Free Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach Page A

I’ll be very careful.’
    â€˜Mmm. Ouch! It’s a bit tender there.’
    Suddenly he wanted her so much. Now he should not touch her, his blood rose. She was so feminine, shrinking like this. He would take care of her: his hurt, burning girl. He laid his careful hands on her face.
    Afterwards she went to sleep. He leant over and switched on the World Service, softly. She shifted away from him, hunched up. So reckless when awake, during sleep she covered herself with her hands, pressing them against her little pointed breasts. He felt as sad as he usually did; only he had been moved.
Radio Newsreel
began, with its massed bands. Oompah, it went – the tune was called ‘Imperial Echoes’. Beside him Christine stirred and hunched herself up more tightly. He lay there, damp and wistful.
    Usually he presumed that it was himself who was barren. But sometimes he thought: had she ceased being fertile when she had called herself Chris? Her new opinions had made her criticize him and explain away the mysteries. Nowadays he could not reach her. More deft, her lovemaking, but no longer innocent. When she cried out it was not for him; it was for herself and, it seemed, for womankind.
    Oompah, oompah.
Outside in the street a car hooted. When people returned from work they sounded their horn to get the chowkidar to open the gates.
    Christine sat up.
    â€˜What’s the time?’
    He told her.
    â€˜Must get dressed. I’m taking Mohammed out.’ She climbed off the bed and switched on the light.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜And his wife. We’re going to the doctor.’
    â€˜Are they ill?’
    â€˜We’re going to Dr Farooq to get her fitted up.’
    Christine was rummaging in the wardrobe. She was naked; for the first time he saw her sunburn, a pink square between the shoulder-blades.
    â€˜I had a long conversation with him this morning. You see, he’s got four children already. He doesn’t want any more.’ Her voice grew muffled as she rummaged. ‘He seemed never to have heard of birth control. I read somewhere that the doctors give them condoms and they give them to their children for balloons.’ Deep in the wardrobe she mumbled: ‘Seems his problem’s rather the opposite of ours.’ From the back, her pink patch looked inflamed, as if it blushed.
    Donald remained on the bed. Then he thought: and I haven’t even told her about Mrs Gracie.

10
    The first time that Mohammed, with his baskets, has accompanied memsahib Manley to the bazaar, she opens front door of the car and indicates him to step in. Front door, not back. This has put him in some confusion. This has not, of course, been the custom of memsahib Smythe; this has not been the custom of any memsahib. Mohammed is sorry to see memsahib Smythe quit his country. She is fine lady, always spick and span, he has been proud to accompany her around the Empress Market. The vegetable-wallahs treat her with respect, with her fine outfits and voice that carries far. Mohammed himself, of course, has been treated with a corresponding respect not only by food-wallahs but by the other drivers and bearers of his acquaintance, even those who serve the diplomatic. Memsahib Smythe has the highest standards, turning the mangoes in her hands, rejecting those that are being inferior and demanding the lowest price. If still unsatisfied she moves to adjacent stall. She is seldom unsatisfied however for soon the food-wallahs learn that she only expects the best and accordingly keep for her their choicest fruits. Mohammed has been feeling personally their approbation.
    Memsahib Manley, she is a very different kettle of fishes. For one point, there is her garments. Upon her feet she wears the common chappals, costing only three rupees and worn by the humblest coolie. But it is the upper portions which disturb. Upon them she wears garments suitable for beggarladies or else, more inflaming, more offending, the most