Читать книгу Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume - Brian Degas - Страница 16

At five minutes past nine, Viv Smith rushed in through the front door of the small suburban branch of the Bromsgrove Building Society, late for work again. As she quickly hung up her coat, out of the corner of her eye she noticed Maynard, the manager, holding his office door ajar, watching her. He checked his watch with a jaundiced look.

She was just settling into her position at the counter and unlocking her till when she felt someone touch her shoulder. It was only Madge, the young trainee.

‘There’s a call for you, Miss Smith,’ she said politely, yet with a bit of a frown. ‘A Miss Brownlow. From Social Services?’

‘That’s right. Thanks, Madge.’

Viv stood up and walked back to the telephone with the young trainee. Meanwhile Madge’s face was assuming a pained expression.

‘Mr Maynard told me to tell you about personal calls during office hours.’

Her duty done, Madge melted away. Viv reached for the waiting phone.

‘Miss Brownlow. It’s good of you to call …’

The voice on the other end of the line was businesslike, yet personal and friendly as well.

‘You’ve traced the mother of the two children? That’s great.’

Lost and found. Viv sighed with some sense of relief, despite still wondering what kind of mother would set her children adrift in a supermarket trolley.

‘Where? She was in Wales?’

This new development was unexpected, but Viv had to confess to herself that she was becoming ever more cautious.

‘Of course I’m surprised,’ she admitted to Miss Brownlow. ‘Yes … of course I’ll meet her.’

At that moment, Maynard was crossing the office and passing behind Viv. ‘Staff on phone means a customer gone,’ he admonished her in an adolescent singsong voice.

She made an obscene gesture behind his back.

‘Today?’ Not today, she wanted to protest. ‘Lunch-time?’ Not lunchtime, not today. ‘I guess I could.’ She didn’t know how in hell she could. ‘Okay, I’ll wait for you here …’

Maynard was still keeping a wary eye on Viv. Yet immediately after ending her conversation with Miss Brownlow and replacing the receiver, she picked it up again and dialled another number. When the connection was completed, she tried to speak softly in a low voice to the love of her life (or, at least, of the moment).

‘Ginger? It’s Viv. About lunch …’

It was obvious he guessed what she was going to say, so she didn’t have to suffer through it.

‘I’m sorry. You’re a love.’ She blew him a wet kiss. She doubted whether its sensual texture, let alone moisture, would survive the transmission to reach his ear, but gave it all she had anyway. ‘Mwah! Sweetie.’ She would have to demonstrate first-hand what she meant sometime later when they were alone together.

In a hurry she replaced the receiver and turned around – only to find Maynard standing behind her, open-mouthed, in a state of shock.

Mrs Shah hovered around the stove figuring how to look busy with nothing much left to do, while her children, Anjali and Sanjay, finished their late breakfast. Though at times concerned about her son, she was always worrying about her daughter.

‘It is ten o’clock, Anjali,’ she cautioned, making a conscious effort not to sound too abrasive.

Anjali questioned her mother’s memory with a gentle reminder. ‘Ma? Tuesday I have a late start at the hospital.’

Observing her brother nonchalantly half-eating his breakfast and half-reading his newspaper, Anjali decided the time was appropriate to approach him lightly.

‘I see you’ve got a new friend.’

Sanjay put down his newspaper and looked up slyly at his older sister.

‘You mean Dev? I thought I saw the two of you in the kitchen together.’ He winked at her. ‘Fancy him, do you? He’s a good-looking fellow. But you’re much too old for him, Jelly Baby.’

He took another couple of sips of coffee before continuing. ‘Anyway, he’s up here visiting his uncle for a week or two, then he goes back to London.’

Speaking casually, Anjali tried to disguise the extent and purpose of her interest. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘He came along with Bati,’ Sanjay replied, then looked to his mother. ‘Ma? I need more coffee.’ Mrs Shah complied without hesitation. He switched his glaring eyes to Anjali. ‘You know, you’re sounding more like a policeman every day,’ he said sarcastically.

Their Uncle Ram, brother of their mother and adopted ‘father’ of the family of three, wandered into the kitchen. Apparently feeling stiff and sore at the old age of 60, Ram tried a tentative stretch of his tired limbs. As usual, his mood was cranky first thing in the morning.

‘Don’t all get up, it’s only your Uncle Ram,’ he mocked.

Sanjay needled Anjali at the earliest opportunity. ‘You’re just in time, Uncle. Anjali is giving me the third degree.’ He glanced at his sister to see if his jabs were getting to her. ‘About a friend of mine. I think she’s lusting after him.’ That should do it.

‘What a nonsense!’ Anjali muttered.

But Uncle Ram was suddenly interested, mildly rebuking her. ‘I will decide if it’s a nonsense.’ He turned to young Sanjay.

‘What boy are you speaking about? Do I know him? What is his family?’

An unfeminine and unbecoming grunting noise indicated Anjali’s irritation, but Sanjay was only too happy to respond.

‘He’s visiting from London. His name is Dev Patel. You know his uncle – Prem Ghai, the one who sells spice.’

Uncle Ram flattened his lips, clearly impressed. ‘Prem Ghai is a very major businessman.’ His calculating look at Anjali suggested he might have underestimated her.

‘You are a slyboots,’ he told her, ‘and no mistake.’

Anjali was unimpressed. ‘Uncle, look at me, and watch what my lips say. I have no interest in this boy. I do not wish to be interested in this boy. This boy is of no account.’

Just then the doorbell rang. Mrs Shah was relieved and thankful for the chance to answer the door and escape another family squabble.

His mother now beyond hearing him, Sanjay’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then why ask these questions? Are you prying into my affairs again? Is that it? You see I have a new friend? So you snoop. Now you’re in the police you think everyone is a criminal.’ Angry and disgusted, he stormed out of the kitchen.

Uncle Ram flapped his hands helplessly. ‘He is right.’

‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ Anjali answered sharply.

‘There you go! I say something, and you contradict. You have no respect. I am the head of the family now that your father is no longer with us. You would do well to heed my advice.’

In the brief silence that followed, Mrs Shah returned to the kitchen from answering the doorbell.

‘It’s Mrs Patel,’ she announced. ‘She’s in the other room.’

Uncle Ram checked his watch. ‘I am late already, but tell her I can spare a few minutes.’

Mrs Shah shook her head. ‘No, no. It is Anjali she wishes to see.’