Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

‘Bugger off.’

‘Tom please, I beg you. Go and do your homework. The world’s a filthy rough place run by jackals and murderers. You need to be prepared, if such a thing is possible!’

‘Leave me alone! Don’t ever talk to me again!’

Mike grabbed the boy and pulled him up out of the chair by his blue school shirt. ‘Do what I say sometimes!’

‘Fuck off, evil old man, just die! I’ve been wanting to do this all day!’

‘I never spoke to my father like that.’

‘Mum says you did.’

Tom was taller, stronger and fitter than Mike; for fun he sometimes put his father in a headlock and pulled him round the room.

‘Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off!’ Mike yelled at the boy. He ripped the controller from Tom’s hand and threw it down. Tom lurched from his chair and made as to head-butt his father; Mike pushed him back in the chest and Tom stumbled and fell onto his backside. Mike swore again and then switched off the TV.

‘What’s going on? Is this good parenting?’ His wife, who appeared to dress in diamonds and gold when at lunch with her friends, came in wearing tracksuit bottoms, an old T-shirt and thick glasses, with white slippers she’d taken from a hotel. ‘Are you all right? What’s he done now?’ she said to Tom.

‘I think he’s broken my arm,’ said Tom, rubbing his elbow.

‘Your father’s mad,’ said Imogen.

‘He refused to turn off the game,’ said Mike. ‘He shows me neither love nor respect.’

‘How could he?’ she said. ‘It’s too late! You’ve spoiled and neglected him, you ridiculous, foolish man. And now you expect him to obey you!’

‘He tore my button right off,’ said Tom.

‘And who will sew it back on?’ said Imogen, staring at Mike.

She worked for a charity three days a week. Inevitably it was poorly paid, but she was the family conscience and Mike knew it was important to appear generous. Unlike some of his friends, he didn’t want a woman who worked as hard as him, a woman who was never at home.

Billy, who Mike wished wouldn’t grow up, but wanted to suspend at this age for ever, reiterated, ‘Stop arguing and tell me whether we’re definitely going to get my guitar on Saturday!’

‘I know I did say we would,’ said Mike. ‘But I’ll have to think about it.’

‘You were in a band. What were they called?’

‘The Strange Trousers.’

‘What a stupid name for a band,’ called Tom, who was now texting furiously.

Mike said, ‘So is the name of your group, Sixty-Nine, when you don’t even know what that is.’

‘I do. And you haven’t had a sixty-nine for years, old man, and never will again.’

‘Wait until you get married.’

Imogen said, ‘You promised Billy a guitar, an amp and a microphone, so now you have to deliver.’

‘Just call me the Delivery Man,’ said Mike. ‘That’s my name. But even you might have noticed there’s a financial crash taking place.’

‘Ha! Any excuse to let people down.’

‘Indeed — that’s all I’ve ever done. But what about you?’ he said to her. ‘What do you want to get next?’

‘Thank you for asking. I’ve been telling you for weeks I need a new computer,’ she said.

‘I’ll get you the latest desktop Apple,’ he said. ‘With a printer, and maybe the newest iPod. Everyone should have what they want whenever they want it. Why don’t I make a list so I don’t forget anyone?’

She poured herself another drink. ‘At last — some sense! Things are moving forward here!’

Having begun to feel ‘unfulfilled’, she was planning to train as a therapist; it would take at least three years, and he had agreed not only to pay her fees but to support her while she studied. ‘Once I’m earning,’ she argued, ‘this whole family will be much better off.’ Everything he spent on her was an investment. This would have to be rethought. And to think, before this collapse, he had been hoping to earn enough in the next few years to keep them secure for life.

As he got up she said, ‘You washed the other dishes but you forgot to take these plates out.’ Mike collected all the plates and took them to the sink. She continued, ‘You know, with your habits you should have married someone less house-proud, someone with lower standards all round.’

She wouldn’t see he liked scrupulousness and order more as he got older. They employed their Bulgarian cleaner three times a week; the woman was pregnant but sweated furiously as she scrubbed and carried, afraid of losing her job to someone else.

Mike and his wife considered themselves to be equals and there was no way Imogen would now wash the kitchen floor, clean their four toilets or vacuum the house. Since capitalism was cracking under the weight of its contradictions as the Marxists had predicted — neither the communists or Islamists being responsible for its collapse — the family would have to find a smaller place, sharing the household duties like everyone else. If there was no comfort, what then were the consolations of capitalism? If there was no moral accretion, nor any next life, why would anyone support it?

‘Come on,’ Imogen said to Tom. ‘We’ll do your French homework in your room.’

‘I’ll read to Billy,’ Mike said. ‘Are you ready, little boy?’

Once Billy had cleaned his teeth and got into his pyjamas, they would lie on the big bed and chat, with the boy’s head in Mike’s chest; or they’d mock-fight, sing or read until the kid, and usually Mike, fell asleep. It was the part of the day Mike enjoyed most.

Imogen stroked Mike’s head before picking up Tom’s rucksack and French text book. Mike said, ‘Darling, a shitty thing happened at work.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘We should talk later.’

‘Is it attention you’re after?’ she said.

She and Tom were going up the stairs, Tom giggling at a funny incident at school.

‘Please, Imogen,’ Mike called.

‘Later, if I’m still awake,’ she said. ‘Or tomorrow.’

‘Tonight, I think.’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Anyway, when I’m less worn out by everything.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready let me know.’

When Eric slammed the front door it was cold outside and raining hard. With winter already coming, he was reluctant to go out. But he’d said he’d meet Jake at seven and he couldn’t let him down. Not that he had far to go; it took Eric five minutes to get to his local place.

He hurried into the bright, warm and almost-empty café, hung up his coat and sat down. The waiters knew him and brought him the wine he liked without his having to ask. Eric went there most days, to read the paper, make phone calls and work on his computer.

He drank half a glass of wine straight off, to calm himself down after arguing with his wife a few minutes earlier. She and their nine-year-old son had been at the kitchen table doing the boy’s homework, but, having had a glass of wine, Eric had felt inspired to expatiate on the current political situation. His wife told him to shut up, and he hadn’t wanted to; he had something pressing to say. His wife asserted he always had something important to say at the wrong time. Didn’t he want his son to succeed or would the boy be a cretin like his father? The spat accelerated. ‘You don’t listen to me!’ ‘You don’t speak at the right time, when we want to hear you!’ ‘You’re never receptive!’ ‘You’re a fool!’

Eric shuddered and giggled, as he thought of the two of them freely insulting one another, and the boy looking on.

He missed them and, in truth, wasn’t excited about seeing Jake, whom he didn’t know well. They had met through a mutual acquaintance three years before at the Jazz Café in Camden, and found they both liked Miles Davis’s ‘electric’ period, as well as Norwegian jazz of the last decade. They always discussed this with some pleasure, along with Liverpool football club, their enthusiasm for jukeboxes, stand-up comedians, and their families, and went home relatively contented. Jake had been generous; he worked in IT and although he travelled a lot, he still found time to ‘burn’ obscure CDs for Eric and post them to him. Eric worked in film publicity and did what he could to obtain DVDs of the latest movies for Jake and his family.