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  As Vijay was about to speak, Jaya came back with a tray of cups. ‘We’ll need to let it cool.’

  ‘Another one,’ said Vijay, catching Asha’s eye again. ‘Chai, any time of day, in the sunshine, made with the freshest milk.’

  ‘And eaten with paratha and chutney,’ added Asha.

  ‘What are you both talking about? You want paratha in the middle of the afternoon?’ Jaya turned to look at them.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Asha.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ba,’ said Vijay, placing his cup on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Asha took her chai, smiling at him briefly as she picked up her cup.

  28

  Asha

  The letter looked like all the others: smooth bonded paper, crisp and white, address neatly typed on the front. Asha tore it open, sure that it would be the same as the rest, always the same: that they were reviewing her husband’s case and asking for her continued patience. But the words inside seemed so bland and official: ‘Leave to enter,’ it said, ‘documents processed.’ A few simple sentences typed in black ink that told her that her husband could finally join his family.

  Jaya sank into a chair in the kitchen when she heard the news, eyes filled with tears. Vijay couldn’t speak, shaking his head in disbelief, over and over again. And Asha looked at them both, waiting for the surprise to subside. She’d spent so much time battling to get him back, she hadn’t dared to imagine what it would be like when they saw each other again.

  That weekend, they decided to go out and celebrate with a picnic in the local park. The sun peeked out from skies scuffed with clouds, and the light glinted between the leaves of the trees.

  They laid out a blanket and spread their food across it: margarine tubs repurposed for fried golden twists of gathiya, Wall’s tubs filled with samosa and dark-brown diamonds of dhebra. Once they’d eaten, Vijay bought them ice cream: a Fab lolly for Asha, a Choc Ice for himself and Jaya’s favourite, a 99 with an extra flake.

  ‘And it will only be a month now?’ said Jaya, face bright as she poured water from the thermos.

  ‘That’s what they say.’ Vijay smiled at her.

  ‘All that time, writing those letters,’ said Asha. ‘I can’t believe it worked.’ What would it feel like to hold Pran in her arms? What would he think of their new life?

  ‘We were lucky that the government took it seriously. Those debates in parliament helped,’ said Vijay.

  They finished their ice creams, listening to Jaya talk about all the food she’d cook for Pran and making plans to collect him from the airport together. They cleared away the containers and Jaya lay down to rest on the blanket.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk? I need to work off the dhebra!’ whispered Vijay. ‘Ba will be fine over here.’

  Asha nodded. There were a few young families picnicking nearby but no one noisy around to wake Jaya up. She looked like a child, her knees tucked into her chest, her head resting on her curled arm, the years of worry disappearing from her face as sleep settled in. Through the squeals of the kids in the playground, the creak of the swings going back and forth, the barking dogs and laughing teenagers, somehow, Jaya slept on. The breeze had picked up and the citrus scent of geraniums drifted through the air. They carried on their Uganda game as they walked up the hill.

  ‘Falling into a pothole on Jinja Road,’ Vijay laughed.

  Asha gave him a look. ‘That’s your idea of a good memory?’

  ‘It was kind of funny, you can’t deny it.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Asha paused. ‘OK, snoozing on the grass at Entebbe.’

  ‘My friend Rahim’s kuku paka that he’d cook for us after school.’

  ‘Ice-cold Coca-Cola, straight from the bottle.’

  ‘The well-stocked bar at the Apollo hotel.’

  ‘Of course, trust you!’ said Asha, shaking her head. ‘Sleepy afternoons in Mr Das’s English class reading Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Eating freshly chopped sugar cane at the side of the road. I used to chew and chew and chew that stuff until it was as soggy as wet straw.’

  ‘Watching Dr Zhivago while throwing peanuts from the back seats at the Odeon cinema.’

  Vijay pretended to cough. ‘That’s not what the back seats are for.’

  Asha rolled her eyes. But as they carried on walking, the light shining across the top of the hill, she stumbled on a stone and lost her balance, briefly nudging the arm of a man who was walking in the opposite direction. He had a tapered face and stiff hair that made him look like a hedgehog. He muttered something under his breath.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  This time she caught his words.

  ‘Always getting in the way, you lot. Just go back to your own country,’ he said.

  Asha stared at him. She was too tired to be angry and fed up of ignoring the comments as she usually did. These people who threw words at them. They were the ones who were scared, she’d heard enough to know that. And no one was going to spoil her mood today.

  Asha put her hand on her hip, mustering a brightness in her voice. ‘You know, I was wondering what was wrong, thank you so much for reminding me. I seem to have misplaced my country. Now, where did I put it?’

  The man stared at her.

  ‘I just can’t think,’ she said, laying her hand on her forehead. ‘So forgetful.’

  ‘Oh, how careless of you,’ Vijay smiled, catching on. ‘I wonder if they sell new countries down at Londis?’

  Asha cocked her head, the man’s face wrinkled in confusion. ‘Yes. But are they stocked next to the sugar or the cornflakes?’

  ‘Tough one,’ said Vijay, trying to stifle a smile. ‘Personally I would have said next to the Ovaltine.’

  The hedgehog man looked from Asha to Vijay and back again. He was about to say something but decided against it, scurrying off as fast as he could.

  Asha felt the laughter bubbling up inside her as they watched him shrinking into the distance, but Vijay beat her to it.

  He threw his head back, laughter spilling out. ‘Did you see his face though?’ he said. She watched the deep curve of his throat, just like Pran’s.

  ‘And the stuff about Londis.’ Asha smiled. ‘The way he ran off like that.’

  ‘Silly little man!’

  ‘Stocked near the Ovaltine!’ She shook her head.

  She moved closer, but they were no longer laughing. They stared at each other. Her hands on his arms, his warm breath brushing her cheek.

  Her heart lurched. What was she doing?

  She stepped away quickly, glancing down the hill at the spot where Jaya rested. Still fast asleep.

  Asha turned towards Vijay, guilt welling in her chest. And yet the look on his face wasn’t the one she’d expected.

  As though he wasn’t surprised at all.

  *

  Asha ran up the stairs and hurried to the bedroom. She stood with her back against the door, trying to catch her breath and calm her thoughts. She’d made a vague excuse, telling Vijay she felt unwell and that she’d see him and Jaya back at home.

  What had just happened? Her muscles tensed with guilt or . . . No, it had to be guilt. It couldn’t be . . . she didn’t feel anything for Vijay. It wasn’t possible. Perhaps she’d just imagined the look on his face?

  She focused on thinking about Pran. Yet every time she tried to bring to mind his face, his kind brown eyes, the tickle of his hair against her cheek, they were jumbled up with Vijay’s. What was the matter with her?

  Asha perched on the end of the bed, running her hand through her hair. It had been so long since she’d seen Pran, that was all. They’d all been under a lot of pressure. She and Vijay had spent more time together purely out of necessity. It would all be fine when her husband joined them. All she needed was to see him again and everything would be fine. Pran was the one she wanted, had always wanted. All she had to do was hold on until then, pretend nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, after all.

  A look meant not
hing.

  *

  Every morning that week, Asha sneaked out of the bedroom like a naughty schoolchild, hoping she wouldn’t bump into Vijay. Luckily, he’d taken to waking up and leaving earlier, and he’d stayed out late most nights. On the evenings that he was around, they engaged in small talk in front of Jaya as though nothing had changed. Asha lingered in the kitchen cleaning up for as long as she could and then went up to bed to read her library books.

  This morning, Asha shut the front door behind her and waved at their neighbour, Mr Theodorou, who was tending to the small patch of earth in his front garden. He nodded in response, then peered over the top of his brown-rimmed glasses at the flowers, a mix of daisies and something more flamboyant that Asha couldn’t identify. He had a thick moustache, and hair peppered with grey. His stomach stuck out far in front of him and he bent over slowly, so slowly that it was almost theatrical. It was hard to tell when he was in a good mood, as most of the time his responses were the same whether he was happy or sad. A brief wave or a few sparse words, ‘Nice day today,’ delivered in a tone that sounded more like he’d announced the death of the Queen. Jaya joked that he was one of the few people she could have a conversation with in her broken English, each of them stingy with their words.

  Sunshine streamed through the newly budded branches of the trees, forming intricate lattices on the pavement below. Usually, she enjoyed her commute. She liked the rattle of the Tube through the tunnels, liked joining the throng of people on their way to work, in their mackintoshes and suits, smart pinafore dresses and tweed skirts, but today, as she walked to her office, the memory of the park jolted through her mind. A strand of Vijay’s hair caressing her cheek. The hint of desire in his eyes. She had to pull herself together. How could she have let this happen? She’d told herself that she needed to bond with Jaya and Vijay so that they could get Pran back, but somewhere it had all gone wrong.

  She put her thoughts aside as she arrived at work, walking into the stately four-storey house. Asha sat down at her walnut desk, covered in a patina of dents and scratches. A pile of smooth paper was neatly placed in one corner, plus a notepad and a typewriter taking pride of place in the middle. Her office was a spacious rectangular room with ornate details on the ceiling and large sash windows. The eight secretaries’ desks were positioned in two rows along the room, with doors leading off to the solicitors’ offices behind them.

  ‘Good morning, Penny,’ Asha said, putting down her handbag in the corner.

  ‘Morning, Asha.’ Penny bit her lip and looked up.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘We’re not getting the Thompson files until the afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t fret about that,’ said their colleague Sinead, coming out of one of the offices. Her moss-green sweater brought out the hazel in her eyes. ‘The other clients’ records are in now, so they’ll crack on with them.’

  Penny frowned all the same and got up, the backs of her heels twisting inwards with each step as she went to over to the kettle.

  Mrs Walters arrived, hanging her coat on the wooden coat stand. ‘Good morning, girls,’ she said, sitting down at her desk. The jewelled brooch pinned to her cream cardigan sparkled under the fluorescent light. Perhaps Mrs Walters wasn’t quite as dull as Asha had thought.

  The women fell silent, settling into the rhythm of the day. Working on files, serving tea, the day rattling on with the typewriters going at full pelt, the sharp, sooty scent of ink in the air – and though Asha whizzed through her work, every so often she thought of the night before at dinner. Sitting at the kitchen table, Vijay in the chair opposite and Jaya in her usual seat to the right. They listened as Jaya complained about Vikash, who shared their house, taking the last of the bread, and then talked about the letter she’d had from Mrs Goswami, grumbling about the snow in Canada. Asha did her best to look at Vijay only enough that Jaya wouldn’t notice something was wrong. Luckily Vijay complied, focusing on Jaya as much as he could. Yet as Asha continued to type up her documents, unease prickled on her skin, because the way he behaved confirmed something once and for all: she hadn’t imagined it.

  Finally, five o’clock arrived and the typewriters stopped.

  ‘Right, let’s make a start!’ Sinead jumped up, as though the turn of the minute hand had sprung her into action.

  ‘Go and get the rest of them then, Penny.’ Mrs Walters watched her go, then took out a Quality Street tin, opening the lid to reveal some forlorn lumps of pastry. ‘I’ve made sausage rolls,’ she announced, with more than a hint of pride. Asha usually left work straight away, but everyone would be staying behind for the office party.

  The solicitors came out, looking a little dazed after a day in their stuffy offices. They huddled together in a corner, except for the trainee, Harry, who’d started a month ago. He walked over to Asha and Sinead as they stood by the desk with a huge bowl of salt and vinegar crisps on it.

  ‘Do you want a sherry, Harry?’ Sinead grinned.

  ‘Leave off. I’m having beer,’ he said, running his hand through his hair. ‘You’re not drinking, Asha?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m fine.’ In Uganda, alcohol was for the men, after hours and usually out of sight. She’d never got the taste for it and she wasn’t sure now was the time to start.

  ‘Look at her,’ said Sinead, grinning as Mrs Walters tried to mingle with the solicitors, her cheeks pink from the sherry.

  ‘This must be a bit of a change from India, hey, Asha?’ said Harry.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been.’

  ‘Good start, Harry,’ said Sinead, pouring Blue Nun into a wine glass. ‘Asha’s from Africa.’

  Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Well, still a bit of a change from Africa? What’s it like, anyway?’

  Asha raised an eyebrow. ‘Uganda?’ She trailed off, not knowing where to start.

  ‘Must have seen quite a few animals out there, hey?’ Harry knocked back his drink and helped himself to another.

  ‘Birds, I suppose, a few fruit bats,’ said Asha, watching Sinead’s eyes widen.

  ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘What about rhinos, did you have them?’

  ‘Rhinos, gorillas, crocodiles, well, yes, those too. Didn’t see any when I was at the shops in Kampala city centre,’ Asha smiled. ‘It’s not all Tarzan and cannibals, you know.’

  Sinead smiled. ‘That’s told you, Harry.’

  Harry took a huge gulp of beer and flicked his hair again. ‘So, you married, then, Asha?’ he said, moving a little closer than necessary.

  ‘Very married,’ said Asha, a pang of guilt spreading across her chest.

  Harry straightened his back and looked over at Sinead. She kept her eyes on her wine glass. ‘I’m not married, you know that. But as far as you’re concerned, I may as well be.’

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Suit yourself.’ He took a handful of crisps and headed towards Penny, who was standing by the window looking as though she was considering jumping out.

  ‘How are you finding it here, Asha, in the madhouse?’ said Sinead.

  ‘I like it.’ There was a lot to be said for a simple day, a normal life, something to take her mind off the worries that still persisted. It almost felt like a holiday, after all those months in Uganda, cooped up in the house with the family, to do something that she’d chosen for herself, to be around people who knew nothing of the horrors she’d faced, whose biggest concern was whether they’d have to eat one of Mrs Walters’ sausage rolls out of politeness.

  ‘Yeah, we’re not so bad, are we?’ Sinead took a crisp. ‘Actually, some of us might be going out next Friday, just to the pub or something. Why don’t you come along?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Asha, nodding. She wanted to go but thought of Jaya, on her own in the house, especially with Vijay working longer hours now.

  ‘I didn’t know you were married,’ said Sinead, looking at Asha’s bare finger, the lack of a wedding ring. ‘Or was that just a line you use as a safety gua
rd?’

  ‘I had to stop wearing jewellery in Uganda.’ Asha stared at her finger. ‘I should probably put it back on now, though.’

  ‘Well, yes, if only to keep Harry away!’

  ‘He’s not so bad.’ Asha looked back over at him. ‘He seems OK.’

  ‘Who wants OK, though, Asha?’ Sinead crossed her arms as she leant against the desk. ‘So what’s your husband do, then?’

  Asha took a breath and worked out the easiest way to tell her complicated story. ‘He’s not here in London,’ she began, telling Sinead about how Pran had been stuck in Austria and how they’d only been married a short while before everything went wrong in Uganda.

  ‘So you haven’t seen your husband for, what, almost a year?’ Sinead looked at her in disbelief.

  Asha nodded. Though she’d known it had been a long time, hearing someone else say it out loud made it sound like it had happened to a stranger.

  ‘After everything you’ve been through. All that time apart when you’d only just got married,’ said Sinead, shaking her head. ‘You must miss him terribly.’

  Asha looked at her. That phrase: ‘you must miss him’. As though it was a command. As though it was impossible to feel any other way.

  29

  Vijay

  Vijay sat up from the sofa, pushing the tumble of hair away from his eyes. His neck was stiff; he tried to move it from side to side. He checked the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven o’clock. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? For weeks he’d been trying his best to keep out of the house as long as possible, hanging around the petrol station in the morning until Frank was ready to open up, staying out late with his friends from the barracks whenever he could. He pulled on a sweater, hoping Asha was already at work.

  He got ready, but as he was about to go into the kitchen, he stopped. Asha was making chai at the stove, dressed in a burnt-orange dress, her hair pulled into a ponytail.

  Asha turned her head towards him. Too late to turn back.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her voice measured. A hint of panic in her eyes; clearly she was trying to work out how she was going to get out of the kitchen as quickly as she could.