices withdrew down the hill, she reached for the settee, shaking. Tomorrow, she’d leave. She’d pack a suitcase now and tomorrow she’d go to a hotel. She tried to think if she could call the police, or whether that would get Randeep into trouble. She wasn’t sure. Her thoughts kept disappearing into dark water. She didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she could call the police on her family. Then, suddenly, the silence was exploded by a horrific scissoring sound. She rushed to the window. They were doing something at the door. Hacking at it. Kicking it. She ran into her room and picked up her phone. They were thundering up the stairs, banging on her door.