Nikki caught the contempt in Kulwinder’s voice. ‘Look. You’re trying to prove a point – I get it. I’m modern and I think I can do anything I want. Well, I can.’
She was about to tell Kulwinder that she quit but the words got caught in her throat. She considered it, a familiar sense of anxiety seizing her stomach. Leaving this job would mean having nothing to contribute to Mum and Mindi. Worse yet, they would know that she had given up after just one class and they would be proven right – that Nikki didn’t follow through on anything, that she was just a drifter who avoided responsibilities. She thought of the crumbling pub and pictured Sam wrapped in ribbons of receipts apologetically telling her that she was being let go.
‘This job was falsely advertised. I could report you for that,’ Nikki said finally.
Kulwinder responded with a snort, as if she knew the emptiness of Nikki’s threat. ‘Report me to whom?’ she challenged. She waited for a response but Nikki had none. Kulwinder’s message was clear: Nikki had stumbled into her territory and now must play by her rules.
In winter, the days lost their shape early. The streets were blurry with shadows and traffic lights as Kulwinder walked home and thought about her day. She wasn’t proud of deceiving Nikki but the more she thought about their conversation, the more she remembered how Nikki had incensed her. It was that demanding attitude that got under her skin. How dare you ask me to teach these idiots, she might as well have said.
Kulwinder’s two-storey brick home was on the end of Ansell Road. From her bedroom window the golden tip of gurdwara’s magnificent dome was visible on clear afternoons. The neighbours on the right were a young couple with two small children who sat in the porch and giggled together until their father came home. The neighbours on the left were a couple with a teenage son who had a big dog who howled for hours after they left each morning. Kulwinder was used to running through all of these details about her neighbours, anything to avoid thinking of that house across the street.
‘I’m home,’ she announced. She paused and waited for Sarab’s acknowledgement. It pained her on the occasions when she found him deep in silence, staring at the unturned pages of his Punjabi newspaper. ‘Sarab?’ she called from the foot of the stairs. He grunted a reply. She put down her things, and went to the kitchen to make a start on dinner. From the corner of her eye, she checked to see if Sarab had moved the living room curtains. This morning, he had suggested opening them to let in a bit of light so he could read the paper. ‘Don’t,’ Kulwinder had insisted. ‘The glare from the sun gives me a headache.’ Both of them knew it was Number 16 and not the pale English sunlight that bothered Kulwinder.
Kulwinder set out the plates and the bowl of dal and took the achar out of the fridge and set the table. There was nothing more comforting in all her years in England than the simplicity of a Punjabi meal. Sarab sat down and they ate quietly, and then he turned on the television and she cleaned the dishes. Maya used to help her with this, but one day she asked, ‘Why can’t Dad pitch in with the cooking and cleaning?’ Such questions had crossed Kulwinder’s mind in her younger days, but she would have been beaten for suggesting that her father or brothers did the housework. She had taken Maya roughly by the arm and steered her into the kitchen.
After completing her chores, Kulwinder went to the living room and sat next to Sarab. The television was on at a low volume. There was an English show on so it didn’t matter that they couldn’t hear it because the things the English laughed about were no laughing matter to Kulwinder.
She turned to Sarab and started a conversation. ‘An odd thing happened today,’ she said. ‘A mix-up with one of my community classes.’ She paused for a moment. My community classes. It was nice hearing it aloud. ‘The girl I hired to teach it thought she was teaching women to write their memoirs, but the women who signed up can’t even write. I had advertised creative writing classes and once the women started registering, I knew they were the types who couldn’t even spell their own names, but what could I do? Turn them away? That wouldn’t be right. I’m there to help the women of our community after all.’ It was partially true. She had been vague with the women about what exactly they would learn in these classes. ‘Writing, reading, that sort of thing,’ she had told them while passing around the registration form.
Sarab nodded but his eyes were blank. He was staring at the screen now. Kulwinder glanced at the clock and saw that there were many hours to kill before she felt like going to bed, like most nights. The drizzle had cleared. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ she asked Sarab. How unnatural it felt to ask him like this, when evening walks used to be their after-dinner routine. ‘It’s good for digestion,’ she added. She instantly felt silly trying to persuade him but today she really wanted his company. Her conflict with Nikki had reminded her of the way she and Maya used to argue.
Without even looking at her, Sarab said, ‘You go ahead.’
Kulwinder walked up Ansell Road and turned onto a main road where a small strip of shops were illuminated by long fluorescent ceiling bulbs. In Shanti’s Wedding Boutique, a group of young women tried on bangles and held up their wrists, letting the sequins catch the light. The owner of the masala shop next door was patiently ushering out his customers, an English couple, looking very pleased with their bottles of red and yellow powders. Teenagers in puffy black jackets milled in the empty lots outside, stray words and laughter darting into the air. Yeah. Hah! You dickhead.