The Night Ferry

10

“New Boy” Dave shifts beside me, draping his arm over my breasts. I lift it away and tuck it under his pillow. He sleeps so soundly I can rearrange his body like a stop-motion puppet.

A digital clock glows on the bedside table. I lift my head. It’s after ten on Sunday morning. Where are the trains? They didn’t wake me. I have less than an hour and a half to shower, dress and get ready for my father’s birthday.

Rolling out of bed, I look for my clothes. Dave’s clothes. My running gear is still damp from yesterday.

He reaches for me, running his thumbs beneath the underside of my breast, tracing a pattern that only men can find.

“You trying to sneak away?”

“I’m late. I have to go.”

“I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“You can drive me home. Then you have to find Brendan Pearl.”

“But it’s Sunday. You never said—”

“That’s the thing about women. We don’t say exactly what we want but we reserve the right to be mighty pissed off when we don’t get it. Scary isn’t it?”

Dave makes coffee while I use the shower. I keep pondering how Brendan Pearl and Cate Beaumont could possibly know each other. They come from different worlds, yet Cate recognized him. It doesn’t feel like an accident. It never did.

On the drive to the East End, Dave chats about work and his new boss. He says something about being unhappy but I’m not really listening.

“You could come over later,” he says, trying not to sound needy. “We could get a pizza and watch a movie.”

“That would be great. I’ll let you know.”

Poor Dave. I know he wants something more. One of these days he’s going to take my advice and find another girlfriend. Then I’ll have lost something I never tried to hold.

Things I like about him: He’s sweet. He changes the sheets. He tolerates me. I feel safe with him. He makes me feel beautiful. And he lets me win at darts.

Things I don’t like about him: His laugh is too loud. He eats junk food. He listens to Mariah Carey CDs. And he has hair growing on his shoulders. (Gorillas have hair on their shoulders.) Christ I can be pedantic!

His rugby mates have nicknames like Bronco and Sluggo and they talk in this strange jargon that nobody else can understand unless they follow rugby and appreciate the finer points of mauling, rucking and lifting. Dave took me to watch a game one day. Afterward we all went to the pub—wives and girlfriends. It was OK. They were all really nice and I felt comfortable. Dave didn’t leave my side and kept sneaking glances at me and smiling.

I was only drinking mineral water but I shouted a round. As I waited at the bar I could see the corner tables reflected in the mirror.

“So what are we doing after?” asked Bronco. “I fancy a curry.”

Sluggo grinned. “Dave’s already had one.”

They laughed and a couple of the guys winked at each other. “I bet she’s a tikka masala.”

“No, definitely a vindaloo.”

I didn’t mind. It was funny. I didn’t even care that Dave laughed too. But I knew then, if not before, that my initial instincts were right. We could share a bath, a bed, a weekend, but we could never share a life.

We pull up in Hanbury Street and straightaway I realize that something is missing.

“I’ll kill him!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My car. My brother has taken it.”

I’m already calling Hari’s mobile. Wind snatches at his words. He’s driving with the window open.

“Hello?”

“Bring back my car.”

“Sis?”

“Where are you?”

“Brighton.”

“You’re joking! It’s Dad’s birthday.”

“Is that today?” He starts fumbling for excuses. “Tell him I’m on a field trip for university.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

I look at my watch. I’m already late. “I hate you, Hari.”

He laughs. “Well, it’s a good thing I love you.”

Upstairs I throw open wardrobes and scatter my shoes. I have to wear a sari to keep my father happy. Saris and salvation are mixed up in his mind—as though one is going to bring me the other, or at least get me a husband.

“New Boy” Dave is downstairs.

“Can you call me a cab, please?”

“I’ll take you.”

“No, really.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes—then I’ll go to work.”

Back in my room, I wrap the sari fabric around my body, right to left, tucking the first wrap into my petticoat, making sure the bottom edge is brushing my ankles. Then I create seven pleats down the center, making sure they fall with the grain of the fabric. Holding the pleats in place, I take the remaining length of sari behind my back, across my body and drape it over my left shoulder.

This one is made of Varanasi silk, elaborately brocaded in red and green, with delicate figures of animals sewn with metallic silver thread along the border.

Pinning up my hair with a golden comb, I put on makeup and jewelry. Indian women are expected to wear lots of jewelry. It is a sign of wealth and social standing.

Sitting on the stairs, I buckle my sandals. Dave is staring at me.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Well, what are you gawping at?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Yeah, right.” I look like a Ratner’s display window.

I bat his hands away as he reaches out for me. “No touching the merchandise! And for God’s sake, don’t have an accident. I don’t want to die in these clothes.”

My parents live in the same house where I grew up. My mother doesn’t like change. In her perfect world, children would never leave home or discover how to cook or clean for themselves. Since this is impossible, she has preserved our childhoods in bric-a-brac and become the full-time curator at the Barba family museum.

As soon as I turn into the cul-de-sac I feel a familiar heat in my cheeks. “Just drop me off here.”

“Where’s the house?”

“Don’t worry. This will be fine.”

We pull up outside a small parade of shops. Fifty yards away my niece and nephew play in the front garden. They go tearing inside to announce my arrival.

“Quick, quick, turn round!”

“I can’t turn round.”

It’s too late! My mother appears, waddling down the road. My worst nightmare is coming true.

She kisses me three times, squeezing me so hard that my breasts hurt.

“Where is Hari?”

“I reminded him. I even ironed his shirt.”

“That boy will be the death of me.” She points to her temple. “See my gray hairs.”

Her gaze falls on “New Boy” Dave. She waits for an introduction.

“This is a friend from work. He has to go.”

Mama makes a pfffhh sound. “Does he have a name?”

“Yes, of course. Detective Sergeant Dave King. This is my mother.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Barba. Ali has told me so much about you.”

My mother laughs. “Will you stay for lunch, Detective Sergeant?”

“No, he has to go.”

“Nonsense. It’s Sunday.”

“Police have to work weekends.”

“Detectives are allowed to have lunch breaks. Isn’t that right?”

Then my mother smiles and I know I’ve lost. Nobody can ever say no to that smile.

Small feet patter down the hallway ahead of us. Harveen and Daj are fighting over who’s going to break the news that Auntie Ali has brought someone with her. Harveen comes back and takes my hand, dragging me into the kitchen. There are frown lines on her forehead at the age of seven. Daj is two years older and, like every male member of my family, is improbably handsome (and spoiled).

“Have you brought anything for us?” he asks.

“Only a kiss.”

“What about a present?”

“Only for Bada.”

Benches are covered with food and the air is heavy with steam and spices. My two aunts and my sisters-in-law are talking over one another amid the clatter and bang of energetic cooking. There are hugs and kisses. Glasses graze my cheekbones and fingers tug at my sari or straighten my hair, without my relatives ever taking their eyes from “New Boy” Dave.

My aunties, Meena and Kala, couldn’t be less alike as sisters. Meena is quite masculine and striking, with a strong jaw and thick eyebrows. Kala, by contrast, is unexceptional in almost every way, which might explain why she wears such decorative spectacles, to give her face more character.

Meena is still fussing with my hair. “Such a pretty thing to be unmarried; such lovely bones.”

A baby is thrust into my arms—the newest addition to the family. Ravi is six weeks old, with coffee-bean-colored eyes and rolls of fat on his arms that you could lose a sixpence inside.

Cows might be sacred to Hindus, but babies are sacred to Sikhs, boys more so than girls. Ravi latches on to my finger and squeezes it until his eyes fold shut.

“She’s so good with children,” says Mama, beaming. Dave should be squirming but he’s actually enjoying this. Sadist!

The men are outside in the garden. I can see my father’s blue turban above them all. His beard is swept back from his cheeks and crawls down his neck like a silver trickle of water.

I count heads. There are extras. My heart sinks. They’ve invited someone for me to meet.

My mother ushers Dave outside. He glances over his shoulder at me, hesitating before obeying her instructions. Down the side steps, along the mildewed path, past the door to the laundry, he reaches the rear garden. Every face turns toward him and the conversation stops.

It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, as people step back and “New Boy” Dave faces my father. It’s eyeball to eyeball but Dave doesn’t flinch, which is to his credit.

I can’t hear what they’re saying. My father glances up toward the kitchen window. He sees me. Then he smiles and thrusts out his hand. Dave takes it and suddenly conversation begins again.

My mother is at the sink, peeling and slicing mangoes. She slides the knife blade easily beneath the pale yellow flesh. “We didn’t know you were going to bring a friend.”

“I didn’t bring him.”

“Well, your father has invited someone. You must meet his guest. It’s only polite. He is a doctor.”

“A very fine one,” echoes Auntie Kala. “Very successful.”

I scan the gathering and pick him out. He is standing with his back to me, dressed in a Punjabi suit that has been laundered and starched to attention.

“He’s fat.”

“A sign of success,” says Kala.

“It takes a big hammer to hammer a big nail,” adds Meena, cackling like a schoolgirl. Kala disapproves.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, sister. A wife has to learn how to keep her husband happy in the boudoir.” The two of them continue arguing while I go back to the window.

The stranger in the garden turns and glances up at me. He holds up his glass, as if offering me a toast. Then he shakes it from side to side, indicating its emptiness.

“Quickly, girl, take him another drink,” says Meena, handing me a jug.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the side steps into the garden. My brothers whistle. They know how much I hate wearing a sari. All the men turn toward me. I keep my eyes focused on my sandals.

My father is still talking to Dave and my uncle Rashid, a notorious butt-squeezer. My mother claims it is an obsessive-compulsive disorder but I think he’s just a lech. They are talking about cricket. The men in my family are obsessed with the game even when the summer is over.

Most Indian men are small and elegant with delicate hands but my brothers are strapping, rugged types, except for Hari, who would make a beautiful woman.

Bada kisses my cheek. I bow to him slightly. He ushers his guest closer and makes the formal introductions.

“Alisha, this is Dr. Sohan Banerjee.”

I nod, still not raising my eyes.

The name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?

Poor Dave doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s not a Sikh, which is probably a good thing. If I’d brought a Sikh home my parents would have killed a goat.

Dr. Banerjee stands very straight and bows his head. My father is still talking. “Sohan contacted me personally and asked if he could meet you, Alisha. Family to family—that is how it should be done.”

I’m not meant to comment.

“He has more than one medical degree,” he adds.

He has more than one chin.

I don’t know how much worse this day could get. People are watching me. Dave is on the far side of the garden talking to my eldest brother, Prabakar, the most religious member of the family, who won’t approve.

The doctor is talking to me. I have to concentrate on his words. “I believe you are a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“And you live separately from your parents. Very few single Indian girls have property. So why aren’t you married?”

The bluntness of the question surprises me. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Are you a virgin?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m assuming your mother explained the facts of life to you.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“No comment means yes.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“In my experience it does. Do you drink?”

“No.”

“See? You don’t have to be so defensive. My parents think I should marry a girl from India because village girls are hard workers and good mothers. This may be so but I don’t want a peasant girl who can’t eat with a knife and fork.”

Anger rises in my throat and I have to swallow hard to keep it down. I give him my politest smile. “So tell me Dr. Banerjee—”

“Call me Sohan.”

“Sohan, do you ever masturbate?”

His mouth opens and closes like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “I hardly think—”

“No comment means yes.”

The flash of anger in his eyes is like a bloodred veil. He grinds his teeth into a smile. “Touché.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“An obstetrician.”

Suddenly I remember where I’ve read his name. It was in the file that Barnaby Elliot showed me. Sohan Banerjee is a fertility specialist. He performed Cate’s IVF procedures.

There are 100,000 Sikhs in London and what—maybe 400 obstetricians? What are the chances of Cate’s doctor showing up here?

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” I announce. “Cate Beaumont. Did you hear about the accident?”

He shifts his gaze to the mottled green roof of my father’s shed. “Her mother telephoned me. A terrible thing.”

“Did she tell you that Cate faked her pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“What else did she say?”

“It would be highly unethical to reveal the details of our conversation.” He pauses and adds, “Even to a police officer.”

My eyes search his or perhaps it’s the other way round. “Are you deliberately trying to withhold information from a police investigation?”

He smiles warily. “Forgive me. I thought this was a birthday party.”

“When did you last see Cate?”

“A year ago.”

“Why couldn’t she conceive?”

“No reason at all,” he says blithely. “She had a laparoscopy, blood tests, ultrasounds and a hysteroscopy. There were no abnormalities, adhesions or fibroids. She should have been able to conceive. Unfortunately, she and her husband were incompatible. Felix had a low sperm count, but married to someone else he may well have fathered a child without too much difficulty. However, in this case, his sperm were treated like cancerous cells and were destroyed by his wife’s immune system. Pregnancy was theoretically possible but realistically unlikely.”

“Did you ever suggest surrogacy as an option?”

“Yes, but there aren’t many women willing to have a child for another couple. There was also another issue…”

“What issue?”

“Have you heard of achondrogenesis?”

“No.”

“It is a very rare genetic disorder, a form of lethal dwarfism.”

“What does that have to do with Cate?”

“Her only known pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage at six months. An autopsy revealed severe deformities in the fetus. By some twisted chance of fate, a reverse lottery, she and Felix each carried a recessive gene. Even, if by some miracle, she could conceive, there was a 25 percent chance it would happen again.”

“But they kept trying.”

He raises his hand to stop me. “Excuse me, Alisha, but am I to understand from your questions that you are investigating this matter in some official capacity?”

“I’m just looking for answers.”

“I see.” He ponders this. “If I were you, I would be very careful. People can sometimes misconstrue good intentions.”

I’m unsure if this is advice or a warning but he holds my gaze until I feel uncomfortable. There is an arrogance about Banerjee that is typical of his generation of educated Sikhs, who are more pukka than any Englishman you will ever meet.

Finally, he relaxes. “I will tell you this much, Alisha. Mrs. Beaumont underwent five IVF implants over a period of two years. This is very complex science. It is not something you do at home with a glass jar and a syringe. It is the last resort, when all else fails.”

“What happened in Cate’s case?”

“She miscarried each time. Less than a third of IVF procedures result in a birth. My success rate is at the high end of the scale, but I am a doctor not a miracle worker.”

For once the statement doesn’t sound conceited. He seems genuinely disappointed.

Aunt Meena calls everyone inside for lunch. The tables have been set up with my father at the head. I am seated among the women. The men sit opposite. “New Boy” Dave and Dr. Banerjee are side by side.

Hari arrives in time for pudding and is treated like a prodigal son by my aunts, who run their fingers through his long hair. Leaning down, he whispers into my ear, “Two at once, sis. And I had you down as an old maid.”

My family are noisy when we eat. Plates are passed around. People talk over one another. Laughter is like a spice. There is no ceremony but there are rituals (which are not the same thing). Speeches are made, the cooks must be thanked, nobody talks over my father and all disagreements are saved for afterward.

I don’t let Dave stay that long. He has work to do. Sohan Banerjee also prepares to leave. I still don’t understand why he’s here. It can’t be just a coincidence.

“Would you accede to seeing me again, Alisha?” he asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“It would make your parents very happy.”

“They will survive.”

He rocks his head from side to side and up and down. “Very well. I don’t know what to say.”

“Goodbye is traditional.”

He flinches. “Yes. Goodbye. I wish your friend Mrs. Beaumont a speedy recovery.”

Closing the front door, I feel a mixture of anxiety and relief. My life has enough riddles without this one.

Hari meets me in the hallway. His dark eyes catch the light and he puts his arms around me. My mobile is open in his fingers.

“Your friend Cate died at one o’clock this afternoon.”