Closure (22 page)

Still, Cora seemed happier, though he was glad her good spirits had not led to an excess of talk. He enjoyed seeing Cora's face full of questions when he arrived home after the gifts came. He smiled at how often during the week he had caught her gazing at him.

Lynden flicked through the paper until his eyes steadied on the 3 o'clock race at Kempton. “We need to talk,” came out of his mouth with awkward urgency. “Come sit with me a little.” It threw him slightly to have Cora take a seat across from him.

“I sent you the things.”

“What you talking about?”

“The presents, Cora, I sent them.”

She laughed.

“I sent them.”

Cora stood up. “Stop your foolishness.”

“The perfume, the flowers, the bracelet, I bought them.”

She shook her head. “It can't be.”

“Look! Who else would spend money on you like that?”

Cora stared at him. In the silence between them she sat down.

“My win, that's where it came from.”

“That Guinness money couldn't buy all of…” Cora's voice faltered.

“I can buy us a house anywhere, Cora. Any bed you like, any place you like in the country: Hampstead, or five minutes walk from Harrods. We can have anything, Cora, anything.”

Lynden waited for delight to arrive on his wife's face. “Well?”

“I better finish up.” Cora went back to the dishes in the sink.

Lynden gazed at her, bewildered. “I meant to…” He stumbled over the words. “I should've told you last week when it happened.”

She was squeezing more washing-up liquid into the bowl.

“Cora?”

She placed a pot on the draining board.

“Cora, talk to me.”

She stood still.

“I should've –”

She left the kitchen.

Lynden resisted the urge to follow her. He heard the latch on the front door. He tried not to be irritated. Of course, she needed time to take it all in. He could see that.

There was a draught and he found the front door open. He looked outside. He could not see Cora. Perhaps she was still inside and had forgotten to shut the door. He called out but there was no answer. Her coat was gone but her shoes remained in the hallway. Lynden shook his head and went to boil the kettle. His wife could not have gone far in slippers. He guessed she was at one of their neighbours. He took his tea into the sitting room and turned on the TV.

At half past seven Cora still had not returned. Lynden called at his neighbours – Iris, then Katherine. None of them had seen her. He stalled over calling his children. He did not want them prying into things he was not yet ready to concern them with. He hung on another hour before phoning them. Cora had not gone to any of their places. By ten-thirty, Lynden's son and three daughters had come round, anxious, questioning. He resisted elaboration, and left them to check their mother's phone book and ring her friends.

By midnight, Lynden's home was full. Sam, Iris, Katherine and an assortment of other neighbours, friends and relatives had turned up, looking worried and draining his house of cups of tea. Two officers arrived once Elsa, his eldest girl, had finally got Lynden to agree to contacting the police. They wanted a description, and Lynden gave them a picture of Cora from five years ago. He stumbled over her exact height, but knew she had gone out in her fawn coat and red slippers. The policeman asked if he and his wife had argued. Lynden shook his head and his face burned at having so many eyes on him. The policewoman harassed him with all sorts of questions, digging behind his answers. She wanted him to repeat every word from their last conversation; she wanted to know Cora's state of mind, and whether anything had upset her before she left. Why wouldn't they take him aside and talk to him privately? What kind of questions were these to ask in front of so many people. Why were they asking him the same thing using different words? He didn't like what they were getting at.

His wife had no reason to be miserable; she'd been happy all week, in fact, happier than he'd seen in a long while, with all those presents he had racked his brain to give her. Of course, he should've told her about the draw right from the start, but the win was his own business. Besides, he had mentioned it to her today and she should have been joyful. He had said he could buy her anything and all she did was walk out of his house in her slippers.

Lynden's ears burned. He went upstairs to his room to rest. Elsa was the only one who stayed overnight. She was present the next morning when Lynden received the call to say Cora had been found at Heathrow and that as a precaution the police had taken her to a hospital for observation. Lynden put the phone down, troubled as to why his wife had gone so far from home.

When Cora woke the next morning she found her husband and children surrounding her hospital bed. The worry on their faces turned to smiles as her son and daughters embraced her and sat her up, adjusting her pillows. Lynden kept his distance, allowing the children's fussing to carry on.

She thought of the house in Hampstead he had promised her and all the rooms they would have and fail to live in. She sensed that he wanted to know what had happened to her in the hours since she left. In truth, she could not say how she had passed the time. All she knew was the impulse to get on a plane and find out if Carver was buried under a tombstone, or still alive, though an old man.

She wondered why the urge was not quelled by having her children and husband so near, talking around her, laughing even, making her smile. She would not go home. She knew that now, even with her faltering mind, she wanted…

The doctor came – young, tall and awkward. Glancing at her relatives without seeing them he flicked through his notes. He asked her if she knew her name.

“Cora,” she said, “Mrs. Cora Carver Milton.”

MAHSUDA SNAITH
CONFETTI FOR THE PIGEONS

Every Saturday I watch the rituals. On the weatherworn bench opposite the Town Hall I hold camera in one hand, sandwich in the other, studying each decorated figure filing through the large arched door. They wear fresh suits and summer dresses that flap in the breeze. Some of the women wear sunhats – big and ridiculous. When the groom arrives he shakes hands, wipes his brow then strides straight in. The bride will come later – in campervan, pink limousine or horse-drawn carriage. Once I saw a triple-decker bus. It was wondrous.

When I was eight, I attended a wedding in Bombay where the groom rode in on an elephant. I looked up at the beast and felt the breath evacuate my lungs. The elephant's head was adorned with silver coins latticed together with wire. Flowers were painted along his trunk in vibrant pinks and yellows. From this I developed my love of weddings – the colours, the food, the dancing and laughter. There is a joy at these ceremonies that cannot be matched.

Of course, in England there is not so much colour. But there is still a majesty about these ceremonies that bring me back each week. Today, I see the bride arrive in a white Rolls-Royce, hubcaps gleaming. She creeps out with bridesmaids waddling behind her like goslings. Her cheeks flush mulberry red as the photographer leaps forward. I rise to my feet, the
cckzzzp
of the shutter opening and closing on my digital SLR. It has an excellent zoom and even from this distance I can get a clear shot. Her head is angled to the side, veil fluttering behind her like a banner in the breeze.

Click. Click. Click.

I take a few more shots as the guests enter the main entrance, then I sit back on the warped wood of the bench. The ceremony will be no longer than half an hour – enough time for me to eat my sandwich and sink into thought. On days like this, when the sun is dazzling, I like to imagine what my own wedding could have been like. I have done this many times, sometimes changing the order of the service or the colour scheme. I may even make my entrance on a festooned elephant.

The details change each time, but when I look into Rekha's eyes, I always feel the same sweetness. Her pupils are dilated, kohl circling blinking lids as she looks at me. There are jewels glued above the line of her brow and a burgundy bindi on her third eye. She is not crying like other Indian brides, but smiling with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

This morning's ceremony at the Town Hall is shorter than expected; guests are flooding out before I finish my sandwich. I throw the remains into a bin and get my camera ready. I feel bolder than usual and walk amongst the guests. The crowd is too excited to notice me. I laugh as they laugh, look towards the arched entrance with the same anticipation. When the bride and groom step out, I raise my hands, clapping and cheering, “Good show! Good show!” as confetti is thrown over their heads. I pull a handful of rice from my pocket and throw it to the sky.

“Isn't that bad for the pigeons?”

A plump lady looks at me from beneath a pink hat that rises from her head like the pert petals of a water-lily.

“No, no,” I tell her. “That is only a myth. Birds eat grain; they enjoy it.”

She hears my accent, lifts her chin into the air.

“The rice swells in their stomach. It makes the poor things explode!”

The floppy flesh under her chin shakes from side to side as if from the aftershock of her statement; even she seems amazed by her words. I smile, but do not call her an imbecile. I do not tell her I have attended over 263 weddings in my lifetime and have not once seen the corpse of a detonated pigeon near the ceremony. I do not tell her that it is the mess that the churches and halls do not like, not the number of bird deaths in their vicinity.

Her forehead creases but she lets the matter drop, pulling out a disposable camera from her pocket and turning towards the bride and groom as they pose on the steps.

Rekha was a great lover of birds. I often found her in her courtyard scattering seeds. When she saw me, an index finger sprang to her lips, urging me to keep quiet. If her father had found us without a chaperone he'd have kicked his sandalled foot straight up my backside.

The day I asked for Rekha's hand, he said, “You must prove yourself to be a man.”

I was seventeen – sitting in his living room with marble floors, teak furniture, and oil paintings hanging on the walls. The wooden ceiling fan whirled above our heads. When I looked up my eyes spun with it.

“All of this,” he said, gesturing at the room, “came from nothing. I made my fortune from scratch. If you wish to take care of my daughter you will need to do the same.”

I left that house with a fizzing brain. How was I, the son of a bank clerk, to make my fortune? The question had never occurred to me before. Then the answer came.

“Don't worry, my dear Rekha,” I whispered. “I am certain to make my fortune in England.”

She did not look up as she scattered the seeds across the cracked earth. “Why make your fortune when we could simply elope?”

Her scattering became quicker, the grains bouncing off the ground as she flung them.

“Don't worry; I shall be back soon enough.”

A tear fell from her cheek, darkening the dry earth beneath her. I smiled because this meant she loved me.

“And how do
you
know the bride and groom?”

The man is leaning in so close I smell the dull stench of his cologne. He wears a tatty suit and the knot of his tie is askew.

“I don't,” I say, continuing to shoot.

The bride and groom are standing with the ushers and bridesmaids in front of the fountain in the middle of the square. Behind them glistening crystal droplets spurt from the jaws of bronze griffins. Occasionally a pigeon flies across the frame. The photographer knots his brow.

Pigeons are the bane of the wedding photographer's life, yet my favourite pictures are the ones with their blurred bodies in the shot. They are there and not there at the same time. In this way, I think I am like them.

I was fourteen when I saw pigeons in Madurai. I was a pilgrim, following the white and pink garland in Amma's hair, my hands filled with coconut pieces as we stepped inside Sri Meenakshi Temple. Coils of incense smoke rose to the ceilings. My eyes widened as I saw pilgrims prostrate themselves in front of the golden statues, looking up, hands clasped, lips trembling as they muttered prayers. When we left, I looked up at the pagodas that soared into the sky. They were covered with so many carvings of gods and goddesses that just gazing at them made me dizzy. I watched as the pigeons perched on ledges beside avatars with frenzied eyes who bared their teeth. I mistook them for gods and wondered why no one worshipped them.

“I think you should stop that.”

A new man now, his hand on my shoulder. He is tall and thin, head as bald as a curried egg. I turn to him and smile.

“Isn't it a beautiful day?”

“Well, yes,” he says. His eyes dart back and forth in their sockets. “But that's not the point. I don't want you to take any more photographs.”

Again I smile. I do this because it is friendly and it infuriates people. I want to tell him that I mean no harm, that my presence here is a habit I find harder and harder to break. But there is no point in telling him. The pigeons would understand more readily than him. Instead I prepare my camera for another shot.

I'm halted by the sweet scent of lilies.

“Is there a problem, Dad?”

It is the bride, standing right beside me, a bouquet clutched in her hands. Her father begins to splutter a series of words I decide not to hear. She looks at me with curious but not cruel eyes. They are gem-green – her skin fair. I am reminded of Rekha.

It was Rekha's auntie who gave me the news. I had been working at the car plant for four years, saving whatever I could for my return home when they called me into the office. I used an old rag to hold the receiver.

“He is a very charming man,” her auntie told me. “Though I suppose that won't be much comfort for you. Rekha is very taken with him, you see, and her father very eager for the two families to join. Please do not take this too badly, my boy. I am sure there are lots of suitable women in England.”

I staggered out of the office. When the floor manager reprimanded me for taking personal calls I could not reply. Later, seeing how my work had slowed, he asked what was wrong. As I finished speaking I looked up at his shaking head. “I was trying to be an honourable man,” I told him.

His moustache wiggled across his upper lip like a bloated caterpillar. “That's where you went wrong, me lad; honour and love are two different businesses. Best to keep them separate.”

He said I could have the rest of the day off. It was the kindest a man has ever been to me.

“He doesn't know anyone!” the father cries.

I look at the bride and she gives me a small smile as though it is her father she is embarrassed by. She is beautiful, skin translucent, pure as the lilies in her bouquet. I find myself raising my camera, the image of her emerald eyes appearing on the screen.

“Don't you dare!” her father yells, his hand darting towards me.

There is a cry. At first I think it is because of the scene this foolish man is creating, but then my attention is drawn to the sky. Pigeons are flying towards us. There are so many it looks like a gigantic cloud moving at great speed.

“Get down!” the photographer cries.

Bodies drop to the ground, except for the woman with the water-lily hat. She screams as pigeons pummel into her. My body presses on the concrete slabs as the pigeons continue to fly. The noise of their flapping wings is like thunder above our heads. I watch the green and pink sheen of their bellies as they glide over us.

Everyone is looking at the pigeons. Everyone loves them. Everyone is worshipping them, their bodies prostrate on the floor like pilgrims.

The cloud rises and for a moment the wedding guests sigh. They rise only to drop to the ground again as the pigeons circle back in a perfect grey loop. I push my body to my feet.

“Get down, you fool!” cries the man with the bald head.

I do not look at him. Gods and goddesses come in many forms. As the pigeons approach I raise my camera, watching the screen as beaks and feathers hurtle towards the lens. I place my finger on the button.

Click. Click. Cli-