So it was arranged. A small party for Sunday tea, so that he himself could be present.

For the next week she was restless; she moved about the house, frowning at the furniture and standing back from it, her head on one side. During one evening she moved the settee three times. She took Arif down to Marks & Spencers to buy him a new pair of trousers.

'Christ,'said Arif.' It's only a bloody tea party.'

'Don't you dare insult your mother!' Hamid's voice was shrill. He, too, moved the settee one more time.

The question of food was vexing. His wife thought sandwiches and cake most suitable. He himself thought she should produce those titbits in which she excelled: pakoras, brinjal fritters and the daintiest of samosas. Nobody cooked samosas like his Sharine.

In the end they compromised. They would have both.

'East meets West,' he joked; his nerves made him high-spirited. He joggled the plaits of Aisha, his youngest daughter; one plait and then the other, and she squealed with pleasure. 'East, West, home's best,' he chanted to her, before she scuttled into the kitchen.

He wanted to tell his family how much he loved them, and how proud he would be to show them off at the tea party. He wanted to tell them how he had stood in the garden, his heart swelling for them. But his daughters would just giggle; his wife would look flustered ... And Arif? He no longer knew what Arif would do. He only knew that he himself would feel foolish.

On the Saturday he went into the stock-room of the Empire Stores and fetched some choice items: chocolate fancies, iced Kunzle cakes. There was little demand from his customers for these high-class items. Only the best would do, however, for those who lived in Potters Bar.

It was a cool, blustery evening. There must be a storm blowing up. Kentucky boxes bowled along the pavement. Further up the street a man stood in a doorway, bellowing. It was an eerie sound, scarcely human. Hamid buttoned up his jacket as he left the shop, carrying his parcels. Far down the street he heard the smash of glass: he clutched the parcels to his chest.

Then it happened. He was just getting into the car. As he did so, he chanced to glance back across the street, towards the parade of shops. It was at that moment that the door of the sauna and massage opened and Arif stepped out.

Within him, Hamid's heart shifted like a rock. He could not move. The face was in shadow; all he could see was the glow of a cigarette. Arif smoking? For some reason this only faintly surprised Hamid.

There the boy stood, a slight figure in that familiar blue and white anorak. He turned to look back at the door; then he turned round and made his way across the road, towards Hamid.

Hamid stood. He opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing happened. Then, as Arifneared him, the street-light fell upon his face.

It was a thinner face; thin, and knowing, and much older than Arif. An unknown, shifty Englishman's face.

Hamid climbed into his car and fumbled with the key. His hands felt damp and boneless. He told himself to stop being ridiculous; he felt a curious sinking, yet swelling sensation, as if he had aged ten years in the last moments.

Driving home, he tried to shake off his unease. After all, it had been a stranger. Nothing to do with his own cherished son. Why then could he not concentrate on the road ahead? He was a level-headed fellow; he always had been.

Sharine was in a state. 'Where have you been?' she cried.

'It's only ten o'clock,' he said, and asked, alarmed: 'What's happened?'

'What's happened? I've spilt the dahl and dropped the sugar and, oh my nerves.'

She was standing in the kitchen. The air was aromatic with cooking.

'The children have been helping?'

'The girls, yes, until I sent them to bed.'

'Arif?' - She shrugged. 'Him, help me?'

'Where is he?'

'Where he always is.'

Hamid walked up the stairs, up past the first landing, then up the narrow flight of stairs to the attic. For some reason he needed to see his son. He knew he would be there, but he needed to see him.

His heart thumped; it must be those stairs, he was no longer as young as he was. Thud, thud, went Arifs music. Hamid knocked on the door.

'What is it?' Arifs voice was sharp, yet muffled.

'It's your father.'

'Wait.'

A few sounds, then Arif opened the door.

'What do you do in there all evening?' asked Hamid. 'Why don't you help your mother? We have a tea party tomorrow.'

Arif shrugged.

'Why don't you answer my questions?' asked Hamid. 'Why?'

A pause. Arif stood behind the half-open door. Outside, the wind rattled against the slates. Finally he said: 'Why are you so interested?'

Hamid stared, 'And what sort of answer is that?'

'Ask yourself.' Arif slowly scratched the spot on his chin. 'If you have the inclination.'

And he slowly closed the door.

That night there was a storm. The window panes clattered and shook; the very house, his fortress, seemed to shudder. In the morning Hamid found that out in the garden some of the balustrade had fallen down. It was made of the most crumbly concrete.

'Charming,' said Mrs Yates. 'Love the wallpaper, awfully daring. And what sweet little girls.'

Tea cups clinked. Sharine, in her silk sari, moved from one guest to another. Her daughters followed her with plates of cakes. Everything was going like clockwork. Looking at the pleasant faces, Hamid felt a flush of satisfaction. It had all been worth it. The years... The work...

'And where's the lad?' Mr Thompson asked, jovially.

'He'll be down,' said Hamid, looking at the door and then at his watch. 'Any minute.' Silently, he urged Arifto hurry up.

Mr Thompson's wife, whose name Hamid unfortunately had not caught, finished her cup of tea and said: 'Would it be frightfully rude if I asked to see the house?'

Mr Thompson laughed. 'Rosemary, you're incorrigible.'

Other guests stood up, too: Mr and Mrs Yates from next door, old Colonel Tindall from down the road, the teenage girls belonging to the widowed lady opposite.

'A guided tour,' joked Hamid, gathering his scattered wits. 'Tickets please.'

Sharine stood in the middle of the lounge, holding the tea pot. She looked alarmed but he gave her a small, reassuring nod. After all, the house was spick and span.

He led the way. Upstairs he pointed out the view from the master bedroom; the bathroom en suite.

'Carpets everywhere!' said Mrs Yates. 'And what an original colour!'

'Must have cost you,' said Mr Thompson, man to man. Hamid nodded modestly, his face hot with pleasure.

'What's up there?' asked Mrs Yates.

'Just the attic,' said Hamid.

But before he could continue, she had mounted the stairs and Mrs Thompson was following her.

'Rosemary!' called Mr Thompson, and turned to Hamid. 'Women!'

Hamid hurried up the stairs. Thud, thud ... the narrow treads shook, he could hear above him the thump of Aril's music, and then he had arrived at the landing and one of the women was pushing open Aril's door.

'May I?' she turned and asked Hamid.

But by then she had opened the door.

There are some sights that a person never forgets. Sometimes they rise up again in dreams; in his sleep Hamid saw mottled faces, their skin bleeding, pressed up against the glass of his shop. He saw stumps raised, waving in his face, in those long-forgotten alleys in Lahore. All the wreckage of this world, from which he had tried, so very hard, to protect those he loved.

Through his life, which was a long and prosperous one, he never forgot the sight that met his eyes that Sunday afternoon. Arif, sprawled on the bed, his eyes closed. Arif his own son, snoring as the men snored who lay on the pavements. On the floor lay empty cans of lager and two scattered magazines, their pages open: Mayfair and Penthouse.

Explosions, riots and wreckage all around the turning world. The small hiss of indrawn breath from the two womer who stood beside him.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 956