Kulwinder offered a few hellos to passing Punjabi women but mostly she looked past them. Before Maya died, she used to chat to ladies, turning these walks into lengthy social outings. If their husbands were there, they’d break off into another group with Sarab. On the way home, comparing stories, she often noticed that men and women shared the same information – who was marrying whom, the rising cost of food and petrol, the occasional community scandal. Now she preferred not to stop. There was no need these days – only occasionally did people approach to offer their condolences. Most people just averted their gazes. She and Sarab were outsiders now, like the widows and divorced women and all those shamed parents they had feared becoming.
At a traffic light she paused, turned the corner and found a bench to sit on. The smell of sweet fried jalebi rose from a cart nearby. Her feet were rough like sandpaper against her hands as she massaged her heels and considered Nikki. Clearly, the girl was not from here, or she wouldn’t have been so disrespectful. Her parents were probably city types – Delhi or Bombay, and they probably turned their noses up at the Punjabis who washed up in Southall. She knew what the rest of London thought of Southall – she’d heard all of their comments when she and Sarab decided to move here from Croydon. Village people who built another Punjab in London – they’re letting all types of people into this country these days. ‘Best choice we ever made,’ Sarab had declared when they unpacked their last box. Kulwinder agreed, her heart almost bursting with happiness from the comforts of their surrounds – the spice markets, the Bollywood cinema, the gurdwaras, the samosa carts on the Broadway. Maya eyed all of it with suspicion but she would adjust, they assured themselves. One day she would want to raise her children here too.
Tears welled up in her eyes and blurred her vision, as a bus rolled to a slow stop in front of her and the door opened. The driver looked at Kulwinder expectantly. She shook her head and waved him along. A sob escaped her throat but the sound of the engine rumbling drowned it out. Why did she always torture herself like this? Sometimes she got carried away and imagined little moments of Maya’s life as it would be – mundane things like paying for groceries or replacing the batteries in her television remote control. The smaller the details, the harder it hit that Maya would never do these things. Her story was over.
The air felt colder now that Kulwinder was still. She wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she felt strong enough again, she stood up and headed in the direction of her home. Halfway across Queen Mary Road, Kulwinder spotted a police officer. She froze. What to do? Turn around and walk back? Keep going? She stood in the middle of the road until the light turned red and cars started honking their horns, and this was worse because people began to stop and stare. The policeman began searching for the cause of the trouble until his gaze landed on her. ‘Nothing. No problem,’ she called out feebly. He rushed into the street and with a firm hand signal, ordered all the cars to stay in place. Then he beckoned her to cross the road towards him.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. She kept her distance and avoided looking him in the eye. A small crowd had emerged from the shops and gathered on the pavement to watch. She felt the urge to shoo them away. Mind your own business!
‘You’re just out taking a walk?’
‘Just walking, yes.’
‘Good exercise.’
She nodded, still aware of the stares. She tried to do a quick scan of who was watching. Unlike Maya, Kulwinder never considered Southall a hotbed of gossip. Most people just shared harmless observations. The problem was that Kulwinder could not afford to be observed talking to the police. Somebody might casually mention this scene to friend or a spouse, and then they might tell somebody else and—
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the policeman asked. He peered into her eyes.
‘I’m very good thank you,’ she replied. She found an English word. ‘Splendid.’
‘Then take care when crossing the road in the future. The youngsters like to speed down the Broadway and they turn onto these main roads sometimes.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ Kulwinder spotted a middle-aged couple approaching. She could not recognize them from this distance but they were sure to notice her chatting with the police in the middle of the street, and if they knew her, they would ask each other, ‘What trouble is she causing now?’
‘Stay safe,’ the policeman called after her as she hurried home.
Sarab was upstairs when she returned. Kulwinder quietly tidied up the shoes in the small circle of light he had left on for her in the foyer. Then she looked for other things to tidy – the couch cushions surely needed plumping and maybe Sarab had left a glass in the sink. These tasks calmed her. By the time she was finished, she realized how paranoid she had been. What were the chances of being noticed? Southall wasn’t that small, it just felt that way sometimes. There was no predicting whom she’d run into. She already avoided another major road because she had been spotted visiting a law office there (although she needn’t have bothered because everything the fast-talking lawyer had said involved fees and no guarantees). If she started changing direction every time she saw somebody she would rather not see, she might as well spend all her time in this living room, with the curtains drawn.
But later that night, while Sarab snored lightly and Kulwinder’s eyes were wide open, she saw her mobile phone flashing. Unknown Number. On the other side, a voice that she recognized all too well. ‘You were seen talking to the police today. Try it again and you will be in a lot of trouble.’ Kulwinder tried to defend herself but, as always, her caller hung up before she had a chance to speak.
Chapter Four
‘There are no good men left in London,’ Olive remarked. ‘None.’ She surveyed the crowd from her perch at the bar while Nikki wiped down the counter, cursing the noisy blokes who had spent the past hour singing off-key rounds of football songs and winking sloppily at her.
‘There are plenty,’ Nikki assured her.
‘Plenty of duds,’ Olive said. ‘Unless you want me to date Steve with the Racist Grandfather.’
‘I would rather see you single for the rest of your life,’ Nikki said. Steve with the Racist Grandfather was a regular at the pub who prefaced his bigoted comments with, ‘as my grandfather would say …’ He considered this a foolproof way to absolve himself of being racist. ‘As my grandfather would say,’ he once told Nikki, ‘is your skin naturally that colour, or are you rusting? Of course, I would never say that. But my grandfather used to call khaki pants “Paki Pants” because he honestly thought the colour was named after their skin tone. He’s terrible, my grandfather.’
‘That guy’s all right,’ Nikki said, nodding at a tall man joining a group at a corner table. He took a seat and clapped one of his mates on the shoulder. Olive craned her neck to look. ‘Not too bad,’ Olive said. ‘He looks a bit like Lars. Remember him?’
‘You mean Laaawsh? He only told us a hundred times how to pronounce it correctly,’ Nikki said. He was a Swedish exchange student that Olive’s family had hosted when they were in Year Twelve. ‘That was the year I spent more time claiming to study at your house than ever.’ It was the only way she could get her parents’ permission to spend so many evenings at Olive’s house.