Free Black Bread White Beer by Niven Govinden Page A

onlookers.
    Amal too looks at the door in the direction of the kitchen and wills the intrusion of feminine company, the opposite of his desires at home. He kids himself that it is in Claud’s best interests; to rescue her from Liz’s pregnancy talk. Comparing notes on a baby that does not exist. But there is something that holds him back, stops him from getting up and joining them at the breakfast bar, whether under the pretext of refilling the coffee cup or looking for biscuits. He is relieved not to have to hear her lying about the supposed bump growing inside her. Thankful he does not have to be party to her fake optimism. His sanguinity is hard enough to maintain, here, in this casual setting that still feels like an extended interview, three years after the main event.
    He never wants that specific tone to reach his ears, her fraudulent hopefulness, because he knows that he will always be looking out for it from then on. Mulling over every aspect of their marriage and reliving the moments when she talked to him in the same way, from reworking a route after the SatNav went bust, to nights in bed when they wanted to try new things before conception bogged them down and made them weary, humping machines, well-dressed sperm and egg-holders.
    Forcing themselves to pretend to Liz and Sam is a oneoff. It has to be. Once things return to normal there will be no other reason to lie.
    Sam nods towards the leaflet, expecting more praiseabout the thick card, better suited to an invitation than a flyer handed out during market day. Bloody awful. Calligraphy-font gilt edging, with an art direction that lends itself better to an advertisement for curtain makers. The Frenchman must have seen him coming.
    He knows what comes next, strains of pondering aloud that will rope him into being a glorified paperboy. Spending the afternoon with Sam on the Green, taking advantage of the numbers drawn by the Herald of Spring fair, with its stalls and tombola and mini bouncy castle. Supper will be sung for, and he will be made to campaign hard before transplanting the fight over to Richmond, bending the ears of every affluently conscious juicer and latte sipper, where every sentence ends with ‘not on my doorstep’.
    He resists the dogsbody role at every opportunity, but knows this is all part of the son-in-law’s contract, to act the servile, agreeable chaiwalla. Whilst other men, those English Lionhearts that chased Claud so persistently in her teens and early twenties, would have embraced the role, he wonders what it is that makes him resist – the rebelliousness in his own nature, or the taken-for-granted way that Sam speaks to him, like a more arrogant Puppa, as if there are no options but his.
    â€˜Don’t you want to get started on the washing machine? I heard it was urgent.’
    â€˜Sit down, mate. There’s plenty of time for that. Liz’s getting a spread sorted. We’ll have a bash at it afterwards. You’re always in such a hurry, Amal.’
    â€˜Am I?’
    â€˜You are. Being industrious is in your DNA I suppose. You can’t build an Empire without it.’
    â€˜Rebuild an Empire, you mean.’
    â€˜I was just making an observation, not getting political.’
    He cannot be angry when Sam has his hands raised in surrender, sheepish at the slip of his tongue; though the underlying aura is one of satisfaction, as if his father-inlaw is secretly pleased with himself for speaking his mind. No different to the intent of the leaflets: rant now, apologize later.
    Every weekend visit encompasses much of the same. Last Saturday, he was grilled over his thoughts on education, whether the schools in Richmond could compete with the combination of high academic standards and pastoral care offered by the triumvirate of prep schools in the surrounding villages; the assumption being that Sussex was the only viable place to bring up a child. Now the focus is on the safety of the environment,