"Yes, yes, I see-I didn't mean '



"Look, Clara, love, just get out of my way and I'll get on with it, OK?"



Clara watched him roll up his sleeves with some determination, and tackle the coffee table once



more.



"If you really want to be of some help, love, you can start bringing in some of your clothes.



God knows there's enough of 'em to sink a bloody battleship. How we're going to fit them in what



little space we have I'm sure I don't know."



"I say before we can trow some dem out, if you tink it best."



"Not up to me now, not up to me, is it? I mean, is it? And what about the coat-stand?"



This was the man: never able to make a decision, never able to state a position.



"I alreddy say: if ya nah like it, den send da damn ting back. I bought it 'cos I taut you like it."



"Well, love," said Archie, cautious now that she had raised her voice, 'it was my money it would



have been nice at least to ask my opinion."



"Man! It a coat-stand. It jus' red. An' red is red is red. What's wrong wid red all of a sudden?"



"I'm just trying," said Archie, lowering his voice to a hoarse, forced whisper (a favourite



voice-weapon in the marital arsenal: Not in front of the neighbours children 'to lift the tone in the



house a bit. This is a nice neighbourhood, new life, you know. Look, let's not argue. Let's flip a coin;



heads it stays, tails .. ."



True lovers row, then fall the next second back into each other's arms; more seasoned lovers



will walk up the stairs or into the next room before they relent and retrace their steps. A relationship



on the brink of collapse will find one partner two blocks down the road or two countries to the east



before something tugs, some responsibility, some memory, a pull of a child's hand or a heart string,



which induces them to make the long journey back to their other half. On this Richter scale, then,



Clara made only the tiniest of rumbles. She turned towards the gate, walked two steps only and



stopped.



"Heads!" said Archie, seemingly without resentment. "It stays. See? That wasn't too hard."



"I don' wanna argue." She turned round to face him, having made a silent renewed resolution to



remember her debt to him. "You said the Iqbals are comin' to dinner. I was just thinkin' .. . if they're



going to want me to cook dem some curry1 mean, I can cook curry but it's my type of curry."



"For God's sake, they're not those kind of Indians," said Archie irritably, offended at the



suggestion. "Sam'll have a Sunday roast like the next man. He serves Indian food all the time, he



doesn't want to eat it too."



"I was just wondering '



"Well, don't, Clara. Please."



He gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead, for which she bent downwards a little.



"I've known Sam for years, and his wife seems a quiet sort. They're not the royal family, you



know. They're not those kind of Indians," he repeated, and shook his head, troubled by some



problem, some knotty feeling he could not entirely unravel.



Samad and Alsana Iqbal, who were not those kind of Indians (as, in Archie's mind, Clara was



not that kind of black), who were, in fact, not Indian at all but Bangladeshi, lived four blocks down



on



the wrong side of Willesden High Road. It had taken them a year to get there, a year of



mercilessly hard graft to make the momentous move from the wrong side of Whitechapel to the



wrong side of Willesden. A year's worth of Alsana banging away at the old Singer that sat in the



kitchen, sewing together pieces of black plastic for a shop called Domination in Soho (many were



the nights Alsana would hold up a piece of clothing she had just made, following the pattern she



was given, and wonder what on earth it was). A year's worth of Samad softly inclining his head at



exactly the correct deferential angle, pencil in his left hand, listening to the appalling pronunciation



of the British, Spanish, American, French, Australian:



Go Bye Ello Sag, please.



Chicken Jail Fret See wiv Chips, fan ks



From six in the evening until three in the morning; and then every day was spent asleep, until



daylight was as rare as a decent tip. For what is the point, Samad would think, pushing aside two



mints and a receipt to find fifteen pence, what is the point of tipping a man the same amount you



would throw in a fountain to chase a wish? But before the illegal thought of folding the fifteen



pence discreetly in his napkin hand even had a chance to give itself form, Mukhul - Ardashir



Mukhul, who ran the Palace and whose wiry frame paced the restaurant, one benevolent eye on the



customers, one ever watchful eye on the staff- Mukhul was upon him.



"Saaamaad' he had a cloying, oleaginous way of speaking 'did you kiss the necessary backside



this evening, cousin?"



Samad and Ardashir were distant cousins, Samad the elder by six years. With what joy (pure



bliss!) had Ardashir opened the letter last January, to find his older, cleverer, handsomer cousin was



finding it hard to get work in England and could he possibly.. .



"Fifteen pence, cousin," said Samad, lifting his palm.



"Well, every little helps, every little helps," said Ardashir, his



dead-fish lips stretching into a stringy smile. "Into the Piss-Pot with it."



The Piss-Pot was a black Balti pot that sat on a plinth outside the staff toilets and into which all



tips were pooled and then split at the end of the night. For the younger, flashy, good-lookingwaiters



like Shiva, this was a great injustice. Shiva was the only Hindu on the staff- this stood as tribute to



his waite ring skills, which had triumphed over religious differences. Shiva could make a four quid



tip in an evening if the blubberous white divorcee in the corner was lonely enough and he batted his



long lashes at her effectively. He could also make his money out of the polo-necked directors and



producers (the Palace sat in the centre of London's theatre land and these were still the days of the



Royal Court, of pretty boys and kitchen-sink drama) who flattered the boy, watched his ass wiggle



provocatively to the bar and back, and swore that if anyone ever adapted A Passage to India for the



stage he could have whichever role tickled his fancy. For Shiva, then, the Piss-Pot system was



simply daylight robbery and an insult to his unchallenged waite ring abilities. But for men like



Samad, in his late forties, and for the even older, like the white-haired Muhammed (Ardashir's



great-uncle), who was eighty if he was a day, who had deep pathways dug into the sides of his



mouth where he had smiled when he was young, for men like this the Piss-Pot could not be



complained about. It made more sense to join the collective than pocket fifteen pence and risk



being caught (and docked a week's tips).



"You're all on my back!" Shiva would snarl, when he had to relinquish five pounds at the end of



the night and drop it into the pot. "You all live off my back! Somebody get these losers off my back!



That was my river and now it's going to be split sixty-five-fucking-million ways as a hand-out to



these losers! What is this: communism?"



And the rest would avoid his glare and busy themselves quietly with other things, until one



evening, one fifteen pence evening,



Samad said, "Shut up, boy," quietly, almost under his breath.



"You!" Shiva swung round to where Samad stood, crushing a great tub of lentils for tomorrow's



dal. "You're the worst of them! You're the worst fucking waiter I've ever seen! You couldn't get a tip



if you mugged the bastards! I hear you trying to talk to the customer about biology this, politics that



just serve the food, you idiot you're a waiter, for fuck's sake, you're not Michael Parkinson. "Did I



hear you say Delhi'" Shiva put his apron over his arm and began posturing around the kitchen (he



was a pitiful mimic) - '"I was there myself, you know, Delhi University, it was most fascinating, yes



and I fought in the war, for England, yes yes, yes, charming, charming."" Round and round the



kitchen he went, bending his head and rubbing his hands over and over like Uriah Heep, bowing



and genuflecting to the head cook, to the old man arranging great hunks of meat in the walk-in



freezer, to the young boy scrubbing the underside of the oven. "Samad, Samad .. ." he said with



what seemed infinite pity, then stopped abruptly, pulled the apron off and wrapped it round his



waist. "You are such a sad little man."



Muhammed looked up from his pot-scrubbing and shook his head again and again. To no one in



particular he said, "These young people what kind of talk? What kind of talk? What happened to



respect? What kind of talk is this?"



"And you can fuck off too," said Shiva, brandishing a ladle in his direction, 'you old fool. You're



not my father."



"Second cousin of your mother's uncle," a voice muttered from the back. "Bollocks," said Shiva.



"Bollocks to that."



He grabbed the mop and was heading off for the toilets, when he stopped by Samad and placed



the handle inches from Samad's mouth.



"Kiss it," he sneered; and then, impersonating Ardashir's sluggish drawl, "Who knows, cousin,



you might get a rise!"



And that's what it was like most nights: abuse from Shiva and



others; condescension from Ardashir; never seeing Alsana; never seeing the sun; clutching



fifteen pence and then releasing it; wantingdesperately to be wearing a sign, a large white placard



that said:



I AM NOT A WAITER. I HAVE BEEN A STUDENT, A SCIENTIST, A



SOLDIER, MY WIFE IS CALLED AL SANA WE LIVE IN EAST LONDON



BUT WE WOULD LIKE TO MOVE NORTH. I AM A MUSLIM BUT ALLAH



HAS FORSAKEN ME OR I HAVE FORSAKEN ALLAH, i'm NOT SURE. I



HAVE A FRIEND ARCHIE AND OTHERS. I AM FORTY-NINE BUT



WOMEN STILL TURN IN THE STREET. SOMETIMES.



But, no such placard existing, he had instead the urge, the need, to speak to every man, and, like



the Ancient Mariner, explain constantly, constantly wanting to reassert something, anything. Wasn't



that important? But then the heart-breaking disappointment to find out that the inclining of one's



head, poising of one's pen, these were important, so important it was important to be a good waiter,



to listen when someone said Lamb Dawn Sock and rice. With chips. Thank you.



And fifteen pence clinked on china. Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.

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