White Teeth (10 page)

‘And made four.’

‘And made four,
exactly
, Archie. You would have made
four
. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Archie?’ said Mr Hero.

‘No, Mr Hero,’ said Archie.

Kelvin prepared to cut to the chase. ‘That company dinner last month — it was awkward, Archie, it was unpleasant. And now there’s this annual do coming up with our sister company from Sunderland, about thirty of us, nothing fancy, you know, a curry, a lager and a bit of a boogie . . . as I say, it’s not that I’m a racialist, Archie . . .’

‘A racialist . . .’

‘I’d spit on that Enoch Powell . . . but then again he does have a point, doesn’t he? There comes a point, a saturation point, and people begin to feel a bit uncomfortable . . . You see, all he was saying—’

‘Who?’

‘Powell, Archie, Powell —
try and keep up
— all he was saying is enough is enough after a certain point, isn’t it? I mean, it’s like Delhi in Euston every Monday morning. And there’s some people around here, Arch — and I don’t include myself here — who just feel your attitude is a little
strange
.’

‘Strange?’

‘You see the wives don’t like it because, let’s face it, she’s a sort, a real beauty — incredible legs, Archie, I’d like to congratulate you on them legs — and the men, well, the men don’t like it ’cos they don’t like to think they’re wanting a bit of the other when they’re sitting down to a company dinner with their lady wives, especially when she’s . . .
you know
 . . . they don’t know what to make of that at all.’

‘Who?’

‘What?’

‘Who are we talking about, Mr Hero?’

‘Look, Archie,’ said Kelvin, the sweat now flowing freely, distasteful for a man with his amount of chest hair, ‘take these.’ Kelvin pushed a large wad of Luncheon Vouchers across the table. ‘They’re left over from that raffle — you remember, for the Biafrans.’

‘Oh no — I already won an oven mitt in that, Mr Hero, there’s no need—’

‘Take them, Archie. There’s fifty pounds’ worth of vouchers in there, redeemable in over five thousand food outlets nationwide. Take them. Have a few meals on me.’

Archie fingered the vouchers like they were so many fifty pound notes. Kelvin thought for a moment he saw tears of happiness in his eyes.

‘Well, I don’t know what to say. There’s a place I go to, pretty regular like. If they take these I’m made for life. Ta very much.’

Kelvin took a handkerchief to his forehead. ‘Think nothing of it, Arch. Please.’

‘Mr Hero, could I . . .’ Archie gestured towards the door. ‘It’s just that I’d like to phone some people, you know, give them the news about the baby . . . if we’ve finished here.’

Kelvin nodded, relieved. Archie lifted himself out of his seat. He had just reached for the handle of the door when Kelvin snatched up his Parker pen once more and said, ‘Oh, Archie, one more thing . . . that dinner with the Sunderland team . . . I talked to Maureen and I think we need to cut down on the numbers . . . we put the names in a hat and yours came out. Still, I don’t suppose you’ll be missing much, eh? These things are always a bit of a bore.’

‘Right you are, Mr Hero,’ said Archie, mind elsewhere; praying to God that O’Connell’s was a ‘food outlet’; smiling to himself, imagining Samad’s reaction when he copped fifty quids’ worth of bloody Luncheon Vouchers.

Partly because Mrs Jones becomes pregnant so soon after Mrs Iqbal and partly because of a daily proximity (by this point Clara is working part time as a supervisor for a Kilburn youth group which looks like the fifteen-man line-up of a ska and roots band — six-inch Afros, Adidas tracksuits, brown ties, Velcro, sun-tinted shades — and Alsana attends an Asian Women’s Pre-natal Class in Kilburn High Road round the corner), the two women begin to see more of each other. Hesitant in the beginning — a few lunch dates here and there, the occasional coffee — what begins as a rearguard action against their husbands’ friendship soon develops. They have resigned themselves to their husbands’ mutual appreciation society and the free time this leaves is not altogether unpleasant; there is time for picnics and outings, for discussion and personal study; for old French movies where Alsana screams and covers her eyes at the suggestion of nudity (‘Put it away! We are not wanting to see the dangly bits!’) and Clara gets a glimpse of how the other half live: the half who live on romance, passion and
joie de vivre
. The other half who have
sex
. The life that might have been hers had she not been at the top of some stairs one fine day as Archibald Jones waited at the bottom.

Then, when their bumps become too large and cinema seats no longer accommodate them, the women begin to meet up for lunch in Kilburn Park, often with the Niece-of-Shame, the three of them squeezed on to a generous bench where Alsana presses a thermos of P. G. Tips into Clara’s hand, without milk, with lemon. Unwraps several layers of cling-film to reveal today’s peculiar delight: savoury dough-like balls, crumbly Indian sweets shot through with the colours of the kaleidoscope, thin pastry with spiced beef inside, salad with onion; saying to Clara, ‘Eat up! Stuff yourself silly! It’s in there, wallowing around in your belly, waiting for the menu. Woman, don’t torture it! You want to starve the bump?’ For, despite appearances, there are six people on that bench (three living, three coming); one girl for Clara, two boys for Alsana.

Alsana says, ‘Nobody’s complaining, let’s get that straight. Children are a blessing, the more the merrier. But I tell you, when I turned my head and saw that fancy ultra-business thingummybob . . .’

‘Ultra
sound
,’ corrects Clara, through a mouthful of rice.

‘Yes, I almost had the heart attack to finish me off! Two! Feeding one is enough!’

Clara laughs and says she can imagine Samad’s face when he saw it.

‘No, dearie.’ Alsana is reproving, tucking her large feet underneath the folds of her sari. ‘He didn’t see anything. He wasn’t there. I am not letting him see things like that. A woman has to have the private things — a husband needn’t be involved in body-business, in a lady’s . . .
parts
.’

Niece-of-Shame, who is sitting between them, sucks her teeth.

‘Bloody hell, Alsi, he must’ve been involved in your parts sometime, or is this the immaculate bloody conception?’

‘So rude,’ says Alsana to Clara in a snooty, English way. ‘Too old to be so rude and too young to know any better.’

And then Clara and Alsana, with the accidental mirroring that happens when two people are sharing the same experience, both lay their hands on their bulges.

Neena, to redeem herself: ‘Yeah . . . well . . . How are you doing on names? Any ideas?’

Alsana is decisive. ‘Meena and Malānā, if they are girls. If boys: Magid and Millat. Ems are good. Ems are strong. Mahatma, Muhammad, that funny Mr Morecambe, from Morecambe and Wise — letter you can trust.’

But Clara is more cautious, because naming seems to her a fearful responsibility, a god-like task for a mere mortal. ‘If it’s a girl, I tink I like
Irie
. It patois. Means everyting
OK, cool, peaceful
, you know?’

Alsana is horrified before the sentence is finished: ‘ “OK”? This is a name for a child? You might as well call her “
Wouldsirlikeanypoppadomswiththat
?” or “
Niceweatherweare having
”.’

‘—And Archie likes
Sarah
. Well, dere not much you can argue wid in Sarah, but dere’s not much to get happy ’bout either. I suppose if it was good enough for the wife of Abraham—’

‘Ibrāhim,’ Alsana corrects, out of instinct more than Qur’ānic pedantry, ‘popping out babies when she was a hundred years old, by the grace of Allah.’

And then Neena, groaning at the turn the conversation is taking: ‘Well, I
like
Irie. It’s funky. It’s different.’

Alsana
loves
this. ‘For pity’s sake, what does Archibald know about
funky
. Or
different
. If I were you, dearie,’ she says, patting Clara’s knee, ‘I’d choose Sarah and let that be an end to it. Sometimes you have to let these men have it their way. Anything for a little — how do you say it in the English? For a little’ — she puts her finger over tightly pursed lips, like a guard at the gate — ‘
shush
.’

But in response Niece-of-Shame puts on the thick accent, bats her voluminous eyelashes, wraps her college scarf round her head like purdah. ‘Oh yes, Auntie, yes, the little
submissive
Indian woman. You don’t talk to him, he talks
at
you. You scream and shout at each other, but there’s no communication. And in the end he wins anyway because he does whatever he likes, when he likes. You don’t even know where he is, what he does, what he
feels
, half the time. It’s 1975, Alsi. You can’t conduct relationships like that any more. It’s not like back home. There’s got to be communication between men and women in the West, they’ve got to listen to each other, otherwise . . .’ Neena mimes a small mushroom cloud going off in her hand.

‘What a load of the cod’s wallop,’ says Alsana sonorously, closing her eyes, shaking her head, ‘it is you who do not listen. By Allah, I will always give as good as I get. But you presume I
care
what he does. You presume I want to
know
. The truth is, for a marriage to survive you don’t need all this talk, talk, talk; all this “I am this” and “I am really like this” like in the papers, all this
revelation
— especially when your husband is old, when he is wrinkly and falling apart — you do not
want
to know what is slimy underneath the bed and rattling in the wardrobe.’

Neena frowns, Clara cannot raise serious objection, and the rice is handed around once more.

‘Moreover,’ says Alsana after a pause, folding her dimpled arms underneath her breasts, pleased to be holding forth on a subject close to this formidable bosom, ‘when you are from families such as ours you should have learnt that
silence
, what is
not
said, is the very
best
recipe for family life.’

For all three have been brought up in strict, religious families, houses where God appeared at every meal, infiltrated every childhood game, and sat in the lotus position under the bedclothes with a torch to check nothing untoward was occurring.

‘So let me get this straight,’ says Neena derisively. ‘You’re saying that a good dose of repression keeps a marriage healthy.’

And as if someone had pressed a button, Alsana is outraged. ‘Repression! Nonsense silly-billy word! I’m just talking about common sense. What is my husband? What is yours?’ she says, pointing to Clara. ‘Twenty-five years they live before we are even
born
. What are they? What are they capable of? What blood do they have on their hands? What is sticky and smelly in their private areas? Who knows?’ She throws her hands up, releasing the questions into the unhealthy Kilburn air, sending a troupe of sparrows up with them.

‘What you don’t understand, my Niece-of-Shame, what none of your generation understands . . .’

At which point Neena cannot stop a piece of onion escaping from her mouth due to the sheer strength of her objection. ‘My
generation
? For fuckssake, you’re two years older than me, Alsi.’

But Alsana continues regardless, miming a knife slicing through the niece-of-shame tongue-of-obscenity, ‘. . . is that not everybody wants to see into everybody else’s sweaty, secret parts.’

‘But Auntie,’ begs Neena, raising her voice, because this is what she really wants to argue about, the largest sticking point between the two of them, Alsana’s arranged marriage. ‘How can you
bear
to live with somebody you don’t know from Adam?’

In response, an infuriating
wink
: Alsana always likes to appear jovial at the very moment that her interlocutor becomes hot under the collar. ‘Because,
Miss Smarty-pants
, it is by far the easier option. It was exactly because Eve did not know Adam from Adam that they got on so A-OK. Let me explain. Yes, I was married to Samad Iqbal the same evening of the very day I met him. Yes, I didn’t know him from Adam. But I liked him well enough. We met in the breakfast room on a steaming Delhi day and he fanned me with
The Times
. I thought he had a good face, a sweet voice, and his backside was high and well formed for a man of his age. Very good. Now, every time I learn something more about him,
I like him less
. So you see, we were better off the way we were.’

Neena stamps her foot in exasperation at the skewed logic.

‘Besides, I will never know him well. Getting anything out of my husband is like trying to squeeze water out when you’re stoned.’

Neena laughs despite herself. ‘Water out of a
stone
.’

‘Yes, yes. You think I’m so stupid. But I am wise about things like men. I tell you’ — Alsana prepares to deliver her summation as she has seen it done many years previously by the young Delhi lawyers with their slick side partings — ‘men are the last mystery. God is easy compared with men. Now, enough of the philosophy: samosa?’ She peels the lid off the plastic tub and sits fat, pretty and satisfied on her conclusion.

‘Shame that you’re having them,’ says Neena to her aunt, lighting a fag. ‘Boys, I mean. Shame that you’re going to have boys.’

‘What do you mean?’

This is Clara, who is the recipient of a secret (kept secret from Alsana and Archie) lending library of Neena’s through which she reads, in a few short months, Greer’s
Female Eunuch
, Jong’s
Fear of Flying
and
The Second Sex
, all in a clandestine attempt, on Neena’s part, to rid Clara of her ‘false consciousness’.

‘I mean, I just think men have caused enough chaos this century. There’s enough fucking men in the world. If I knew I was going to have a boy’ — she pauses to prepare her two falsely conscious friends for this new concept — ‘I’d have to seriously consider abortion.’

Alsana screams, claps her hands over one of her own ears and one of Clara’s, and then almost chokes on a piece of aubergine. For some reason the remark simultaneously strikes Clara as funny; hysterically, desperately funny; miserably funny; and the Niece-of-Shame sits between the two, nonplussed, while the two egg-shaped women bend over themselves, one in laughter, the other in horror and asphyxiation.