Roshi Fernando - Homesick

I would like to thank the following people for their guidance, help and often, love: Tom Saul, Stevie Davies, Ira Fernando, Edward Saul, Isobel Saul, Miranda Saul, Spiky Saul, Nigel Jenkins, Mali Fernando, Ishani OConnor. Thanks to Elisabeth Bennett, chief Archivist at the University of Swansea for her invaluable help with the research for Research. Thank you, Su Chard, for the photo. Thank you to John Tams for permission to use Rolling Home in At the Barn Dance. Thank you, Euan Thorneycroft, for everything. Thanks to Richard Willis, Colin Morgan, Julie Swales and Celeste Fine. And many thanks to Alexandra Pringle and Lexy Bloom for all their advice and help.

They had been sitting outside as the sky began to rest down on the crowd, its colours descending from pinks and peaches to every hue of blue and navy, like a dancers tiered skirt. The trees thrust upwards as if to guard them from the inevitable night. The hall, overly lit by garish oranges that did not try to mimic the day but produced their own unique blend of the present and fashion, became the focal point for the two hundred people milling about the barbecue and salads. The woman sitting next to Preethi spoke.

But its a lovely name, it sounds like Pretty, and she patted Preethis hand. Preethi had heard this summation of her name many times before, yet she smiled, laughed a little even: the woman meant well, and what was that, a small politeness to an old woman?

Preethi said, I didnt catch your name? and the woman shook her head, as if shaking off the question and the need to answer. The music had begun to play, and a few of the younger secretaries whooped and laughed.

Imagine, said the woman, watching them, never having to rush home because children need to be picked up from school, or dinner needs to be made? Can you remember a time when you stayed late at work because you wanted to, and then went off to the pub?

Preethi could remember it, in London, a long time ago. She looked at the girls in their tiny skirts and boots and cowboy hats, and she smiled wryly. They are half my age, she thought. They are getting drunk and acting stupid the way I did the year they were born.

A mans voice echoed out to them from the hall.

This caller is very good. Ive been to a wedding where they played. Exhausting!

The woman laughed, her eyes turned up to the sky wearily. Preethi stood. She would find Simon. He promised not to leave her alone: she knew few people from his workplace, and although they were all pleasant, friendly people, she felt her status as an outsider. No one knew her . They knew the image she presented them on these occasions: this early summer barn dance or a Christmas ball, where she ladled on the diamonds and the kohl, rubbed her teeth nervously with a tissue for fear of lipstick smiles. She was not effete or fragrant. She did not groom like other wives. Preethi was rough and ready, calloused hands from her garden, earth staining her palms the colour of the rest of her skin. At Christmas, Simons PA Emma had stared at Preethis hands, with the fingernails uneven and unpainted, and she had been ashamed. Simon had teased her on the way home, and in the dark she had said coldly that he should stop. He had taken her literally and stopped the car.

It isnt important, he had said. Shes not important.

But it is , Preethi had grumbled, not knowing why. She was never the first to point out her colour to anyone, never the one to shout racism like it was a trigger to be pulled. She just felt it, the burden of Emmas stare. As Simon started the car, she had looked down at her hands in the dark, and even there, in her lap, they were the wrong colour, like an admonishment.

She makes me feel Im not good enough for you, she said finally.

Well you are , and shes a bitch, he had said, pulling on to the dual carriageway. In the yellow blinks of fast motorway lamps, Preethi and Simons colours had equalised to beige.

Si! a girl screeched, as Preethi walked into the hall. Simon did not turn from the person he was speaking to, but saw Preethi and raised his eyebrows. She knew he was annoyed. In the taxi on the way here, he had prudishly wished that the young ones would not get so drunk. At Christmas, some of the women had had to be carried into the coach.

Si! Come and dance! the girl shouted again. Simon did not look round, just waved his hand in the direction of the voice. Preethi looked towards the girl. She had no idea who she was. Why did she call Simon Si? Could there be an intimacy there that Simon had hidden from her? He spoke very little of the office and the people there. And yet, she knew in her heart there was no one for Simon but her . She knew it. Ridiculous! How could she know it? We are all in the business of creating illusions, arent we? Even the people we have slept next to for twenty-five years get up, go out and become something we have no understanding of.

Simon beckoned to her. Darling, this is Tony Stroud. Tony, this is my wife, Preethi.

Delighted, the man slurred. He was already extremely drunk.

She smiled into his eyes, as the caller said, This is the Carolina Quickstep! and the accordion, suddenly loud now she was inside, blasted through her, as she stepped towards Tony.

Are you having a nice time?

He did not hear, and put his hand to his ear. Simon had moved away from them both, towards his senior management men in the corner. She slipped to the side of Tony, and as she did, she noticed he seemed tremulous, and she put her hand lightly on his back and guided him away from the dancers, who had formed two circles and were walking in a large formation, their hands linked crosswise with their partners, women in the inner circle, men in the outer.

What am I to do now, she thought. She looked about and saw Emma standing nearby, a fixed grin on her face. Preethi smiled at her, but Emma looked through her, turning away. Next to her, his back turned, was a man Preethi knew. Preethi realised suddenly who it was. Prince Myshkin Freddie. She could not countenance his presence, understand even. She circled the hall, stood at the furthest point away from him.

She watched Emma watch the younger girls striding through the arches made by the lead dancers, swirling their hips. Preethi let her eyes film over, and she heard the music and saw the dancers as if they were a murky dream. The colours were the blacks and greys and blues of denim and what she wanted to see were the rainbow colours of fairies, washed through with rain. She turned away from the dance and walked outside again. She remembered Emmas flawlessly made-up face at Christmas and how, when she talked to Simon, her small tongue poked through her teeth, so that the tip rested on her lower lip, and Preethi had to look away from the feeling of seeing something intimate.

Simon liked Emma, she thought. Preethi imagined them in congruence, floating in a balance of sex, a salsa of lovemaking. She imagined his too large feet and darkly haired legs supporting a laughing Emma, her head thrown back, the tip of her childish tongue peeping through her lips, and Preethi shuddered: in its truth, this tip became pornographic, dreadful, and she stood in the dark, and watched them, Simon and Emma, watched their eyes meet. She smiled. She laughed at the ridiculousness of it. The music of the last dance ended and people whooped and some laughed, and everyone clapped, outside and in. As she turned to walk out of the hall, more side doors were thrust open, and she glimpsed Emma walking away with Gary, her boyfriend, his kind face leaning into hers, his hand placed loosely around her shoulders. Once, Simon held Preethi in the same way, his arm about her shoulders, no space between them, as if the curves of their sides had melted.

She walked towards Freddie. It was an impulse, but she walked to his side and said, Hello, Freddie.