He peered down the hallway at the shadowy form of Joyce through the glass and scratched his testicles, sadly. Samad was in his television mode: garish V-neck, stomach swelling like a tight hot-water bottle beneath it, long moth-eaten dressing gown, and a pair of paisley boxer-shorts from which two stick legs, the legacy of his youth, protruded. In his television mode action escaped him. The box in the corner of the room (which he liked to think of as an antique of its kind, encased in wood and on four legs like some Victorian robot) sucked him in and sapped all energy.
‘Well, why don’t you do something, Mr Iqbal? Make her go away. Instead of standing there with your flabby gut and your tiny willy on display.’
Samad grunted and tucked the cause of all his troubles, two huge hairy balls and a defeated-looking limp prick, back into the inner lining of his shorts.
‘She won’t go away,’ he murmured. ‘And if she does, she will only return with reinforcements.’
‘But why? Hasn’t she caused enough trouble?’ said Alsana loudly, loud enough for Joyce. ‘She has her own family, no? Why does she not go and for a change mess them up? She has boys, four boys? How many boys does she want? How bloody many?’
Samad shrugged, went into the kitchen drawer and fished out the earphones that could be plugged into the television and thus short-circuit the outside world. He, like Marcus, had disengaged. Leave them, was his feeling. Leave them to their battles.
‘Oh thank you,’ said Alsana caustically, as her husband retreated to his Hugh Scully and his pots and guns. ‘Thank you, Samad Miah, for your oh so valuable contribution. This is what the men do. They make the mess, the century ends, and they leave the women to clear up the shit. Thank you, husband!’
She increased the speed of her sewing, dashing out the seam, progressing down the inner leg, while the Sphinx of the letterbox continued to ask unanswerable questions.
‘Mrs Iqbal… please can we talk? Is there any reason why we shouldn’t talk? Do we have to behave like children?’
Alsana began to sing.
‘Mrs Iqbal? Please. What can this possibly achieve?’
Alsana sang louder.
‘I must tell you,’ said Joyce, strident as ever, even through three panels of wood and double glazing, ‘I’m not here for my health. Whether you want me to be involved or not, I am, you see? I am.’
Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she lifted her foot off the pedal, and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here in England, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say ‘We’re involved with each other,’ as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it. Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you in like quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome Samad Miah one week after they’d been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed they were to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of some stairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had told her that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good, nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, of empires and expansion, of living in each other’s pockets… one becomes involved and it is a long trek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn’t do it for one’s health. Nothing this late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to the Modern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows – My wife slept with my brother, My mother won’t stay out of my boyfriend’s life – and the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary Married Couple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need… ? Wrong! Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, they are not willing it – they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between the revolving doors of those two v’s. Involved. The years pass, and the mess accumulates and here we are. Your brother’s sleeping with my ex-wife’s niece’s second cousin. Involved. Just a tired, inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involved – wearied, slightly acid – suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to her. An enormous web you spin to catch yourself.
‘OK, OK, lady, five minutes, only. I have three catsuits to do this morning come hell or high water.’
Alsana opened the door and Joyce walked into the hallway, and for a moment they surveyed their opposite number, guessing each other’s weight like nervous prize fighters prior to mounting the scales. They were definitely a match for each other. What Joyce lacked in chest, she made up in bottom. Where Alsana revealed a weakness in delicate features – a thin and pretty nose, light eyebrows – she compensated with the huge pudge of her arms, the dimples of maternal power. For, after all, she was the mother here. The mother of the boys in question. She held the trump card, should she be forced to play it.
‘Okey-dokey, then,’ said Alsana, squeezing through the narrow kitchen door, beckoning Joyce to follow.
‘Is it tea or is it coffee?’
‘Tea,’ said Joyce firmly. ‘Fruit if possible.’
‘Fruit not possible. Not even Earl Grey is possible. I come from the land of tea to this godawful country and then I can’t afford a proper cup of it. P.G. Tips is possible and nothing else.’
Joyce winced. ‘P.G. Tips, please, then.’
‘As you wish.’
The mug of tea plonked in front of Joyce a few minutes later was grey with a rim of scum and thousands of little microbes flitting through it, less micro than one would have hoped. Alsana gave Joyce a moment to consider it.
‘Just leave it for a while,’ she explained gaily. ‘My husband hit a water pipe when digging a trench for some onions. Our water is a little funny ever since. It may give you the running shits or it may not. But give it a minute and it clears. See?’ Alsana gave it an unconvincing stir, sending yet larger chunks of unidentified matter bubbling up to the surface. ‘You see? Fit for Shah Jahan himself!’
Joyce took a tentative sip and then pushed it to one side.
‘Mrs Iqbal, I know we haven’t been on the best of terms in the past, but-’
‘Mrs Chalfen,’ said Alsana, putting up her long forefinger to stop Joyce speaking. ‘There are two rules that everybody knows, from PM to jinrickshaw-wallah. The first is, never let your country become a trading post. Very important. If my ancestors had followed this advice, my situation presently would be very different, but such is life. The second is, don’t interfere in other people’s family business. Milk?’
‘No, no, thank you. A little sugar…’
Alsana dumped a huge heaped tablespoon into Joyce’s cup.
‘You think I am interfering?’
‘I think you have interfered.’
‘But I just want the twins to see each other.’
‘You are the reason they are apart.’
‘But Magid is only living with us because Millat won’t live with him here. And Magid tells me your husband can barely stand the sight of him.’
Alsana, little pressure-cooker that she was, blew. ‘And why can’t he? Because you, you and your husband, have involved Magid in something so contrary to our culture, to our beliefs, that we barely recognize him! You have done that! He is at odds with his brother now. Impossible conflict! Those green bow-tied bastards: Millat is high up with them now. Very involved. He doesn’t tell me, but I hear. They call themselves followers of Islam, but they are nothing but thugs in a gang roaming Kilburn like all the other lunatics. And now they are sending out the – what are they called – folded-paper trouble.’