Kalpana's Dream (13 page)
‘Of course his smile is not right, ’ Kalpana was saying.
‘My Raj had a special smile for me, or for when he was very glad – a little groove, a hollow, would come into his face, just here.’ She touched a finger lightly to the side of her mouth. ‘I long to see that smile again, but you know, Nirmolini, I have never once dreamed of Raj. Sometimes I have this other dream, though: I dream I am flying, all by myself, a little way above the ground. Faster, I go, faster and faster, and I know that if I fly fast enough, I will see his face again.’
The credits began to roll; Nani stopped the film and pressed rewind. Now, thought Neema despairingly, she’ll play it all over again.
And all at once she couldn’t bear it: to sit for hours in this stuffy little room, where a thin strip of sunlight on the carpet was the only sign of the lovely afternoon outside. She grabbed hold of Nani’s hand. ‘Nani, let’s go out, ’ she said impulsively. ‘Let’s go out somewhere!’
Taking Lucy to the zoo proved every bit as shocking as Kate had expected it to be. No wonder Mum and Dad had chickened out.
The trouble began at the bus-stop, where Lucy’s sharp eyes fastened on the knees of a group of elderly ladies waiting for the number 43.
She darted forward; Kate grabbed her just in time. ‘Now listen, Luce, ’ she said quite gently. ‘I don’t want you to go saying things today. Things like “It’s snowing down south!” Okay?’
‘I wasn’t going to, ’ replied Lucy virtuously.
Kate didn’t trust her. When the 43 lumbered up the hill at last, she waited till the old ladies had settled themselves comfortably in the seats behind the driver’s cabin, then she led Lucy further down the aisle.
‘I want to be in the front!’
‘Well you can’t. Just sit!’
Lucy sat. At the junction, an elegant lady boarded. She looked a little like Neema’s mum, Kate thought, with her long glossy hair and beautiful shining eyes. She wore a dark blue dress, and blue stockings to match with a pattern of little clocks along their seams.
Lucy’s eyes fixed on the stockings.
‘Luce–’ Too late. Lucy pointed. ‘You’ve got legs like a Mullingar heifer!’ she crowed, in a clear ringing voice that carried all round the bus. Heads turned, but Lucy’s victim simply smiled.
‘
Scusi
?’
‘You’ve got legs like a Mullingar heifer!’
The elegant lady patted the front of her dark blue dress. ‘Speak no English. Only Italian, I–’ and, pausing a moment to stroke Lucy’s chocolate-coloured hair (‘
Ah
,
bella
!’), she walked on calmly down the aisle.
‘Don’t you ever say that to anyone again!’ hissed Kate when they were safely out in the street.
‘I didn’t, ’ said Lucy. ‘I didn’t say “snowing down south”.’
‘I meant, “legs like a Mullingar heifer”!’ Kate bawled out. Heads turned again; she thought she heard someone say, ‘Needs her mouth washing out with soap! And in front of her sweet little sister, too!’ Kate lowered her burning face and walked on quickly, gripping tight to Lucy’s hand.
‘It’s – rude, ’ she told her, when they were out of range of the disapproving stares.
‘Gran says it. Is Gran rude?’
She was, in a way, thought Kate. She’d been at their place on Sunday, rattling on to Mum about her neighbours, all of whom, according to Gran, were freaks and monsters, people whose petticoats always hung down south, above legs which should have belonged to Mullingar heifers . . . And Lucy had hovered in the kitchen, soaking up every word.
‘It’s different, ’ she said to Lucy. ‘Gran’s old.’
‘So when I’m old, I can be rude too?’
‘Yes, ’ said Kate shortly. ‘But not till you’re a gran.’
‘I want to go back to the monkeys!’
‘But we’ve
seen
the monkeys. We’ve seen them twice.’
‘Let’s go and see them again.’
‘It’s all the way over the other side, Luce. Aren’t you tired?’
‘No.’
Kate was tired. Her legs ached as she trudged back up the hill, her head felt dazed and swimmy, and there was a ringing in her ears from listening to Lucy’s chatter. Why did her sister love monkeys so much? Was it because Lucy was
like
them? The smaller monkeys scurried and skittered like Lucy, they were never, for a moment, still; they jabbered incessantly, hooted with laughter, then turned cranky, roared . . .
‘Look!’ Lucy tugged excitedly at Kate’s limp arm. ‘Look at that one, Katie! He’s eating a banana! And’, she turned to Kate a face of sheer delight, ‘he
peeled
it, Katie! With his little spidery hands! He peeled it like a huming being!’
‘Human being, ’ Kate corrected wearily.
‘Now he’s throwing it away, and he’s only eaten half of it, see?’
The banana had lobbed outside the bars, almost at Lucy’s feet. She bent towards it.
Kate grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t touch it!’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll get monkey’s germs.’
‘Monkey’s germs?’ But then, the banana forgotten, Lucy shrieked out joyously, ‘Look! Look, Katie! Look at that big one over there! He’s scratching his balls, like Grandpa does!’
‘Lucy! What did I tell you when we got off the bus? What did I say about being rude?’
Before Lucy could answer, a sudden gust of wind whisked Kate’s sun-hat from her head and bowled it down the hill. It was her school sun-hat, the one Mum said had cost a bomb; Mum would kill her if that hat got lost. ‘You stay there!’ she ordered Lucy, and went pelting down the hill, snatching her hat up at the bottom, whirling round to check on Lucy. She saw with relief that her sister still stood where she’d been told, only now she had a small yellow object clutched tightly in her fist. She raised the object to her mouth and took a bite.
Kate’s eyes bulged at the sight. The banana! Lucy had picked up the monkey’s half-eaten banana! Kate raced back up the hill, so fast that trees and sky and people swirled around her like cake-mix blended in a bowl.
‘Lucy! Don’t! Don’t
swallow
it!’
Lucy gulped. ‘I
did
.’
Panic surged in Kate. What happened if you ate a banana a monkey had been chewing? How sick did you get? Could you get rabies that way? Or something worse? Could you, even –
die
?
‘Spit it out!’
‘Can’t!’ Lucy opened a wet empty mouth. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Oh, Lucy!’ Kate sank to her knees and pressed her sister close. ‘We’ve got to get you to the First Aid place.’
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Look, we’re sorry, but–’
Kate sprang to her feet. She saw Ivy Stevenson from Year Eight, and Kerry Moss’s big brother, Danny.
‘She swallowed the monkey’s banana!’ Kate wailed desparingly. ‘She’s eaten a banana a monkey chewed!’
‘No, ’ said Danny calmly. ‘No.’
‘What?’
‘She hasn’t.’ Danny was holding a crumpled paper bag. ‘They were ours, ’ he said, thrusting the open bag at Kate. Inside it were bananas.
‘We gave her one of them, ’ he said.
‘It wasn’t the monkey’s banana your little sister was eating, ’ explained Ivy. ‘It was a
huming
banana.’ Her full lips twitched to hide a smile. ‘Not fatal. If that’s what you’re so upset about.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Danny. ‘You look sort of red.’
‘
Very
red, ’ said Ivy.
‘I’m fine, ’ said Kate stiffly.
‘Oh well. Sorry about that, then.’
‘Sorry about’, Ivy’s lips twitched again, ‘the banana.’
Oh, they were very sorry, thought Kate furiously. She could see their shoulders shaking with laughter as, hand-in-hand, they walked off into the scrubby bush-land behind the monkeys’ enclosure. By nine o’clock on Monday morning the tale would be all around the school. A tear of rage slid down Kate’s cheek.
‘Katie? Katie?’ A hand was patting her, patting her t-shirt, her arms, her damp hot sticky face. A small fat hand, with baby dimples still between its knuckles. ‘Don’t cry, Katie. Don’t be sad.’
The unexpected tenderness which had overcome Kate last night swept over her again. It was no use pretending: Lucy had begun to change herself into a
huming being
. And Kate was changing, too: she was no longer a person who hated her sister, not always, anyway.
And that wonderful essay she’d written for Ms Dallimore – those six whole pages of flying, perfect words about how she hated Lucy – was ruined. It simply wasn’t true. It was gone. She’d never find anything to write in its place, never. She wouldn’t be able to do it; she’d get into trouble.
Unless, thought Kate.
Unless Ms Dallimore really
was
the Bride of Dracula.
Neema and Nani went to the park. It wasn’t very far: along Lawrence Road and past the shops, around the corner and down the narrow lane behind the bowling green. Nani walked briskly, her small feet in their air-soled runners keeping pace with Neema.
‘She’s amazingly fit for her age, ’ Neema’s dad had remarked a few days after Nani had arrived. ‘Reminds me of Sister Josephine. Do you know, when Sister Josephine found me on their back doorstep, she would have been almost eighty, and yet – the way she
swooped
me up, out of the rain and that soggy old box, and
danced
me into the kitchen–’ ‘Ignatius, you were only a couple of days old, you can’t possibly remember that!’ Neema’s mum had protested.
‘Indeed I do, ’ Dad had said stoutly, with the same conviction that sounded in Molly Matthews’ voice when she spoke of her mother fastening the buttons on her little baby shoes.
The park was deserted, long wavy shadows flickered from the trees, and the only sound was the crunch of their runners on the gravel of the path.
Why was Nani so silent? wondered Neema, as they walked on towards the lake. Why wasn’t she talking on in Hindi, like she always did, like she’d been doing back in the TV room just a little while ago, talking and talking, even though Neema couldn’t understand? She flicked a quick glance sideways – Nani’s face looked stern, and even sad. Was she disappointed because she’d come all this way to find a great-granddaughter who didn’t speak a word of Hindi? Who couldn’t be bothered to learn? Neema felt her cheeks grow hot: she hadn’t even opened that little English–Hindi primer except to find out if Nani had been talking about her big feet and knobbly knees. Nani hadn’t seemed real to her, a person you might want to know.
Though Neema couldn’t have guessed it, Kalpana’s stern expression was only for herself. How foolish she was! How foolish she must have seemed to Nirmolini, back there in the house chattering on again, pouring out her thoughts and feelings in a language the poor child didn’t know, on and on, like a river swollen in the monsoon rains.
‘When you are old, ’ she’d told her daughter Usha, ‘it’s time to try new things. Time to be brave, to learn–’ and yet she didn’t have the courage to speak those English words she knew. Kalpana pressed her lips together in a thin straight line. The next word she spoke would be English. It would be. But what?
They sat down together on the grassy verge beside the lake. Neither of them spoke. Neema stole another glance at Nani. What was she thinking about, as she watched the small waves washing in and out among the stones? Was she angry with her? But Nani looked sad rather than angry – perhaps she was thinking about her young husband, who’d died so long ago. Did she remember little things about him? Had she been trying to tell them to Neema when they were watching the film?
Neema looked out across the lake. Beneath the late summer sky, the water was a brilliant burning blue, the kind of blue you hardly ever see in real life, except for the favourite colour in your pastel box you keep saving up for something really special. Yet it was the colour of something she had seen once in the real world long ago, something splendid and perfect and . . . The colour of the Indian sky, that was it! And with a rush it all came sweeping back: the warm lovely evenings, sitting by the river with Nani and Sumati, squeezed safe between them, gazing up at a sky which was bigger than the one she knew back home, immense and blazing: Nani’s sky. An important sky, so important, so vast and dazzling you’d think it would make you feel small. Only it hadn’t. It had made Neema feel important and sure of herself, even though she’d been so little – as if who she was, and everything she thought and did, really mattered.
Lightly, Neema touched Nani’s arm. ‘Nani? Nani, I just remembered you, from when I was little, when we used to sit by the river, me and you and Sumati.’
‘Sumati, ’ echoed Nani softly, and her face had the still, absorbed expression of a person making up her mind. ‘Yes!’ she said, in English, so suddenly that Neema jumped a little. ‘Sumati, and me – and you. By the river. Us.’ She spoke slowly, haltingly, with a soft accent that Neema liked at once.
‘By the river, ’ Nani said again, more easily.
‘What’s “river” in Hindi, Nani?’
‘
Nadi
, ’ replied Nani. ‘“River” is “
nadi
”, Nirmolini.’
Nadi
! It was the word Neema had imagined meant ‘gawky’, or ‘ugly’ or ‘knobbly-kneed’. And all Nani had been asking was whether Neema remembered sitting by the river with her and Sumati!
Right! decided Neema. The minute she got home she’d find that English–Hindi primer, and she’d ask Mum, and Nani, about the words, and she wouldn’t be shy of speaking them out loud, even if they did sound funny.
And then, abruptly in that quiet place, they heard a sudden swish and swirl of gravel from behind them, and a voice called, ‘Nirmolini!’ It was a boy’s voice, full of astonishment and a kind of joyfulness which made Neema think of the words her dad had said: ‘Nirmolini, your name like perfume poured out . . .’
She thought it sounded like Gull Oliver, but how could it be? She went quite still, holding her breath, afraid to turn round and see. Beside her, she heard Nani laugh and clap her hands. ‘
Uran khatola
!’
Uran khatola
?
‘Oh, Nirmolini! It’s the – the flying boy!’
Gull Oliver had been cruising down the path towards the lake, thinking, dreaming . . .
‘I think best on the old skateboard, ’ he told his mum on those evenings she caught him sneaking out when there was homework to be done.
