Winterbourne. Zhabed Comes To Stay

PART ONE

Introductions

Carrie, Elizabeth, Steff and Nigel

Carrie

I inherited this house when my father died six years ago. It isn’t really me but the town has its pluses – a sense of community – people doing their own thing – not your average Tesco High Street. It suits me, the dreamer, the rebel, the feminist, or the immature, unstable, promiscuous outcast – whichever way you want to look at it. Well I’m sure that’s the way they would look at it.

Elizabeth and Henry Marten live in the corner detached house, 1930’s solid, manicured lawn that they have ‘help’ with. You can just imagine what they’re like can’t you? Tory, tablecloths, children learning Latin at private schools, late nights working in the City, dutiful, rather than devoted, Elizabeth that never could become a Liz.

Next door has gone downmarket – rented – students no less – peeling paint, an unpredictable electric guitar at 1.00am, white faced bleary-eyed exits and entrances, with who knows what dramas being created and re-lived in an ultimately predictable way. Young lives struggling with abandonment and independence.

Next door the other way is rented too. Both parents working, children with little bikes off to nursery with tantrums and big bubbly smiles. Visits from pushchairs and benevolent grannies and grandpas. Nice.

Most importantly there is Maestro – sleek as a gleaming fire engine, independent yet devoted – a constant entertainment. Like old companions we take on many of each other’s features. He thinks he is human and as I stare intimately into his all-seeing green eyes, I become Cat.

Wisdom comes in the form of Nigel – an elderly convert to Buddhism. He lives in number 10 converted into two. From aloft he surveys the cricket ground below and meditates. I like calling on Nigel though I have to be careful I’m not imposing. We sit together on adjacent couches and finger our cups of tea slowly and ceremoniously. We listen to each other carefully. I enjoy the slowdown – the sense of leaving the trivia of daily living behind. I am kind of into meditation too though nothing as defined as Buddhism with its rituals and Indian terms and practices.

Elizabeth

Sometimes I look at that woman down the road ‘doing her own thing’ as they say – and I feel a bit sorry for her. No children, no family. Damaged. She’s lucky to have a nice house though she doesn’t seem to appreciate it – the garden’s such a mess. Very occasionally I wonder what it would be like to be her. Would I spread my wings or would I collapse in a heap?

I met Henry at university. As they say it was a time when men were educated to become professionals and leaders in their field and women were educated to become wives. Poor Henry – he is wedded to his figures – person skills are not his thing. He likes something to get his teeth into – some obscure problem. I hope he does eventually refine his theories, be recognised, or write that leading book on accounting procedures. My dabblings in history I suppose could be called somewhat dilettante. My mind was on other things though I did my best and was a good girl whatever that means. If men were to become great, women were educated to become wives of the great. There was nothing else I wanted to do particularly so, apart from a short course to become a teacher – a career I barely started – I am a housewife and mother.

Like all mothers I worry about the boys – William and Donald. What will their future be? At times I feel I hardly know them. I pride myself that I have given them a settled happy family childhood. I feel so sorry for those poor children who have to adapt to one parent after another. Anything goes it seems nowadays.

I am probably a bit old-fashioned – not like that young couple down the road. I see them rushing past the window from time to time. They both work. I feel very privileged not to have to work and grateful that Henry earns – well quite a considerable sum – which means we can maintain out standard of living. Yes the children are well-off and will in time, I am sure, come to appreciate it.

Steff

I don’t really have time to know my neighbours. I know who they are but not much about them which is sad really. It’s not that we want to keep ourselves to ourselves it’s just a matter of time or lack of it. We meet more in the summer over the garden fence. Carrie is single. We do from time to time help each other out. I kind of like her – she’s quite informal, and easy to talk to. She gets on well with the kids in an over-the-fence-kind-of-way. We’re in the garden more than she is and hers is even more overgrown than ours. The neighbours in Tweedsmuir Mews who back on to hers have complained her bindweed is spreading over their manicured patch. Her black cat comes and goes as he pleases.

There are older boys in the corner house but I don’t know them or their mother at all. I understand their father works away most of the time. Phil – my husband has met him in the street but they have barely exchanged words. Some people like to keep their privacy don’t they?

It’s a bit relentless just now and I am to put it mildly, knackered. Generally Jojo, my two year old, sleeps through but not always. We take it in turns to get up in the night but even when Phil takes over I can’t get back to sleep. Phil seems to be able to sleep through anything. Danny is four and quite a sunny child most of the time. We both work. We both have to work but in any case I never wanted to be a stay-at-home-mum so I would work. I’m lucky in finding something I am good at and largely my own boss. I run an advice agency with someone else and we actually do help people to get their right benefit so it’s really satisfying. I don’t work full time – I get a couple of mornings to myself. I say to myself but inevitably there’s something pressing that has to be done. One day…

Nigel

Am I 90 or 19? My body withers away. I try to remember that Death hovers in the wings and could spring forward any moment. I hope I am ready – after all life has given me a lot of experiences, especially after I met my Master some twenty years ago. Or is that a fantasy? I shall find out in due course. He left His body but His example lives on – for me at any rate. I consult His discourses less and less – they are useful reminders that there is something else – something beyond. Of course I fear pain like anyone else and some days I’m too unwell to make my way down the road to the supermarket – or to sit for long in meditation. I still puzzle over the existential questions – the meaning of life – but more and more I see life as a play with no particular purpose. People come to visit – in this I am fortunate. Perhaps they find a little peace and quiet here – I like to think so. When Carrie visits she wakes me up with her irreverence and caustic wit – what was it she said yesterday? … I don’t remember. The birds and the sky, the clouds and the cricket ground are my entertainment. Sometimes there’s something good on my widescreen TV.

This place suits me well-enough. I look out onto the playing fields below and there is an ever changing sky with flocks of birds to contemplate. I don’t look out the front much – there’s a row of 30’s semi-detached and who knows what going on behind net curtains. It’s only a short walk to the town centre where there’s a weekly market and anything I need is on hand. I don’t need a car and in any case parking would be a problem. I have lived in more interesting places and more interesting buildings but the urge to build and recreate has passed me by. It’s time to leave all that to the youngsters. I know a good few people. Of course they tend to be younger than me. Sometimes they confess their worries and problems and I try to be sympathetic. I am sympathetic – after all there is a lot of suffering in the world and a lot of things to puzzle about in surviving day to day. But at the same time I see the triviality of it all – I see people making their own problems – not consciously of course. I try to remind them of the reality which is not full of problems. Sometimes I write things down even though no-one will read it, sometimes I paint.

1

An Invitation

Carrie looks out from her desk strategically placed in the upstairs square bay at a row of 1930’s semis stretching seamlessly left and right. They give off an air that is both solid, and safe in contrast to the ancient High Street which rises up from the river to the Castle lined by a historic hotch potch of roofs and alleyways. Yet the Avenue is beginning to show some history too after 70 years. Opposite Carrie’s house is a house with a porch which has almost become a conservatory (80’s). Its partner has extended sideways (90’s). Her house is almost the same as when it was built but her parents did make a through-living room in the 60’s. Nigel’s upstairs flat over to the left has a velux window partly obscured by a chestnut tree tinged with autumn colours.

A loud wheelie sound echoes down the street. Not a skateboard but a smart young man, white suit, and suitcase stopping near her front door. Strange. He pulls out a paper and detours next-door to the student house where he is swallowed up out of sight. Despite her best intentions, Carrie cannot avoid clocking he is not white. Foreign students there have been before but coloured no. Yewbridge cannot claim to have international kudos. Indeed as an institution it is barely out of tech status and because of its small size in imminent danger of being closed – ‘relocated.’ Hardly worth travelling half way round the globe for.

Carrie’s neighbourly curiosity is satisfied when she comes back from shopping. The new man, no longer in white suit, is just emerging from the student house. She gets off her bicycle and somewhat clumsily introduces herself.

‘Hi!’ she extends a hand.

The stranger looks startled.

‘We live next door to each other, I’m Carrie Middleton … I do hope you’re settling in…’

The stranger does not volunteer his name and hesitates before taking the hand.

‘Thank you …yes. How are you?’

‘I’m well …Do let me know if you need anything… I don’t think the others have arrived yet have they?’

‘The other? No that’s right. I am alone – (sigh) it’s very strange.’

‘You’re a new student – right?’

‘Yes… I’m studying English and journalism’

‘And you are from?’

‘From Pakistan…

It is Carrie’s turn to look startled. He notices and gives a small wry smile.

‘No I am here … just to learn English …

‘Well I do hope you’ll settle down. You must come and have a cup of tea sometime.’

‘Thank you…Alla…Good bye.’

Carrie ponders the protocol of firming up her invitation. What would he think of a single woman propositioning him? If he were to see it like that. But hang it all he is in her country and it is up to him to learn that women can be independent and that an invitation for tea means just that. Anyway he can always back out if she is transgressing his rules. Her normal rule to stick by her own rules does not quite cover the situation. Uncharacteristically, she resolves to invite him round with another person. And the most available person is… Elizabeth Marten. Yes that would be an interesting combination. He would meet a quintessential, respectable, English woman. Elizabeth Marten would have to confront her prejudices whilst behaving impeccably. Carrie meanwhile, is self-aware enough to know that there is something in it for her if only in terms of her curiosity. She found him distant, wary – not unattractive.

The doorbell rings.

It is only the second time Carrie has ever called on her. The first time, several years ago, was when there was that petition to stop the cricket ground being bulldozed over for ‘affordable housing’ whatever that means. She had invited her in in a ‘not-sure-if-this-is-a-good-idea sort of way’ and Carrie had indicated that she’d best get on with the petition – get as many signatures as possible – but with a penetrating glance into an interior that was familiar and yet quite different – chrysanthemums on the semi-circular hall table with a not bad watercolour above. Pale yellow walls.

‘Mrs Marten’ Carrie hesitates.

Elizabeth is momentarily at a loss.

‘Mrs Marten – you know we have a new neighbour from afar – Pakistan actually – he’s just beginning a course at Yewbridge – on his own – the others haven’t moved in yet and well – I’ve sort of invited him in for tea – and …I wondered if you would like to join us – meet him too.’

Elizabeth is even more at a loss. A man from Pakistan – a Paki – three doors away and here is this woman inviting her in.

‘Oh …that’s very kind… I’ve got a few things on at the moment though – um…when do you suggest?’

‘I don’t mind – I’ll have to see when both of you are free. I’d rather it was before term begins next Wednesday.’

‘Well …Would you like to come in for a minute?’

‘No thank you but I’m so glad you’re into it. I’ll let you know soon.’

Carrie smiles her big toothy smile and vanishes in a swirl of scarf back to her own front gate.

* * *

Carrie prepares for the new academic year. Will this one be any different she wonders? She dwells on the newness – new term, new faces, new neighbours next door. Immediately she flips into a feeling of the old, the familiar, the stale. She reviews her ‘work wardrobe’ and stocks up on underwear and socks – things she frequently runs out of. She thinks the trousers will do and treats herself to a couple of autumnal tops after rummaging through the local shops. Normally it amuses her to start with the most exclusive boutiques and then find almost the same thing in charity shops. But she is short of time having spent the summer away and goes straight to the low or reasonable priced shops for one or two classical things – autumn colours to go with her fair complexion. Work is a train journey away – she buys a season