Sylvia Garland's Broken Heart (34 page)

Smita had a sudden flashback to Alisha sitting crouched at the edge of the swimming pool, whining about Anand and Smita to her mother on her pink mobile phone. Of course; Anand had a mobile now too. Smita had given it to him as a security thing when he started school. But because she was worried about the health implications, she had forbidden him ever to use it except in an emergency. He had actually never called her on it although she had once or twice, for fun, called him. Fumbling in her agitation, she called Anand’s number but it rang and rang with no answer. She knew it was charged and switched on because she had thought to check it before sending him off with Jeremy in the morning. So why didn’t the child answer? Had Sylvia, who disapproved of mobiles, confiscated his phone? Or was there some other sinister reason why he couldn’t talk to her?

Desperately, Smita called Jeremy’s number again. Of course this nightmare was all
his
fault. He had tricked her; he had told her
he
would be spending the day with Anand, he had never said a word about his mother. Smita knew that somehow or other Anand still saw a good deal of his
other grandmother, on days when he was supposed to be with his father but his father was too busy. When she was in the US, she knew that Anand sometimes spent whole days with Sylvia which she resented intensely but arguing with Jeremy about it was so unbelievably aggravating that sometimes she just couldn’t be bothered.

Smita believed Jeremy had a blind spot where his mother was concerned. It was perfectly obvious to anyone who had spent as much time with the two of them as Smita had that Sylvia did not have natural maternal feelings for her son. Smita had realised that much long ago. It was doubtless part of the reason Sylvia so ridiculously over-compensated with Anand. Not that she could ever make up for the wrong she had done to Jeremy. But Jeremy had some sort of deep-seated hang-up about his mother. Despite all the self-pitying stories he had told Smita over the years about his lonely childhood and his distant party-going mother, in some inexplicable stubborn way, he still had her on a pedestal. When he and Smita argued about Sylvia, he would always defend her. It was sick, Smita had often thought angrily, it was simply sick to be so loyal to someone who had treated you so badly.

Two things had made it incredibly much worse of course: Roger’s death and the arrival of Anand. Once Sylvia became a widow, Jeremy’s sense of duty knew no bounds. Whatever Sylvia wanted, Sylvia got, whatever the cost to Smita, to Jeremy and, ultimately, to their marriage. Smita had raged about it often enough but got nowhere; Jeremy would dig his heels in, go all quiet and long-suffering and do exactly what Sylvia demanded. And then
Anand had become the battleground. To Smita’s disgust, Jeremy seemed to share Sylvia’s delusion that she could make up for her past failings as a mother by becoming a wonderful grandmother. Well, that was bullshit. On this Smita and her mother agreed absolutely; Sylvia’s child-rearing methods were simply crazy. And now, sitting in the taxi, on the verge of throwing up from sheer nervous tension, Smita had this one small satisfaction; they had been right.

She checked her watch for the hundredth time. Should she call her mother? Would she have, through her vast network of Gujarati connections, some contact at Air India, somebody at Heathrow who might be able to help? No, she didn’t want her drama broadcast to the entire extended family. Besides her mother might have a heart attack, her mother who loved Anand selflessly, who would never ever in a million years do what Sylvia had done.

Smita suddenly remembered the day Anand was born, the glow of happiness briefly darkened by Sylvia’s visit with her bizarre gift: that weird, unsafe mobile with all the dancing Indian figures. It was like the moment in the fairy tale when the wicked fairy appears at the cradle with her poisonous blessing. It had been a clue to all the wickedness which was to follow, all the wickedness which had come to such a hideous climax today.

The taxi plunged into the nasty orange Heathrow approach tunnel and Smita checked her watch again: ten past four. She had almost two hours ahead of her to rescue Anand. Please, please let it be enough. She gripped the armrest and leant forward, getting ready to race from the
taxi the minute it stopped. She was in such a state she could hardly get the fare out of her wallet. It cost a bomb but she didn’t care.

Before the taxi had even come to a halt, she had her seatbelt off and was pushing at the door handle, urging the driver to release it. She leapt out and thrust her wad of ten pound notes at him through the window. Thank God she had happened to go to a cashpoint that very morning.

Inside the terminal, she frantically scanned the indicator boards near the entrance; Air India seemed to have dozens of check-in desks. She noted the range of numbers and began to run towards them.

Of course there were massive queues at the check-in desks, massive chaotic queues with ridiculous amounts of luggage. Smita pushed forward through them, repeating mechanically, “Excuse me, emergency, emergency, excuse me.” People meekly let her through, no-one objected and she reached a desk where a sulky-looking girl was checking in an elderly couple with enough luggage for a huge family. Smita interrupted them. “Sorry. Sorry. My name’s Smita Mehta. I’m here about my
son
. I don’t know who I need to talk to?”

The girl’s sulky face lit up. She stood up and called out, “She’s here. The mum’s here.”

All up and down the row of check-in desks, the counter staff raised their heads and looked eagerly at Smita. Hot with embarrassment, Smita understood that she was the excitement of the day; the mother of the would-be kidnapping victim.

“I’ll call my supervisor,” the check-in girl said busily to Smita and, to the elderly couple, “Wait just a moment.”

The supervisor came over briskly, a short plump woman squeezed into a too-tight uniform. She turned out to be the owner of the officious voice on the phone and she said bossily to Smita, “Please come with me quickly.”

“I came as fast as I could,” Smita said defensively, annoyed that she seemed to be somehow at fault here.

The woman threw her a sideways look as she led her away from the crowds at the check-in counter. Smita knew that look; it said, “Bad Mother” and it made her livid.

Showing a staff pass, the woman led her through some anonymous double doors into a drab part of the airport which was obviously not open to the public.

“Your ex-husband is already here,” she announced smugly. “He came by Tube.”

Smita exclaimed. “How come?”

“We called him,” the woman answered coolly. “Both numbers were in the child’s passport and, to be on the safe side, my colleague and I called both.”

Smita calculated quickly: Jeremy had been summoned, so he hadn’t been here all along, he wasn’t part of the conspiracy. But that didn’t excuse him;
he
had been supposed to be spending the day with Anand, not palming him off on his mother behind her back. If he had done what he was meant to, none of this would have happened. This time she was literally going to kill him. And how
typical
, how absolutely bloody typical of him – even in the direst emergency – to take the Tube. He was so
mean
and always accusing
her
of extravagance too. He had wanted
to send Anand to the local state primary. He said it would be good for him to mix with a range of different children. Well, she didn’t
want
him to mix with a range of different children, thank you very much. She had heard the horror stories. If Anand’s father was too mean to pay for him to go to a good school, she could perfectly well do it herself, thank God, out of her own pocket.

Abruptly she asked the woman, “How come my ex-mother-in-law even
has
my son’s passport?”

The woman shrugged.

Struggling to control her anger so as not to lose face, Smita asked the woman, “Where are they now?”

To her horror, the woman answered, “We don’t know exactly. They are somewhere airside, waiting for their flight to be called.”

“But someone needs to stop them,” Smita exclaimed. “I’m telling you; that woman is dangerous.”

“There is a procedure,” the woman replied, incredibly patronisingly, Smita thought. She surprised herself by thinking sharply, ‘I suppose you say that to your husband in bed, do you?’

“We know from experience,” the woman went on, “that if people become alerted to the fact that we are after them while they are still at large in the airport, there is a risk that they will flee. We normally intercept them at the departure gate.”

Smita felt the urge to hold Anand in her arms so powerfully that she was ready to cry. “So where are we going?” she asked desperately. “Where are you taking me?”

“Aviation Security,” the woman answered smartly. “Your ex-husband is waiting there.”

That was enough for Smita to pull herself together; she had to be on top of this.

The woman led her to an unmarked white door in an unmarked white corridor, somewhere – it seemed to Smita – in the middle of a labyrinth. She knocked officiously and waited for the door to be opened. A woman in uniform, something like a policewoman but not quite a policewoman, answered the door. When she saw Smita, she said, “Oh good” but in a neutral business-like way, without smiling. She opened the door for Smita to come in and thanked the Air India woman. Smita knew she should thank her too – the woman was standing waiting for Smita’s thanks, she was the important person who had averted disaster – but Smita decided to snub her and went straight inside without saying anything.

Jeremy was sitting there, looking sick. When he saw Smita, he flushed deep red and she saw him stiffen for the onslaught. There would have been an onslaught too, worse than anything she had ever put him through before, but of course with the policewoman standing there and a policeman – or someone like a policeman – sitting at a desk in front of Jeremy, Smita had to control herself and make do with throwing Jeremy the nastiest look she could manage. She was pleased to see him flinch.

“We need to ask you a few questions Mrs Garland,” the policeman said.

Smita snapped, “My name is Mehta, Smita Mehta. I’m
not Mrs Garland.” She didn’t look at Jeremy but she thought she sensed him cringing.

The policeman seemed unconcerned by his mistake. He continued monotonously, “First of all, would you please confirm your relationship to Anand Garland?”

“For God’s sake!” Smita exploded. “I’m his
mother
.”

Unruffled by Smita’s reaction, the policeman continued, “Do you have any ID?”

Smita nearly erupted again and it didn’t help that Jeremy said in a low voice, “I had to go through the same thing” as if Smita was being irrational and hysterical.

She threw him another vicious look, took her wallet out of her handbag and smacked it down on the desk in front of the policeman. “Take a look. Everything’s in there.”

He went through her wallet calmly, took down the details of her driving licence and handed the wallet back to her. “Would you please confirm your relationship to Mrs Sylvia Garland?”

Smita burst out, “I don’t
have
a relationship with Sylvia Garland. She used to be my mother-in-law.”

“So,” the policeman said doggedly. “She is Anand’s grandmother?”

Smita snapped, “Obviously.”

It seemed to Smita the policeman and the policewoman, who was standing next to Smita, exchanged glances.

“Listen,” Smita said desperately. “The flight leaves in less than an hour and a half. Why are you wasting time asking me all these pointless questions instead of going after them and rescuing my little boy?”

“We’ll intercept them at the departure gate,” the policeman said woodenly. “Don’t worry. We just need to make sure we have things absolutely straight first.”

“But you
have
,” Smita implored him. “You have. There’s no grey area here; she’s kidnapping him.”

“So my next question is this,” the policeman said calmly. “Do you want to press charges?”

Smita said, “Yes.”

Jeremy, surprisingly loudly and firmly, said, “No.”

They looked at each other.

“No,” Jeremy repeated loudly. Smita could see he was perspiring.

Smita turned away from him. “
I
will certainly want to press charges,” she said, “so can we please keep that option open?”

From beside her, the policewoman spoke up unexpectedly. “Will we be arresting Mrs Garland at the gate or just bringing her quietly back here together with your little boy?”

Jeremy said furiously, “You are not to arrest my mother.” And then, “Smita, please, why are you doing this? Think of the effect on Anand.”

“Think of the effect on Anand of what your mother’s done already,” Smita snapped. She sat back in her chair. “Fine. Just bring them back here first and then we can decide. When I see what sort of a state Anand is in.”

After a few more infuriating questions, the police pair went out and Smita and Jeremy were left on their own.

Jeremy said, “Look Smi, I’m sorry.”

Smita rounded on him. “I bet you’re bloody sorry. But
not as sorry as you’re going to be by the time I’m through with this. How
dare
you dump him at your mother’s without telling me? I know you’ve done it before, probably loads of times, thinking you could get away with it. Well, not any more. Neither of you is ever going to be allowed anywhere near Anand again.”

Jeremy said, “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me,” Smita snapped. She turned her back on Jeremy and glared at the wall.

After a couple of minutes, Jeremy said, “I think she did this because she’s so upset about your taking him to America. She thinks she won’t ever get to see him again.”

“Well, she won’t ever get to see him again
now
,” Smita answered “and whose fault is that?”

“America!” She went on furiously. “She’s upset about
America
? What about taking a five-year-old child to
India
? He hasn’t had any vaccinations, has he, she probably hasn’t got malaria tablets either, she’s
endangering
him. I don’t care what pathetic excuses you come up with; the minute I get him back, I’m calling my solicitor and I’m going to make bloody sure neither of you can get anywhere near him ever again.”