Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

This was a good time, he figured, to abandon his position. He would pick up the ball when the girl knocked it down. In fifteen minutes’ time he would be eating a buttered croissant and sipping a semi-skimmed decaf latte. He might even be able to look at his newspaper.

‘What’s going on?’

A man had joined them, holding the hands of two little girls.

The youngest twin said, ‘Stupid Daddy was showing off and —’

‘All right,’ said the father.

The man was already removing his jacket and handing it to one of the girls, saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’m here.’

The father looked at the man, who was in his late thirties, ruddy-faced and unfit-looking, wearing thick glasses. He had on a pink ironed shirt and the sort of shoes people wore to the office.

‘It’s only a cheap ball,’ said the father.

‘We were just leaving,’ said the wife-to-be.

The man spat in his palms and rubbed them together. ‘It’s been a long time!’

He hurried towards the tree and climbed into it. He didn’t stop at the fork, but kept moving up, greeting the girl, who was a little ahead of him, and then, on his hands and knees, scrambling beyond her, into the flimsier branches.

‘I’m coming to get you, ball … just you wait, ball …’ he said as he went.

Like the father and the girl, he continually shook the tree. He was surprisingly strong, and this time the tree seemed to be exploding.

Below, the crowd shielded their faces or stepped back from the storm of detritus, but they didn’t stop looking and voicing their encouragement.

‘What if he breaks his neck?’ said the wife-to-be.

‘I’ll try to catch him,’ said the father, moving to another position.

The father remembered his own father, Papa, in the street outside their house in the evening, after tea, when they’d first bought a car. Like a lot of men then, particularly those who fancied themselves as intellectuals, Papa was proud of his practical uselessness. Nevertheless, Papa could, at least, open the bonnet of his car, secure it and stare into it, looking mystified. He knew that this act would be enough to draw out numerous men from neighbouring houses, some just finishing their ‘tea’. Papa, an immigrant, the subject of curiosity, comment and, sometimes, abuse, would soon have these men — civil servants, clerks, shop owners, printers or milkmen — united in rolling up their sleeves, grumbling, lighting cigarettes and offering technical opinions. They would remain out in the street long after dark, fetching tools and lying on their backs in patches of grease, Papa’s immigrant helplessness drawing their assistance. The father had loved being out on the street with Papa who was from a large Indian family. Papa had never thought of children as an obstacle, or a nuisance. They were everywhere, part of life.

The three pale boys, Papa’s grandchildren, born after he’d died, were looking up at the helpful man in the tree and at the ball, which still sat in its familiar position. Had the ball had a face, it would have been smiling, for, as the man agitated the tree, it rose and fell like a small boat settled on a lilting wave.

The man, by now straddling a swaying bough, twisted and broke off a long thin branch. At full stretch, he used it to jab at the ball, which began to bob a little. At last, after a final poke, it was out and falling.

The children ran towards it.

‘Ball, ball!’ cried the youngest.

The wife-to-be started to gather the children’s things.

The man jumped down out of the tree with his arms raised in triumph. His shirt, which was hanging out, was covered in thick black marks; his hands were filthy and his shoes were scuffed, but he looked ecstatic.

One of his daughters handed him his jacket. The father’s wife-to-be tried to wipe him down.

‘I loved that,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

The two men shook hands.

The father picked up the ball and threw it to the youngest child.

Soon, the family caravan was making its way across the park with their bikes, guns, hats, the youngest’s sit-in car, a bag of nappies, a pair of binoculars (in the suitcase), and the unharmed plastic ball. The children, laughing and shoving one another, were discussing their ‘adventure’.

The father looked around, afraid but also hoping his Indian friend had come to the park today. By now, he had something to say. If children, like desire, broke up that which seemed settled, it was a virtue. Much as he might want to, he couldn’t bring up his kids by strict rules or a system. He could only do it, as people seemed to do most things in the end, according to the way he was, the way he lived in the world, as an example and guide. This was harder than pretending to be an authority, but more true.

Now, at the far side of the park, as the children went out through the gate, the father turned to look back at the dishevelled tree in the distance. How small it seemed now! It had been agitated, but not broken. He would think of it each time he returned to the park; he would think about something good that had happened on the way to somewhere else.

Ann was cooking breakfast when Ed shouted from the window.

— Come and look! New people are moving in!

Ann hurried over to stand beside Ed. Together, they looked down from their window on the first floor; there was a good view of the street and the entrance to their block.

A small van was parked outside. Ed and Ann watched as two men carried furniture inside, supervised by a man and a woman of around thirty, the same age as Ed and Ann.

— They look okay, said Ed. — What a relief. Don’t you think? Decent, ordinary people.

— We’ll see. Ann returned to the tiny kitchen at the other end of the living room. — They’ll bring a whole life with them, won’t they, which we’ll get to learn something about whether we like it or not.

The flat upstairs had been empty for a month. Ed and Ann had enjoyed the silence. Going to bed had become a pleasure again. The previous occupant, a musician, had not only returned home from work at three or four in the morning and played music, but had seemed to enjoy moving furniture at midnight, slaughtering animals and making various other unidentified sounds which tormented the couple from the day they moved in. They were considering renting another place when he left. It would have been a shame, as they liked the flat, the neighbourhood, the look of the people in the street.

— Ed, your breakfast’s ready, said Ann.

They ate quickly in order to return to their position. It wouldn’t take long to empty the van.

— Two well-used armchairs, said Ann.

— A jug now, said Ed, craning to look over her shoulder. — A cracked old thing with flowers on it!

— Perhaps, like me, she loves to see things being poured. Milk, water, apple juice!

— Now a guitar!

— A rug. Nice colour. Bit scruffy, like everything else.

— Student things, really. But that new toaster must have cost them a bit, as well as the music system. Like us, they’ve been buying better things recently. Look.

Some of the cardboard boxes had come open; other objects the men and the couple carried in unpacked. It seemed to Ed and Ann that the couple had similar tastes to them in music, books and pictures.

— Eventually we’ll have to go and say hello, said Ann.

— I suppose so.

— You never like meeting new people.

— Do you?

Ann said — I used to. You never know what interest you will find, or what life-journey they will help you begin.

He said, — What life-journey? We’ll have to be careful, otherwise they’ll be in and out of our place the whole time.