Page 5

Well, this was not a fantastic weekend.

And Geeta found the weekends hard enough in general. Waking in the middle of the loft bedroom bed. Listening to the unnatural quiet of the house. Padding downstairs and along the hallway, past school photos, family holiday snaps, Olivia graduating, then Adam, the photos stopping with the children leaving home. Pausing at the door to Sumit’s study, by habit. Even with the couch by the wall, and the desk and chair still in place, if she opened the door, the click would sound peculiarly empty, now the shelves were bare of his books, radio and pictures. And she’d make herself move on to the kitchen.

That had become her typical, unnerving start to mornings. But this weekend really got off on the wrong foot.

Her mother, Satinder, let herself in the front door. But she didn’t cry out, “It’s only me!” as usual.

Satinder, a self-confessed morgenmuffel, and particularly fond of the word a German friend taught her, arrived in the foulest mood.

She burst into the kitchen, almost-white hair tied back, casual cotton Punjabi suit on, yoga mat rolled under her arm and fierceness etched in her brow. She pulled up a stool on the other side of the kitchen island, dropped her mat on the floor and thudded her elbows on the top to clasp her hands tight.

“Morning,” Satinder muttered.

“Well, good morning, Maa,” Geeta replied, also in English.

She gave an indulgent smile and leant back against the kitchen counter.

They would slip from Punjabi to English, depending on mood, subject and whoever else accompanied them, the conversation turning on a single word. They’d flip between the two, sometimes without noticing, and she'd find Olivia, who wasn’t fluent, frowning at them.

But this morning, Satinder was grumpy in English.

Just as Geeta’s children had left home and teenage tantrums behind, it seemed her mother grew back into them. And granted, with menopause, Geeta wasn’t immune to them either. So patience was needed all round.

“Isha found out,” Satinder muttered, avoiding her eyes.

Geeta opened her mouth, then shut it again.

“I’ve been on the phone with her all morning.”

It was nine o’clock, so this was an exaggeration. Another sign her mother fumed.

“Oh,” Geeta said, and she crossed her arms.

Satinder looked at her then, those shrewd eyes demanding.

Geeta shrugged. “She was going to hear at some point. I’m surprised it’s lasted this long.”

Satinder and her sister couldn’t be less alike. Isha a hawk for family gossip and Satinder asserting she should mind her own business.

“Well,” Satinder grumbled. “I hoped it would blow over before I had to tell her.”

Geeta continued to look at her mother with patience but also bit her tongue.

“It’s not final yet, is it.” Satinder looked at her. “You might both change your minds. Put everything back to normal, then none of the family would have to know.”

Deep breaths. Subtle ones. Count to ten.

And the weight descended anyway. Because Geeta did understand. They were all allowed to have their reactions, including Satinder’s disappointment. Her mother had always adored Sumit.

“Maa,” she said gently. “I’m not changing my mind.”

With the final order weeks away, neither she nor Sumit had plans to stop the process. She’d be notified once complete, and that was that.

Satinder humphed, shuffled on her seat, and muttered. “Well, I’d like a cup of tea anyway.”

“Would you like a cha?”

“No.”

She bet her mother would. But Satinder was sulking and depriving herself to make Geeta feel guilty.

“Just throw any old tea bag in a cup.” Satinder wafted her hand in dismissal.

Definitely sulking.

“OK,” Geeta sighed. “One substandard cup of tea coming up, because we wouldn’t want to brighten the day with a nice spicy cha would we.”

“Everyone’s arriving soon, so I only have time for a quick cuppa.”

Geeta rolled her eyes and put the kettle on to make them both a mug.

Her mother's yoga class rotated between houses and Satinder used the lounge here instead of her small flat.

“While we're waiting though,” Geeta said, “I wanted to talk to you.” Geeta drew up a stool to face Satinder across the kitchen island. “What do you think about moving back to Handsworth?”

“What?”

“Well,” she sighed. “I’m finding it difficult to afford living here, and I’m considering my options. So I wondered if that was a possibility.”

Satinder stared at her.

“I’m considering everything at this stage.” Geeta raised her shoulders. “Getting a lodger in Olivia’s old room. Maybe a student or something.”

“Ugh,” Satinder grimaced. “I don't want to come here with a stranger wandering around.”

This was going to be tricky. Neither of them would suggest her mother moved in, Satinder being stubborn about her independence, no matter how often that involved Geeta cooking for her. But Geeta needed options.

“I need to raise money somehow, because I can’t find a steady income, and moving somewhere cheaper is tempting.”

“But this...” Satinder conjured more horror and disapproval on her forehead. “This is home. This is where we come for our family gatherings.”

“People will have to get used to another home. I can afford a good house and garden in Birmingham for them to visit. And if you sold your flat, you could buy one of those fancy places in the centre.”

“No.” Satinder banged her hand on the island top. “I don’t want to go back to Handsworth.”

Geeta held her breath, counted to ten, while the mug of tea steamed her face. Her mother was being particularly stubborn today.

Ever since moving to Oxford to be closer to Geeta and her young family, Satinder had complained about how she missed the British Asian community of Handsworth where Geeta had grown up. And Geeta missed it too, while also realising things had moved on, like best friend Anu next door.

But from Satinder, she’d had thirty years of ‘if we were back in Handsworth’. They’d get the best fruit and veg from the many Asian shops. She could have okra. She could chat at the big gurdwara that Oxford lacked. The many aunties would help with every single problem that came up.

Ever since Geeta’s father died, and Satinder relocated to Oxford, she'd talked of moving back to Handsworth. Except for now, when Geeta raised it as a possibility.

“But this is our home,” Satinder cried.

My home, Geeta thought. The place I need to afford.

“I don't want to go back to a tiny terrace.” Satinder threw both hands in the air.

Their old home sprung into Geeta’s head. Satinder likely pictured it too. The small terrace house by the park, with seventies wallpaper and a patterned carpet that defied description.

“I want to come here!” Satinder said. “And sit by the river.” She gestured down the garden. “I have friends here. My yoga group. My book club. Why would I go back to Birmingham?!”

Because Satinder had banged on about it for three decades. That’s why.

But Geeta understood this was how humans worked. As soon as someone chose one way, they’d immediately think of advantages of the other. It was excruciatingly evident in her children. Give them two options, one would choose, then regardless the other argued for the opposite, just because the first deprived them of it.

And yes, she had the same inclination too.

But honestly. Now? The timing really could be better.

“Maa,” she sighed. “I need money.”

Satinder gave her that ‘well, you chose this’ look. She’d given Geeta many of those over the past months.

That was compared with son Adam’s look of ‘what the fuck, Mum’.

And Sumit’s heartbroken eyes.

Strangely it had been her daughter who’d been most understanding. Geeta had expected Olivia to be the most riled, hating change as much as Sumit. Perhaps she was still processing it, and guilt nagged inside, again.

“Get back together with Sumit,” Satinder muttered.

There. What had been communicated clearly enough through passive aggressive terms, now her mother said loud and clear.

“He’s a good man,” Satinder said, upset.

And Geeta knew the rest. That she was lucky to have him, when Dad died years ago and Satinder didn't have anyone. That Sumit was a great father. A considerate human being. Handsome. All those things.

“I’m lonely ,” Geeta said emphatically.

Because Sumit was also addicted to his research. It made him tick. And Geeta understood the appeal, but she wanted a life and company too. And after three decades together, she knew he wouldn’t change.

“Go out and make friends! You’re good at that,” Satinder said.

“I’m not at school Maa. It’s not so easy when everyone’s busy and working.”

“Join the yoga group!”

Oh my god, she was not ready for yoga. Not her mother’s class anyway, much as though she loved the group of women. There was a lot of cackling and stretching, then farting and more cackling and she’d often find, when she peeped around the door, that meditation had turned into a nap on the floor.

And what Geeta really wanted was to burst out into the world. Live to the full. Run naked through meadows. Skinny dip in the ocean and see the northern lights.

She’d hit menopause and the stark realisation that her life was finite. At the same time, she realised that fifty was only halfway through adulthood, and the sudden need to vibrantly live took hold. It was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

And she’d begged Sumit for change. But they’d always drift into a rut again and Geeta had exhausted every avenue. And after a few more years, they’d stared at each other in despair, realising it wouldn’t actually change.

“You just need to wait for grandchildren,” Satinder tried next. “You’re at your best with little ones around. And, I mean, Olivia is like a stepmum now.”

That development had taken them all by surprise and Geeta prayed it lasted.

“And, Adam is some donor or something and has little Adams running around the world.” Satinder was on a roll. “And he might settle down one day and have his own.”

“Maa,” Geeta said. “Yes, I’d love grandkids. But it’s not that.”

“A dog!” Satinder said with wide eyes. “Get a dog. Honestly, they’re better company than humans anyway. I mean how perfect. A lovely husband and a lovely dog. What more could you want?”

Geeta dropped her hands. What was the point?

Satinder, though not as introverted as Sumit and Olivia, needed her quiet, puzzle book sessions, and didn’t understand the searing loneliness when Geeta craved company. To go out into the world again with hunger and excitement. To meet people who made her think and laugh. Have friends hang out in her home. Cooking, chatting, going places together. She didn’t need much alone time and, of all of them, she ended up with most.

And love. And sex. To feel wanted, and alive, and not just the person who made everyone’s dinner. She’d really like to have that again.

“I don’t understand,” Satinder shook her head.

“I’m unhappy!” Geeta threw her hand up in despair. “I've been unhappy for years!”

“I know you need people. You always did.” Her mother rattled off in quick succession. “You didn't go five minutes without hogging the landline or popping next door to see Anu. But you still could while staying with Sumit! You’d have more opportunity! Now you won’t have time or energy for anything but work!”

“Maa, this isn’t helping.”

Satinder’s mobile rang angrily on the surface.

“And now it’s your flipping cousin Navpreet being nosey.” Satinder threw her arm up before picking up the phone. “They’ll all be calling.” Satinder slid off the stool, then answered cheerily with, “Navpreet,” into the phone.

“Masi ji,” came back.

Satinder disappeared into the lounge.

Geeta closed her eyes. She could do with not having this conversation with her mother every few days.

She heard Satinder from the other room, switching between English and Punjabi.

“I know,” Satinder said. “First in the family. And Geeta?! Who’d have thought.”

Ouch.

Geeta paused, the breath snatched from her lungs and her belly punched hollow. Because it was hard enough walking away from Sumit, without everyone saying it was a terrible mistake. And because she had doubts some days, where she wanted to take it back. And she really mustn’t.

And now there was a knock at the door. She wasn't in a state to chat with her mother's yoga group, so she grabbed her padded jacket in the hallway and sniffled back the tears that threatened.

“Morning, everyone,” she said, throwing her coat around her shoulders as she pulled open the door.

“Geeta!” came in a chorus. They really were a lovely bunch.

“I’m on my way out. Come in and make yourselves at home.” She waved them through, and three ladies with very white hair ambled into the hallway.

She closed the door and stomped up the lane, past the manor house with the bay window, up Mill Lane enclosed on either side by cream stone walls, not caring where she headed. She stumbled into the grounds of the Romanesque village church, not appreciating the beautiful building for once this morning. Then circled the path with her head down, between a pair of yew trees, where she stopped at a bench and sat with a thump.

She sniffed and blinked several times. She looked to the left, over countryside, and to the right, to the expanse of gravestones.

No-one there.

And she burst into tears.

Because her mother was right. Now she scraped around to make ends meet. And felt knackered. And had even less time and energy for carving out a new life. And she’d lost touch with old friends with no opportunity to catch up anyway. And everyone hated her. Well, they didn’t, she knew this. But they all blamed her. She spent all her energy consoling them about the family breakup, when she needed support too.

A tall figure appeared around the end of the church.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she squeaked, her throat constricting with a sob.

Because there was Nicola bloody Albright too. And not just living in the bloody village, but here in the graveyard, and Geeta couldn’t bloody handle it right now.

And she did a very loud, snotty sob.