A Matter of Marriage (40 page)

K
AREEM PULLED INTO
the motorway service station near the Swindon turnoff at one o'clock, in plenty of time
.
It was all going like clockwork, right on schedule. Everything was sorted just as he'd promised Shunduri's family it would be, and he was on top of the world again.

Already this morning, at some god-awful hour, he'd booked the Swindon registry office and some junior mullah at the Broad Street mosque, then dealt with the travel arrangements. He'd had to pay through the nose for Haj visa applications and tickets for the three of them. And then he'd shelled out for the premium tours package with complimentary ihrams, at a cost that any fool off the street would have paid, thanks to all his useful contacts being in London.

Reluctantly, he parked the Rover in a prominent position to make it easier for village idiot Ahmed Guri to find him. Not for the first time that day, Kareem found himself wishing that he hadn't chosen such a gangsta vehicle. He'd been hunching down in his seat every time he caught sight of a police car. It would be better on the way to Windsor Cottage: just having three more people in the car made him look much more the average Asian type on the roads. Kareem climbed out hastily, located his smokes and lighter: please god, let him have time for a smoke before they got here.

A heavily laden silver Golf made a hard left into the service station, accompanied by a burst of honking and swerving from a lorry following behind. The car drew to a halt directly behind the Rover. Why Idiot had decided to take his Golf rather than Uncle's Ford sedan, only he would know. This was not the time for cultivating his delusions of having some street cred: this was about looking after the elders.

Sure enough, Uncle was already climbing out, tired and cross, his suit jacket folded up around his waist. A battered roadmap fell out with him, and Uncle trod on it with an air of revenge finally achieved. The back passenger door swung open, and Auntie's hand appeared on top of the doorframe. The car tilted and rocked as she rose up into view, along with a bulging Tesco bag and a large shiny black handbag, which hung and slid on her wrist like bracelets. When she let go of the car to swat Ahmed out of her way, the Golf visibly lifted as it was relieved of her weight. Serve Idiot right if he had to get his suspension serviced.

Kareem stepped forward and bent to touch their feet in rapid succession. “
Salaamalaikum
, Khalo, Khalama, Baiyya. I'm so glad you are here.”

But no one would look at him, not even Ahmed who seemed somehow allied with them, despite what had obviously been a nightmare drive, probably with his doof-doof music up all the way. Kareem moved back as Auntie swept past, and she and then Uncle made a beeline for the Rover.

He only just managed to blip it open before Auntie's hand wrenched on the handle, and she started to hoist herself up into the back seat, the Tesco bag and handbag tagging behind. He hastened to open the front passenger door for Uncle, who climbed in without comment and almost shut the door on Kareem's fingers.

Ahmed was fussing about with the locking mechanism on his Golf, and Kareem walked over to him. “Hey,
Salaam
, Baiyya. Looks like you'll be gettin' in the back wiv Auntie. How was the drive?”

Ahmed was flustered. Usually he was too stupid to get stressed. “Yeah, good, good. Look, Dad wants me to go back and open up the restaurant. Doesn't want to lose a day of business, yeah?”

“Eh? Is there trouble then?”

Ahmed fiddled further with the remote, and the Golf's horn gave an irritated blart. “Yeah, Kareem, you could say that. We had the police around early this morning, askin' about you, tellin' us you could help with their enquiries. Tellin' us someone had a broken nose and a broken face and you'd been seen in the vicinity of the crime, yeah.”

“Jesus Christ. They came to the house?”

Ahmed looked a little happier. “Yeah. A person of interest, you are. And Mum and Dad, they really lost it, man. Dad's talkin' about going back to Bangladesh, and Mum's tellin' everyone she never should of taken you in. What did you
do
, yeah?”

“Nothing, man, nothing. They got me mixed up with someone else.”

Ahmed looked smug and put his hands in his pockets. “No smoke without fire, Kareem. That's what Mum and Dad are saying. And that police visit—that really stressed them, yeah.”

“Look, I'll be back soon to sort all that out. There's no need to worry.”

“No rush. I don't think Dad wants you round in the restaurant, with all this happenin'. Mum doesn't even want you at home right now.”

You mean you don't, Kareem thought. He swallowed his scorn and fear, gave his respects again, and walked away from the dirty dog to the Rover. If there was any justice in this world, Idiot's Golf would be cleaned up by one of those juggernauts before he got back to London.

Heading out onto the A road, the car was thick with silence. He could see Auntie in the rear-view mirror, mashing her handbag on her lap and managing to look cramped even in the spaciousness of the Rover. Vicks and Miss Dior filled the car.

Next to Kareem, Uncle, not a small man either, seemed equally uncomfortable and was, moreover, in a filthy mood. He had always hated wearing a suit on his day off instead of the soft lungi and untucked shirt he was by right entitled to when not at the restaurant. His fingers tapped and paused spasmodically, as if calculating the exact reduction in takings that would result from Idiot running the business for a full day on his own. There was a shifting of weight in the back seat, and Kareem caught Mrs. Guri's eyes on him in the rear-view mirror, so he called out.

“Are you comfortable, Khalama? You want the radio? Stop for a rest?”

Mrs. Guri shook her head and turned her gaze out the window to disapprove of hills, cows and pebbledash. Her eyes were lidded, and her bottom lip was protruding ominously. Only half an hour to go and they were in no mood to be helpful or generous.

—

M
RS.
B
EGUM WALKED
into her husband's study and closed the door softly. Two o'clock already and everything hung on that fool Kareem doing what he had promised,
Inshallah
. He'd told Dr. Choudhury on the phone that the Guris were coming to visit mid-afternoon. If only her husband was more a figure of fear to enforce this. He was in the sitting room after an early healthy-walk, and would be asleep soon. Mrs. Begum refolded the damp duster in her hand and started to run it over mantel and desktop, keeping a sharp eye out for anything of interest.

She pushed aside a pile of yellowing lecture notes that had sat on his study desk ever since they had moved there, and riffled through the papers behind them looking for something new, something with titles, that she could take to Mrs. Darby to read. But there was no letterhead, no bills, no brochures with pictures to puzzle over and interpret.

As long as Dr. Choudhury did not
one
thing more to spoil her plans, Baby and Kareem would be married before Haj, if she had to chop off her thumbs to do it. And then she would have three or four weeks, if she was lucky, to plan the reception and negotiate with Mrs. Guri for the
walima
, with Rohimun driving her and Baby making the calls, before the men returned and started interfering again.

And her husband would have to take Rohimun back now, or risk great embarrassment with the Bournes, for all his refusing to even say his daughter's name. Henry and Thea were moving back into the Abbey any day, she had seen the boxes and the tape, and that old fool still pretending that nothing needed to change. He would have to sing a different song very soon: if Henry and Thea discovered where Munni had been living, Henry might well forget and forgive, but not that Thea. Mrs. Begum pressed her lips together and gave the cheval a mean flick with the back of her hand that set it to swinging and creaking.

If Rohimun was not present, it would be clear to everyone what her current standing was, and the Guris would have the upper hand in wedding negotiations. She needed to do something, now. It was time. She would send Tariq to his sister, have him collect her, put her things in Windsor Cottage's garage, and ask his father, seeing as they were such good friends now, to forgive her. Dr. Choudhury was on the brink of it, she could tell, with this buying of paints and brushes, for all his silence on the subject, and it could wait no longer.

Mrs. Begum put her head out into the hallway and called, in a penetrating whisper, “Tariq! Tariq!”

She picked up the cushion from Dr. Choudhury's chair, punched it with her fists until it was puffy and loose again, and dropped it back onto the seat. She would never consent to be on her knees before that fat toad, begging for Kareem to be married into their family.

Her good-for-nothing son poked his head around the study door. “I was just in the kitchen, Amma.”

“Never mind that, go get your sister.”

“Baby?”

“Nah, nah, nah, what are you thinking? Go get Munni. Pack her up and bring her home.”

“Eh? What's Abba said?”

“Just go! Bring everything. Do it now!” She raised her hand at his surprised face, and he stepped back.

“Alright, alright, Amma. I'm going. I just hope you know what you're doing. I'm going!”

Tariq disposed of, she banged shut the doors of the sari cupboard—the only tidy place in the study as usual—and swept the other papers on Dr. Choudhury's desk into one neat pile. But they still irritated her with their messy tabs and flags, so she put one hand on top of the pile and, with the other, quickly stripped the little red and yellow tabs from the sides, and threw them into the wastepaper basket.

In the basket was a small silver sphere of crumpled-up foil. She pounced on it and lifted it up to her eyes and then her nose. So he was stealing
ladhu
balls from her kitchen now. He should know better than to keep secrets from her—she always found out in the end.

It must have come from the
ladhu
balls she had made for Munni, to welcome her back into the house: that special dinner that had never happened thanks to that fool of a man, her husband. She fingered the talisman pinned into her blouse and breathed a short prayer.
Bring her back under my roof, all-merciful Allah. Let her father forgive. Find me a husband for her
.

On Dr. Choudhury's armchair, a burgundy and gold sari lay draped across the seat and spilling onto the carpet. She picked it up and stretched her arms to their utmost to fold it into two-yard lengths. How to do this.

If Richard Bourne had been a Bangla boy in this same situation, fully grown and with no parents to tell him what he needed or that it was time to marry, he would at least have had the sense to approach an intermediary, someone like Mrs. Guri. She would have made the necessary enquiries and visited Mrs. Begum and prepared her for Bangla-Richard's interest. Mrs. Begum, as a respectable woman and not at all the matchmaking type, would have been entitled to ask from her all the natural and necessary information, about his reputation in the community, his age, wealth and unmarried status, and thus his obvious need for a wife.

The sari was folded now, and she put it away in the cupboard. Sometimes she thought this cupboard was more important to her husband than food. But what news was this to her, who had seen him swoon over saris even before they had married?

In due course, Mrs. Guri could let Bangla-Richard know that the Choudhurys, while in the habit of rejecting first-class offers every day, were not necessarily averse to further discussions. One of those ostentatiously chaperoned meetings could then be arranged with the prospective couple. Rohimun could indicate (reluctantly, modestly) that if her parents wanted this match, she would be compliant (Mrs. Begum had a little trouble imagining this part so moved quickly on) and Dr. Choudhury (appropriately prompted) could enter into dowry and settlement negotiations with Bangla-Richard. Tariq would generally hover around, so that it was as clear as possible that their Munni was not a girl without family and protection.

Richard was clearly a man smitten: she could see that he was only interested in the rest of them as a way to know Rohimun better and to find favor with her family. But where could he go from this point, how could he promote his suit without,
Inshallah
, causing offence or loss of reputation?

Being outside of the community, Richard would just have to feel his way, directed where possible by Mrs. Begum, and within the boundaries set by Tariq and Dr. Choudhury. It could take him months: some
gora
couples took years. She tsked at the thought.

There was a muffled knocking at the front door. Mrs. Begum hurried down the hall, dragging the duster over the telephone table and hallstand as she did so, and threw it open.

It was Richard Bourne, in blue-jeans and a shirt, looking as tall and handsome and determined as a suitor should, with Andrew and Jonathon just behind, climbing out of that long dark car of his. She froze. While not normally slow to appreciate any development of advantage to her family, the dizzying speed with which Allah had answered her prayers this time found her needing a second to adjust. If Rohimun, like Diana, was to venture away from the safety of home and community and into the uncharted, dangerous waters of a mixed marriage, this would be the man.

“Hello, Mrs. Begum. I'm sorry to intrude, but—”

“Richard!” She beamed. “You have not gone back to London!”

“A court date has been put off, so I have a few free days to help Henry and Thea pack up the Lodge. The boys and I have just come from McDonald's. Henry and Thea are in Swindon this afternoon and they mentioned that you had offered . . .”

“Yes, yes. Thea asked me to look after them today, but there is no need to ask. Anytime.” She looked at the two boys approvingly. “They eat everything.” She pointed to her right. “Andrew, Jonathon, go to the back garden. Go see the rabbits. Go, go. Samosas are in the kitchen.”