vouchers like they were so many fifty-pound notes. Kelvin thought for a moment he saw tears of happiness in his eyes.
âWell, I donât know what to say. Thereâs a place I go to, pretty regular like. If they take these Iâm made for life. Ta very much.â
Kelvin took a handkerchief to his forehead. âThink nothing of it, Arch. Please.â
âMr. Hero, could I . . .â Archie gestured toward the door. âItâs just that Iâd like to phone some people, you know, give them the news about the baby . . . if weâve finished here.â
Kelvin nodded, relieved. Archie lifted himself out of his seat. He had just reached for the handle of the door when Kelvin snatched up his Parker pen once more and said, âOh, Archie, one more thing . . . that dinner with the Sunderland team . . . I talked to Maureen and I think we need to cut down on the numbers . . . we put the names in a hat and yours came out. Still, I donât suppose youâll be missing much, eh? These things are always a bit of a bore.â
âRight you are, Mr. Hero,â said Archie, mind elsewhere; praying to God that OâConnellâs was a âfood outletâ; smiling to himself, imagining Samadâs reaction when he copped fifty quidâs worth of bloody Luncheon Vouchers.
Partly because Mrs. Jones becomes pregnant so soon after Mrs. Iqbal and partly because of a daily proximity (by this point Clara is working part-time as a supervisor for a Kilburn youth group that looks like the fifteen-man lineup of a ska and roots bandâsix-inch Afros, Adidas tracksuits, brown ties, Velcro, sun-tinted shadesâand Alsana attends an Asian Womenâs Prenatal Class in Kilburn High Road round the corner), the two women begin to see more of each other. Hesitant in the beginningâa few lunch dates here and there, the occasional coffeeâwhat begins as a rearguard action against their husbandsâ friendship soon develops. They have resigned themselves to their husbandsâ mutual appreciation society and the free time this leaves is not altogether unpleasant; there is time for picnics and outings, for discussion and personal study; for old French movies where Alsana screams and covers her eyes at the suggestion of nudity (âPut it away! We are not wanting to see the dangly bits!â) and Clara gets a glimpse of how the other half live: the half who live on romance, passion, and joie de vivre. The other half who have
sex.
The life that might have been hers had she not been at the top of some stairs one fine day as Archibald Jones waited at the bottom.
Then, when their bumps become too large and cinema seats no longer accommodate them, the women begin to meet for lunch in Kilburn Park, often with the Niece-of-Shame, the three of them squeezed on a generous bench where Alsana presses a Thermos of rather awful tea into Claraâs hand, without milk, with lemon. Opens several layers of plastic wrap to reveal todayâs peculiar delight: savory doughlike balls, crumbly Indian sweets shot through with the colors of the kaleidoscope, thin pastry with spiced beef inside, salad with onion; saying to Clara, âEat up! Stuff yourself silly! Itâs in there, wallowing around in your belly, waiting for the menu. Woman, donât torture it! You want to starve the bump?â For, despite appearances, there are six people on that bench (three living, three coming); one girl for Clara, two boys for Alsana.
Alsana says, âNobodyâs complaining, letâs get that straight. Children are a blessing, the more the merrier. But I tell you, when I turned my head and saw that fancy ultra-business thingummybob . . .â
âUltra
sound,
â corrects Clara, through a mouthful of rice.
âYes, I almost had the heart attack to finish me off! Two! Feeding one is enough!â
Clara laughs and says she can imagine Samadâs face when he saw it.
âNo, dearie.â Alsana is
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