‘We are not a poor family, but neither are we rich,’ Ram responded evenly, attempting a return to diplomacy.
Again Anjali interrupted, her mind obviously in another world. ‘Of course, he could be allergic to me. And that would certainly pose a problem for our future happiness.’
Her intended husband’s expression changed from disoriented to dumbfounded, although the sniffs continued unabated. The remaining members of his family were struck dumb as well, except for his father. Manfully shouldering his burden in the face of unanticipated opposition, he ploughed on once more.
‘My son has a good job with good prospects.’
‘Doing what?’ Anjali asked, seeing Uncle Ram bridle out of the corner of her eye. ‘Am I not allowed to ask?’
Sanjay giggled behind his hand, enjoying her every calculated blunder. Meanwhile, the mystified relatives of her intended husband were becoming restive.
Uncle Ram cleared his throat to restore order, both internal and external. ‘A good job with good prospects is … very good indeed … And no doubt he is a good worker?’
The father nodded humbly and proudly. ‘My son works in a supermarket.’
‘Not in the Delicatessen, I hope,’ Anjali remarked more to herself than the assembled witnesses.
‘He earns nearly eight thousand pounds,’ the father boasted.
She nodded as though impressed. ‘Really. Let me think.’ Her eyes rolled upward, searching her memory. ‘What do I get for my job, Uncle Ram? Do you remember?’
Uncle Ram burrowed deeper into his chair.
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered herself. ‘Twelve thousand last year, I think it was.’
That was the final blow. A grim hush descended upon them all, perhaps out of respect for the dead. With quiet reserve, the now-unintended groom’s father addressed Ram in a formal manner, cold as a cadaver. ‘I think your niece makes fun of me and my son.’ When he arose from Uncle Ram’s chair, his entire family stood up, including the former groom, followed by all of Anjali’s aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews.
‘She is too wise, perhaps … too old … for my son, I am thinking. My son needs a more … traditional girl, you understand.’
Mute, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life, Ram could do nothing but watch the father, his sniffing son and the rest of his family slowly depart from the sitting room – and from Anjali’s life forever – their contemptuous noses in the air. He paced to and fro, marshalling his thoughts among the members of his own family milling about, until the ill-fated groom’s family was gone. The sight of his heartbroken sister, her eyes about to dissolve into tears, brought him to a halt. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and stared at Anjali as if she’d turned green.
‘Look at your mother. My sister was once a beautiful woman. Now see the lines on her face. Every one has been placed there by you, her ungrateful daughter.’ Frustrated to tears and anger himself, he tried to appeal to her one last time with his words. ‘How can I make you understand?’ he pleaded with her. ‘You are twenty-five years old. You need a life-partner!’
‘And be the slave to a stove? Have a husband tell me how much of my own money I should give to the Temple?’
There was so much she didn’t know. He tried to reason with her, shifting his strategy hoping he might catch more flies with honey than vinegar. ‘Anjali? Marriage is like a tray of candies – sweet!’
She scoffed. ‘The kind that gives you indigestion.’
At the end of her endurance, Anjali’s mother burst into sobs. Watching her grief, Uncle Ram and the others consoling her, Anjali didn’t know how she could live her own life without bringing disharmony and disappointment to theirs … except for Sanjay, amused by her embarrassment, who seemed to enjoy her in the role of family misfit for all seasons.
The panda was parked on a well-to-do suburban street in front of a posh house where Toby and Loach waited at the door. Toby decided to ring the doorbell again, but before he could the door was flung open by a diminutive gentleman, apparently the houseowner, a short barrel of spleen.
‘Well, about high bloody time!’ The houseowner jerked his thumb toward the equally posh residence next door. ‘It’s been like World War Three in there.’
‘Can we come in, sir?’ Toby asked politely.
‘What for? It’s next door you want to sort out.’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but I’ll need to get some particulars down. What is the nature of the complaint? And I’d rather we did that inside, and not out here on the doorstep.’
The houseowner appeared to debate the suggestion mentally, although he gave in with ill grace. ‘Oh, all right. Bloody red tape. Come in.’ As they passed him, he called to someone inside. ‘It’s the police, luvvy. They want to come in.’ Closing the door behind them, he added in a muffled voice: ‘But we’re only wasting time …’
When Toby and Loach reached the doorway of the sitting room, they were met by the houseowner’s short barrel of a wife, obstructing further progress. Bringing up the rear was the houseowner, pinning the Specials between them. There was no way they were going to be allowed to sit down.
‘It’s been two hours … isn’t that right, luvvy?’ His wife agreed, though in stone-faced silence. ‘Two hours of continual din … smashing and crashing … It’s like living next door to Beirut.’
‘Seems quiet enough now, sir,’ Toby suggested.
‘That’s probably because someone’s had their head bashed in. I’m telling you it wasn’t somebody just making noise. This was frightening. Wasn’t it, luvvy?’ The stone-face didn’t move an eyelash. ‘’Course, we’ve been expecting something like this …’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Toby inquired.
The houseowner was exasperated, perhaps as much by the question as by the answer. ‘It’s the kind of people they are. Young couple … you never know if they’re married these days … he’s some kind of dealer … but I think he was a market trader … acts like one, anyway … I mean, what kind of person cuts down trees? Turns his back garden into concrete? The view from our bedroom is a disgrace, isn’t it, luvvy?’
A gaping maw opened in the great stone-face, as if she were going to be ill. Taking no notice, her husband continued on down the concrete garden path. ‘They had a plum tree … juiciest fruit you ever ate … chopped it down … I mean chopped it down!’ he fairly shouted at them before cooling to a simmer. ‘There really ought to be a law.’
Good grief! Loach brooded, cursing SDO Barker for putting him out on the street: he should be stuck here and have to put up with such nonsense.
This early in the evening, Rob Barker was the only person in the Pub on 4th besides Briggsy the barman. The way he was checking his watch every few minutes, it was obvious he was waiting for someone, impatiently.
‘Another drink, Mr Barker?’
Shaken loose from his thoughts, Barker tried to focus on the barman’s query, but abruptly he was distracted by that someone. Sandra Gibson came in, saw him, and crossed to the bar.
She appeared to be expecting a kiss, but he held back, taking her hand instead. A frown of doubt flickered across her brow for an instant, before her familiar, if somewhat uncertain smile returned.
‘A drink?’ he suggested.
‘Sure. The usual, Briggsy.’
‘One gin and tonic