It is better to marry than to burn, says Corinthians I, chapter seven, verse nine.
Good advice. Of course, Corinthians also informs us that we should not muzzle1 the ox while it is treading out the grain so, go figure.
By February 1975, Clara had deserted2 the church and all its biblical literalism for Archibald Jones, but she was not yet the kind of carefree atheist4 who could laugh near altars or entirely5 dismiss the teachings of St. Paul. The second dictum wasn't a problem having no ox, she was excluded by proxy8. But the first was giving her sleepless9 nights. Was it better to marry? Even if the man was a heathen? There was no way of knowing: she was living without props10 now, sans safety net. More worrying than God was her mother. Hortense was fiercely opposed to the affair, on grounds of colour rather than of age, and on hearing of it had promptly11 ostracized12 her daughter one morning on the doorstep.
Clara still felt that deep down her mother would prefer her to marry an unsuitable man rather than live with him in sin, so she did it on impulse and begged Archie to take her as far away from Lambeth as a man of his means could manage Morocco, Belgium, Italy. Archie had clasped her hand and nodded and whispered sweet nothings in the full knowledge that the furthest a man of his means was going was a newly acquired, heavily mortgaged, two-storey house in Willesden Green.
But no need to mention that now, he felt, not right now in the heat of the moment. Let her down gently, like.
Three months later Clara had been gently let down and here they were, moving in. Archie scrabbling up the stairs, as usual cursing and blinding, wilting14 under the weight of boxes which Clara could carry two, three at a time without effort; Clara taking a break, squinting15 in the warm May sunshine, trying to get her bearings. She peeled down to a little purple vest and leant against her front gate. What kind of a place was this? That was the thing, you see, you couldn't be sure. Travelling in the front passenger seat of the removal van, she'd seen the high road and it had been ugly and poor and familiar (though there were no Kingdom Halls or Episcopalian churches), but then at the turn of a corner suddenly roads had exploded in greenery, beautiful oaks, the houses got taller, wider and more detached, she could see parks, she could see libraries. And then abruptly17 the trees would be gone, reverting18 back into bus-stops as if by the strike of some midnight bell; a signal which the houses too obeyed, transforming themselves into smaller, st airless dwellings19 that sat splay opposite derelict shopping arcades20, those peculiar21 lines of establishments that include, without exception, one defunct22 sandwich bar still advertising23 breakfast one locksmith uninterested in marketing24 frills (keys cut here) and one permanently25 shut unisex hair salon26, the proud bearer of some unspeakable pun (Upper Cuts or Fringe Benefits or Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow).
It was a lottery27 driving along like that, looking out, not knowing whether one was about to settle down for life amongst the trees or amidst the shit. Then finally the van had slowed down in front of a house, a nice house somewhere midway between the trees and the shit, and Clara had felt a tide of gratitude28 roll over her. It was nice, not as nice as she had hoped but not as bad as she had feared; it had two small gardens front and back, a doormat, a doorbell, a toilet inside .. . And she had not paid a high price. Only love. Just love. And whatever Corinthians might say, love is not such a hard thing to forfeit29, not if you've never really felt it. She did not love Archie, but had made up her mind, from that first moment on the steps, to devote herself to him if he would take her away.
And now he had; and, though it wasn't Morocco or Belgium or Italy, it was nice not the promised land but nice, nicer than anywhere she had ever been.
Clara understood that Archibald Jones was no romantic hero. Three months spent in one stinking30 room in Cricklewood had been sufficient revelation. Oh, he could be affectionate and sometimes even charming, he could whistle a clear, crystal note first thing in the morning, he drove calmly and responsibly and he |was a surprisingly competent cook, but romance was beyond , passion, unthinkable. And if you are saddled with a man as age as this, Clara felt, he should at least be utterly31 devoted32 t^^bi to your beauty, to your youth that's the least he could do^wnake up for things. But not Archie. One month into their maiMce and he already had that funny glazed33 lookmen have whel^fcey are looking through you. He had already reverted35 back ^^ his bachelorhood:
pints36 with Samad Iqbal, dinner with Samac^Bbal, Sunday breakfasts with Samad Iqbal, every spare moment with the man in that bloody37 place, O'Connell's, in that bloody ABe. She tried to be reasonable. She asked him: Why are you nevemRre? Why do you spend so much time with the Indian? But a pat on[K back, a kiss on the cheek, he's grabbing his coat, his foot's oJ'e door andalways the same old answer: Me and Sam? We go vifback. She couldn't argue with that. They went back to befonMie was born.
No JBte knight39, then, this Archibald Jones. No aims, no hopesJK ambitions. A man whose greatest pleasures were Eng|">reakfasts and DIY. A dull man. An old man. And yet 3d. He was a good man. And good might not amount to i, good might not light up a life, but it is something. She at ted3 it in him that first time on the stairs, simply, directly, the same way she could point out a good mango on a Brixton stall without so much as touching40 the skin.
These were the thoughts Clara clung to as she leant on her garden gate, three months after her wedding, silently watching the way her husband's brow furrowed41 and shortened like an accordion42, the way his stomach hung pregnant over his belt, the whiteness of his skin, the blueness of his veins43, the way his 'elevens' were up those two ropes of flesh that appear on a man's gullet (so they said in Jamaica) when his time was drawing to a close.
Clara frowned. She hadn't noticed these afflictions at the wedding. Why not? He had been smiling and he wore a white polo-neck, but no, that wasn't it she hadn't been looking for them then, that was it. Clara had spent most of her wedding day looking at her feet. It had been a hot day, 14 February, but unusually warm, and there had been a wait because the world had wanted to marry that day in a little registry office on Ludgate Hill. Clara remembered slipping off the petite brown heels she was wearing and placing her bare feet on the chilly45 floor, making sure to keep them firmly planted either side of a dark crack in the tile, a balancing act upon which she had randomly46 staked her future happiness.
Archie meanwhile had wiped some moisture from his upper lip and cursed a persistent47 sunbeam that was sending a trickle48 of salty water down his inside leg. For his second marriage he had chosen a mohair suit with a white polo-neck and both were proving problematic. The heat prompted rivulets49 of sweat to spring out all over his body, seeping50 through the polo-neck to the mohair and giving off an unmistakable odour of damp dog. Clara, of course, was all cat. She wore a long brown woollen Jeff Banks dress and a perfect set of false teeth; the dress was backless, the teeth were white, and the overall effect was feline51; a panther in evening dress; where the wool stopped and Clara's skin started was not clear to the naked eye. And like a cat she responded to the dusty sunbeam that was coursing through a high window on to the waiting couples. She warmed her bare back in it, she almost seemed to unfurl. Even the registrar52, who had seen it all horsy women marrying weaselly men, elephantine men marrying owlish women raised an eyebrow53 at this most unnatural54 of unions as they approached his desk. Cat and dog.
"Hullo, Father," said Archie.
"He's a registrar, Archibald, you old flake," said his friend Samad Miah Iqbal, who, along with his wife Alsana, had been called in from the exile of the Wedding Guest Room to witness the contract. "Not a Catholic priest "Right. Of course. Sorry. Nervous."The stuffy55 registrar said, "Shall we get on? We've got a lot of you to get through today."This and little more had constituted the ceremony. Archie was passed a pen and put down his name (Alfred Archibald Jones), nationality (English) and age (47). Hovering56 for a moment over the box entitled "Occupation', he decided57 upon "Advertising: (Printed Leaflets)', then signed himself away. Clara wrote down her name (Clara Iphegenia Bowden), nationality (Jamaican) and age (19).
Finding no box interested in her occupation, she went straight for the decisive dotted line, swept her pen across it, and straightened up again, a Jones. A Jones like no other that had come before her.
Then they had gone outside, on to the steps, where a breeze lifted second-hand58 confetti and swept it over new couples, where Clara met her only wedding guests formally for the first time: two Indians, both dressed in purple silk. Samad Iqbal, a tall, handsome man with the whitest teeth and a dead hand, who kept patting her on the back with the one that worked.
"My idea this, you know," he repeated again and again. "My idea, all this marriage business. I have known the old boy since when?" '1945, Sam.""That's what I am trying to tell your lovely wife, 1945 when you know a man that long, and you've fought alongside him, then it's your mission to make him happy if he is not. And he wasn't! Quite the opposite until you made an appearance! Wallowing in the shit-heap, if you will pardon the French. Thankfully, she's all packed off now. There's only one place for the mad, and that's with others like them," said Samad, losing steam halfway60 through the sentence, for Clara clearly had no idea what he was talking about. "Anyway, no need to dwell on ... My idea, though, you know, all this."And then there was his wife, Alsana, who was tiny and tightlipped and seemed to disapprove61 of Clara somehow (though she could only be a few years older); said only "Oh yes, Mrs. Jones' or "Oh no, Mrs. Jones', making Clara so nervous, so sheepish, she felt compelled to put her shoes back on.
Archie felt bad for Clara that it wasn't a bigger reception. But there was no one else to invite.
All other relatives and friends had declined the wedding invitation; some tersely62, some horrified63; others, thinking silence the best option, had spent the past week studiously stepping over the mail and avoiding the phone. The only well-wisher was Ibelgaufts, who had neither been invited nor informed of the event, but from whom, curiously64, a note arrived in the morning mail:
14 February 1975 Dear Archibald,Usually, there is something about weddings that brings out the misanthrope65 in me, but today, as I attempted to save a bed of petunias66 from extinction67, I felt a not inconsiderable warmth at the thought of the union of one man and one woman in lifelong cohabitation. It is truly remarkable68 that we humans undertake such an impossible feat69, don't you think? But to be serious for a moment: as you know, I am a man whose profession it is to look deep inside of' Woman and, like a psychiatrist70, mark her with a full bill of health or otherwise. And I feel sure, my friend (to extend a metaphor), that you have explored your lady-wife-to-be in such a manner, both spiritand mentally, and found her not lacking in any particular, and so what else can I offer but ike hearty71 congratulations of your earnest competitor, Horst Ibelgaufts What other memories of that day could make it unique and lift it out of the other 355 that made up 1975? Clara remembered a young black man stood atop an apple crate72, sweating in a black suit, who began pleading to his brothers and sisters; an old bag-lady retrieving73 a carnation74 from the bin38 to put in her hair. But then it was all over: the ding-filmed sandwiches Clara had made had been forgotten and sat suffering at the bottom of a bag, the sky had clouded over, and when they walked up the hill to the King Ludd Pub, past the jeering75 Fleet Street lads with their Saturday pints, it was discovered that Archie had been given a parking ticket.
So it was that Clara spent the first three hours of married life in Cheapside Police Station, her shoes in her hands, watching her saviour76 argue relentlessly77 with a traffic inspector79 who failed to understand Archie's subtle interpretation80 of the Sunday parking laws.
"Clara, Clara, love '
It was Archie, struggling past her to the front door, partly obscured by a coffee table.
"We've got the Ick-Balls coming round tonight, and I want to get this house in some kind of order so mind out the way.""You wan44' help?" asked Clara patiently, though still half in daydream81. "I can lift so meting82 if-'
"No, no, no, no I'll manage."Clara reached out to take one side of the table. "Let me jus' -'
Archie battled to push through the narrow frame, trying to hold both the legs and the table's large removable glass top.
"It's man's work, love.""But' Clara lifted a large armchair with enviable ease and brought it over to where Archie had collapsed83, gasping85 for breath on the hall steps. "Sno problem. If you wan' help: jus' arks farrit." She brushed her hand softly across his forehead.
"Yes, yes, yes." He shook her off in irritation86, as if batting a fly. "I'm quite capable, you know ' "I know dat '
"It's man's work.""Yes, yes, I see-I didn't mean '
"Look, Clara, love, just get out of my way and I'll get on with it, OK?"Clara watched him roll up his sleeves with some determination, and tackle the coffee table once more.
"If you really want to be of some help, love, you can start bringing in some of your clothes.
God knows there's enough of 'em to sink a bloody battleship. How we're going to fit them in what little space we have I'm sure I don't know.""I say before we can trow some dem out, if you tink it best.""Not up to me now, not up to me, is it? I mean, is it? And what about the coat-stand?"This was the man: never able to make a decision, never able to state a position.
"I alreddy say: if ya nah like it, den13 send da damn ting back. I bought it 'cos I taut87 you like it.""Well, love," said Archie, cautious now that she had raised her voice, 'it was my money it would have been nice at least to ask my opinion.""Man! It a coat-stand. It jus' red. An' red is red is red. What's wrong wid red all of a sudden?""I'm just trying," said Archie, lowering his voice to a hoarse88, forced whisper (a favourite voice-weapon in the marital89 arsenal90: Not in front of the neighbours children 'to lift the tone in the house a bit. This is a nice neighbourhood, new life, you know. Look, let's not argue. Let's flip91 a coin; heads it stays, tails .. ."True lovers row, then fall the next second back into each other's arms; more seasoned lovers will walk up the stairs or into the next room before they relent and retrace92 their steps. A relationship on the brink93 of collapse84 will find one partner two blocks down the road or two countries to the east before something tugs94, some responsibility, some memory, a pull of a child's hand or a heart string, which induces them to make the long journey back to their other half. On this Richter scale, then, Clara made only the tiniest of rumbles95. She turned towards the gate, walked two steps only and stopped.
"Heads!" said Archie, seemingly without resentment96. "It stays. See? That wasn't too hard.""I don' wanna argue." She turned round to face him, having made a silent renewed resolution to remember her debt to him. "You said the Iqbals are comin' to dinner. I was just thinkin' .. . if they're going to want me to cook dem some curry1 mean, I can cook curry97 but it's my type of curry.""For God's sake, they're not those kind of Indians," said Archie irritably98, offended at the suggestion. "Sam'll have a Sunday roast like the next man. He serves Indian food all the time, he doesn't want to eat it too.""I was just wondering '
"Well, don't, Clara. Please."He gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead, for which she bent99 downwards100 a little.
"I've known Sam for years, and his wife seems a quiet sort. They're not the royal family, you know. They're not those kind of Indians," he repeated, and shook his head, troubled by some problem, some knotty101 feeling he could not entirely unravel102.
Samad and Alsana Iqbal, who were not those kind of Indians (as, in Archie's mind, Clara was not that kind of black), who were, in fact, not Indian at all but Bangladeshi, lived four blocks down on the wrong side of Willesden High Road. It had taken them a year to get there, a year of mercilessly hard graft103 to make the momentous104 move from the wrong side of Whitechapel to the wrong side of Willesden. A year's worth of Alsana banging away at the old Singer that sat in the kitchen, sewing together pieces of black plastic for a shop called Domination in Soho (many were the nights Alsana would hold up a piece of clothing she had just made, following the pattern she was given, and wonder what on earth it was). A year's worth of Samad softly inclining his head at exactly the correct deferential105 angle, pencil in his left hand, listening to the appalling106 pronunciation of the British, Spanish, American, French, Australian:
Chicken Jail Fret108 See wiv Chips, fan ks From six in the evening until three in the morning; and then every day was spent asleep, until daylight was as rare as a decent tip. For what is the point, Samad would think, pushing aside two mints and a receipt to find fifteen pence, what is the point of tipping a man the same amount you would throw in a fountain to chase a wish? But before the illegal thought of folding the fifteen pence discreetly109 in his napkin hand even had a chance to give itself form, Mukhul - Ardashir Mukhul, who ran the Palace and whose wiry frame paced the restaurant, one benevolent110 eye on the customers, one ever watchful111 eye on the staff- Mukhul was upon him.
"Saaamaad' he had a cloying112, oleaginous way of speaking 'did you kiss the necessary backside this evening, cousin?"Samad and Ardashir were distant cousins, Samad the elder by six years. With what joy (pure bliss113!) had Ardashir opened the letter last January, to find his older, cleverer, handsomer cousin was finding it hard to get work in England and could he possibly.. .
"Fifteen pence, cousin," said Samad, lifting his palm.
"Well, every little helps, every little helps," said Ardashir, his dead-fish lips stretching into a stringy smile. "Into the Piss-Pot with it."The Piss-Pot was a black Balti pot that sat on a plinth outside the staff toilets and into which all tips were pooled and then split at the end of the night. For the younger, flashy, good-looking waiters like Shiva, this was a great injustice114. Shiva was the only Hindu on the staff- this stood as tribute to his waite ring skills, which had triumphed over religious differences. Shiva could make a four quid tip in an evening if the blubberous white divorcee in the corner was lonely enough and he batted his long lashes115 at her effectively. He could also make his money out of the polo-necked directors and producers (the Palace sat in the centre of London's theatre land and these were still the days of the Royal Court, of pretty boys and kitchen-sink drama) who flattered the boy, watched his ass16 wiggle provocatively116 to the bar and back, and swore that if anyone ever adapted A Passage to India for the stage he could have whichever role tickled117 his fancy. For Shiva, then, the Piss-Pot system was simply daylight robbery and an insult to his unchallenged waite ring abilities. But for men like Samad, in his late forties, and for the even older, like the white-haired Muhammed (Ardashir's great-uncle), who was eighty if he was a day, who had deep pathways dug into the sides of his mouth where he had smiled when he was young, for men like this the Piss-Pot could not be complained about. It made more sense to join the collective than pocket fifteen pence and risk being caught (and docked a week's tips).
"You're all on my back!" Shiva would snarl118, when he had to relinquish119 five pounds at the end of the night and drop it into the pot. "You all live off my back! Somebody get these losers off my back!
That was my river and now it's going to be split sixty-five-fucking-million ways as a hand-out to these losers! What is this: communism?"And the rest would avoid his glare and busy themselves quietly with other things, until one evening, one fifteen pence evening, Samad said, "Shut up, boy," quietly, almost under his breath.
"You!" Shiva swung round to where Samad stood, crushing a great tub of lentils for tomorrow's dal. "You're the worst of them! You're the worst fucking waiter I've ever seen! You couldn't get a tip if you mugged the bastards120! I hear you trying to talk to the customer about biology this, politics that just serve the food, you idiot you're a waiter, for fuck's sake, you're not Michael Parkinson. "Did I hear you say Delhi'" Shiva put his apron121 over his arm and began posturing122 around the kitchen (he was a pitiful mimic) - '"I was there myself, you know, Delhi University, it was most fascinating, yes and I fought in the war, for England, yes yes, yes, charming, charming."" Round and round the kitchen he went, bending his head and rubbing his hands over and over like Uriah Heep, bowing and genuflecting123 to the head cook, to the old man arranging great hunks of meat in the walk-in freezer, to the young boy scrubbing the underside of the oven. "Samad, Samad .. ." he said with what seemed infinite pity, then stopped abruptly, pulled the apron off and wrapped it round his waist. "You are such a sad little man."Muhammed looked up from his pot-scrubbing and shook his head again and again. To no one in particular he said, "These young people what kind of talk? What kind of talk? What happened to respect? What kind of talk is this?""And you can fuck off too," said Shiva, brandishing124 a ladle in his direction, 'you old fool. You're not my father.""Second cousin of your mother's uncle," a voice muttered from the back. "Bollocks," said Shiva.
"Bollocks to that."He grabbed the mop and was heading off for the toilets, when he stopped by Samad and placed the handle inches from Samad's mouth.
"Kiss it," he sneered125; and then, impersonating Ardashir's sluggish126 drawl, "Who knows, cousin, you might get a rise!"And that's what it was like most nights: abuse from Shiva and others; condescension127 from Ardashir; never seeing Alsana; never seeing the sun; clutching fifteen pence and then releasing it; wanting desperately128 to be wearing a sign, a large white placard that said:
I AM NOT A WAITER. I HAVE BEEN A STUDENT, A SCIENTIST, A SOLDIER, MY WIFE IS CALLED AL SANA WE LIVE IN EAST LONDONBUT WE WOULD LIKE TO MOVE NORTH. I AM A MUSLIM BUT ALLAH HAS FORSAKEN129 ME OR I HAVE FORSAKEN ALLAH, i'm NOT SURE. I HAVE A FRIEND ARCHIE AND OTHERS. I AM FORTY-NINE BUTWOMEN STILL TURN IN THE STREET. SOMETIMES.
But, no such placard existing, he had instead the urge, the need, to speak to every man, and, like the Ancient Mariner130, explain constantly, constantly wanting to reassert something, anything. Wasn't that important? But then the heart-breaking disappointment to find out that the inclining of one's head, poising131 of one's pen, these were important, so important it was important to be a good waiter, to listen when someone said Lamb Dawn Sock and rice. With chips. Thank you.
And fifteen pence clinked on china. Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.
On the Tuesday after Archie's wedding, Samad had waited till everyone left, folded his white, flared132 trousers (made from the same fabric133 as the tablecloths) into a perfect square, and then climbed the stairs to Ardashir's office, for he had something to ask him.
"Cousin!" said Ardashir, with a friendly grimace135 at the sight of Samad's body curling cautiously round the door. He knew that Samad had come to inquire about a pay increase, and he wanted his cousin to feel that he had at least considered the case in all his friendly judiciousness136 before he declined.
"Cousin, come in!""Good evening, Ardashir Mukhul," said Samad, stepping fully59 into the room.
"Sit down, sit down," said Ardashir warmly. "No point standing137 on ceremony now, is there?"Samad was glad this was so. He said as much. He took a moment to look with the necessary admiration138 around the room, with its relentless78 gold, with its triple-piled carpet, with its furnishings in various shades of yellow and green. One had to admire Ardashir's business sense. He had taken the simple idea of an Indian restaurant (small room, pink tablecloth134, loud music, atrocious wallpaper, meals that do not exist in India, sauce carousel) and just made it bigger. He hadn't improved anything; everything was the same old crap, but it was all bigger in a bigger building in the biggest tourist trap in London, Leicester Square. You had to admire it and admire the man, who sat now like a benign139 locust140, his slender in sectile body swamped in a black leather chair, leaning over the desk, all smiles, a parasite141 disguised as a philanthropist.
"Cousin, what can I do for you?"Samad took a breath. The matter was this .. .
Ardashir's eyes glazed over a little as Samad explained his situation. His skinny legs twitched142 underneath143 the desk, and in his fingers he manipulated a paper clip until it looked reasonably like an A. A for Ardashir. The matter was .. . what was the matter? The house was the matter. Samad was moving out of East London (where one couldn't bring up children, indeed, one couldn't, not if one didn't wish them to come to bodily harm, he agreed), from East London with its NF gangs, to North London, north-west, where things were more .. . more .. . liberal.
Was it his turn to speak?
"Cousin .. ." said Ardashir, arranging his face, 'you must understand ... I cannot make it my business to buy houses for all my employees, cousin or not cousin ... I pay a wage, cousin . That is business in this country."Ardashir shrugged144 as he spoke145 as if to suggest he deeply disapproved146 of "Business in this country', but there it was. He was forced, his look said, forced by the English to make an awful lot of money.
"You misunderstand me, Ardashir. I have the deposit for the house, it is our house now, we have moved in '
How on earth has he afforded it, he must work his wife like a bloody slave, thought Ardashir, pulling out another paper clip from the bottom drawer.
"I need only a small wage increase to help me finance the move. To make things a little easier as we settle in. And Alsana, well, she is pregnant."Pregnant. Difficult. The case called for extreme diplomacy147.
"Don't mistake me, Samad, we are both intelligent, frank men and I think I can speak frankly148 ...
I know you're not a fucking waiter' he whispered the expletive and smiled indulgently after it, as if it were a naughty, private thing that brought them closer together "I see your position ... of course I do ... but you must understand mine ... If I made allowances for every relative I employ I'd be walking around like bloody Mr. Gandhi. Without a pot to piss in. Spinning my thread by the light of the moon. An example: at this very moment that wastrel149 Fat Elvis brother-in law of mine, Hussein-Ishmael '
"The butcher?""The butcher, demands that I should raise the price I pay for his stinking meat! "But Ardashir, we are brothers-in-law!" he is saying to me. And I am saying to him, but Mohammed, this is retail150 It was Samad's turn to glaze34 over. He thought of his wife, Alsana, who was not as meek151 as he had assumed when they married, to whom he must deliver the bad news; Alsana, who was prone152 to moments, even fits yes, fits was not too strong a word of rage. Cousins, aunts, brothers, thought it a bad sign, they worried if there wasn't some 'funny mental history' in Alsana's family, they sympathized with him the way you sympathize with a man who has bought a stolen car with more mileage153 on it than first thought. In his naivety154 Samad had simply assumed a woman so young would be ... easy. But Alsana was not.. . no, she was not easy. It was, he supposed, the way with these young women these days. Archie's bride .. . last Tuesday he had seen something in her eyes that wasn't easy either. It was the new way with these women.
Ardashir came to the end of what he felt was his perfectly155 worded speech, sat back satisfied, and laid the M for Mukhul he had moulded next to the A for Ardashir that sat on his lap.
"Thank you, sir," said Samad. "Thank you so very much."That evening there was an awful row. Alsana slung156 the sewing machine, with the black studded hot pants she was working on, to the floor.
"Useless! Tell me, Samad Miah, what is the point of moving here nice house, yes, very nice, very nice but where is the food?""It is a nice area, we have friends here.""Who are they?" She slammed her little fist on to the kitchen table, sending the salt and pepper flying, to collide spectacularly with each other in the air. "I don't know them! You fight in an old, forgotten war with some Englishman .. . married to a black! Whose friends are they? These are the people my child will grow up around? Their children half blacky-white? But tell me," she shouted, returning to her favoured topic, 'where is our food?" Theatrically157, she threw open every cupboard in the kitchen. "Where is it? Can we eat china?" Two plates smashed to the floor. She patted her stomach to indicate her unborn child and pointed158 to the pieces. "Hungry?" Samad, who had an equally melodramatic nature when prompted, yanked upon the freezer and pulled out a mountain of meat which he piled in the middle of the room. His mother worked through the night preparing meat for her family, he said. His mother did not, he said, spend the household money, as Alsana did, on prepared meals, yoghurts and tinned spaghetti.
Alsana punched him full square in the stomach.
"Samad Iqbal the traditionalist! Why don't I just squat159 in the street over a bucket and wash clothes? Eh? In fact, what about my clothes? Edible160?"As Samad clutched his winded belly161, there in the kitchen she ripped to shreds162 every stitch she had on and added them to the pile of frozen lamb, spare cuts from the restaurant. She stood naked before him for a moment, the yet small mound163 of her pregnancy164 in full view, then put on a long, brown coat and left the house.
But all the same, she reflected, slamming the door behind her, it was true: it was a nice area; she couldn't deny it as she stormed towards the high road, avoiding trees where previously165, in Whitechapel, she avoided flung-out mattresses166 and the homeless. It would be good for the child, she couldn't deny it. Alsana had a deep-seated belief that living near green spaces was morally beneficial to the young, and there to her right was Gladstone Park, a sweeping167 horizon of green named after the Liberal Prime Minister (Alsana was from a respected old Bengal family and had read her English History; but look at her now; if they could see what depths ...!), and in the Liberal tradition it was a park without fences, unlike the more affluent168 Queens Park (Victoria's), with its pointed metal railings. Willesden was not as pretty as Queens Park, but it was a nice area. No denying it. Not like Whitechapel, where that madman E-knock someoneoranother gave a speech that forced them into the basement while kids broke the windows with their steel-capped boots.
Rivers of bloodsilly-billy nonsense. Now she was pregnant she needed a little bit of peace and quiet. Though it was the same here in a way: they all looked at her strangely, this tiny Indian woman stalking the high road in a mackintosh, her plentiful169 hair flying every which way. Mali's Kebabs, Mr. Cheungs, Raj's, Malkovich Bakeries she read the new, unfamiliar170 signs as she passed. She was shrewd. She saw what this was. "Liberal? Hosh-kosh nonsense!" No one was more liberal than anyone else anywhere anyway. It was only that here, in Willesden, there was just not enough of any one thing to gang up against any other thing and send it running to the cellars while windows were smashed.
"Survival is what it is about!" she concluded out loud (she spoke to her baby; she liked to give it one sensible thought a day), making the bell above Crazy Shoes tinkle171 as she opened the door.
Her niece Neena worked there. It was an old-fashioned cobblers. Neena fixed172 heels back on to stilettos.
"Alsana, you look like dog shit," Neena called over in Bengali. "What is that horrible coat?""It's none of your business, is what it is," replied Alsana in English. "I came to collect my husband's shoes, not to chitchat with Niece-of-Shame."Neena was used to this, and now that Alsana had moved to Willesden there would only be more of it. It used to come in longer sentences, i.e." You have brought nothing but shame ... or My niece, the shameful173.. . but now because Alsana no longer had the time or energy to summon up the necessary shock each time, it had become abridged174 to Niece-of-Shame, an all-purpose tag that summed up the general feeling.
"See these soles?" said Neena, moving one of her dyed blonde bangs from her eye, taking Samad's shoes off a shelf and handing Alsana the little blue ticket. "They were so worn through, Auntie Alsi, I had to reconstruct them from the very base. From the base! What does he do in them? Run marathons?""He works," replied Alsana tersely. "And prays," she added, for she liked to show people her respectability, and besides she was really very traditional, very religious, lacking nothing except the faith. "And don't call me Auntie. I am two years older than you." Alsana swept the shoes into a plastic carrier bag and turned to leave.
"I thought that praying was done on people's knees said Neena, laughing lightly.
"Both, both, asleep, waking, walking," snapped Alsana, as she passed under the tinkly175 bell once more. "We are never out of sight of the Creator.""How's the new house, then?" Neena called after her.
But she had gone; Neena shook her head and sighed as she watched her young aunt disappear down the road like a little brown bullet. Alsana. She was young and old at the same time, Neena reflected. She acted so sensible, so straight-down the-line in her long sensible coat, but you got the feeling .. .
"Oil Miss! There's shoes back here that need your attention," came a voice from the store room.
"Keep your tits on," said Neena.
At the corner of the road Alsana popped behind the post office and removed her pinchy sandals in favour of Samad's shoes. (It was an oddity about Alsana. She was small but her feet were enormous. You felt instinctively176 when looking at her that she had yet more growing to do.) In seconds she whipped her hair into an efficient bun, and wrapped her coat tighter around her to keep out the wind. Then she set off up past the library and up a long green road she had never walked along before. "Survival is all, little Iqbal," she said to her bump once more. "Survival."Halfway up the road, she crossed the street, intending to turn left and circle round back to the high road. But then, as she approached a large white van open at the back and looked enviously177 at the furniture that was piled up in it, she recognized the black lady who was leaning over a garden fence, looking dreamily into the air towards the library (half dressed, though! A lurid178 purple vest, underwear almost), as if her future lay in that direction. Before she could cross over once more to avoid her, Alsana found herself spotted179.
"Mrs. Iqbal!" said Clara, waving her over.
"Mrs. Jones."Both women were momentarily embarrassed at what they were wearing, but, looking at the other, gained confidence.
"Now, isn't that strange, Archie?" said Clara, filling in all her consonants180. She was already some way to losing her accent and she liked to work on it at every opportunity.
"What? What?" said Archie, who was in the hallway, becoming exasperated181 with a bookcase.
"It's just that we were just talking about you you're coming to dinner tonight, yes?"Black people are often friendly, thought Alsana, smiling at Clara, and adding this fact subconsciously182 to the short 'pro7' side of the pro and con6 list she had on the black girl. From every minority she disliked, Alsana liked to single out one specimen183 for spiritual forgiveness. From Whitechapel, there had been many such redeemed184 characters. Mr. Van, the Chinese chiropodist, Mr. Segal, a Jewish carpenter, Rosie, a Dominican woman who continuously popped round, much to Alsana's grievance185 and delight, in an attempt to convert her into a Seventh-Day Adventist all these lucky individuals were given Alsana's golden reprieve186 and magically extrapolated from their skins like Indian tigers.
"Yes, Samad mentioned it," said Alsana, though Samad had not.
Clara beamed. "Good .. . good!"There was a pause. Neither could think of what to say. They both looked downwards.
"Those shoes look truly comfortable," said Clara.
"Yes. Yes. I do a lot of walking, you see. And with this' She patted her stomach.
"You're pregnant?" said Clara surprised. "Pickney, you so small me ky ant even see it."Clara blushed the moment after she had spoken; she always dropped into the vernacular187 when she was excited or pleased about something. Alsana just smiled pleasantly, unsure what she had said.
"I wouldn't have known," said Clara, more subdued188.
"Dear me," said Alsana with a forced hilarity189. "Don't our husbands tell each other anything?"But as soon as she had said it, the weight of the other possibility rested on the brains of the two girl-wives. That their husbands told each other everything. That it was they themselves who were kept in the dark.
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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pints
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| n.品脱( pint的名词复数 )；一品脱啤酒 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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48
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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50
seeping
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的现在分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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51
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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52
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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53
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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54
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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56
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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57
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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58
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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60
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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61
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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62
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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66
petunias
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| n.矮牵牛（花）( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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67
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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72
crate
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| vt.(up)把…装入箱中；n.板条箱，装货箱 | |
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73
retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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74
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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75
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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76
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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81
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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82
meting
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的现在分词 ) | |
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83
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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84
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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86
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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91
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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92
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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93
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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94
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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100
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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101
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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102
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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103
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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104
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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105
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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106
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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107
sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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108
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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109
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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110
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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111
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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112
cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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113
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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114
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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115
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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116
provocatively
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117
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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118
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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119
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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120
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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121
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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122
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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123
genuflecting
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| v.屈膝（尤指宗教礼节中）( genuflect的现在分词 ) | |
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124
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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125
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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127
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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128
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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129
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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130
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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131
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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132
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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133
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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134
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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135
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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136
judiciousness
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| n.明智 | |
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137
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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138
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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139
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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140
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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141
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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142
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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143
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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144
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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145
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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146
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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148
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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149
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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150
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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151
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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152
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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153
mileage
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| n.里程，英里数；好处，利润 | |
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154
naivety
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| n.天真，纯朴，幼稚 | |
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155
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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156
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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157
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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158
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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159
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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160
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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161
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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162
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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163
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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164
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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165
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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166
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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167
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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168
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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169
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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170
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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171
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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172
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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173
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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174
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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175
tinkly
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| 叮当响的 | |
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176
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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177
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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178
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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179
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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180
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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181
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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182
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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183
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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184
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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185
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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186
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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187
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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188
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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189
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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