Free Losing Touch by Sandra Hunter Page A

All of you.’
    The bus halts, the driver craning over his shoulder as the family tumbles off. Arjun sees the boy scanning the bus. He stands there, sneering, in his red-and-black bell-bottom jeans and orange flowered shirt, the halo of frizzy hair sticking up everywhere. Probably doesn’t brush his teeth either. The mother slams her hand into the side of the bus as it drives off. The passengers tut to each other. Arjun is relieved; at least she isn’t Indian. The other people on the bus must see that he isn’t from the West Indies. He is sitting quietly, fare paid, with his quiet daughter who now turns to him with a wide smile.
    â€˜Did you see them?’
    Arjun clears his throat. ‘When you are in public places, you must behave appropriately.’
    â€˜They were funny .’
    â€˜They were not funny.’ His voice is low. ‘They were rude and the bus conductor was right to throw them off.’
    Tarani’s voice is too loud. ‘But the bus conductor was rude to them . He kept saying they had to pay full fare.’
    â€˜Two of the children were obviously teenagers.’
    â€˜How do you know ? What if they weren’t?’
    He laughs his false laugh, the one he uses when he doesn’t have an answer. How can he explain the muscular build of the two boys, their cocky adolescent behaviour? He hesitates: but what if she’s right? He glances around, pretending to look up at the advertisements next to the bell cord. There is a smell of righteousness in the air. Here and there people speak up: ‘You were right, Freddie. You don’t want to stand for that nonsense.’Freddie busies himself with collecting fares.
    Arjun, too, would like to say something, but what if he is seen as one of them ? Some people don’t see the difference between West Indians and Indians. How ignorant the British are, as Jonti would say.
    Tarani has turned back to the window. ‘The conductor was wrong. ’
    â€˜He was doing his job. Those people were—’
    She whips around to face him. ‘There are boys like that at school. They’re younger than me but they just look older.’
    He is stunned. There are black children at her school? He swallows. He must be calm. After all, this is a progressive society. Everyone mixes with everyone else.
    â€˜So, you know these boys at your school?’
    â€˜Don’t be—’ She catches herself. ‘I’m not friends with them. They’re younger .’ She stares at the long cascade of blonde hair of the girl sitting in front. ‘They’re always in trouble. But Janice, she’s West Indian. She says everyone expects them to get in trouble. So.’ She turns away as though everything is now clear.
    Tarani has a black friend? He clears his throat again. ‘So, your friend, Janice?’
    â€˜It’s our stop.’ She stands up and pulls the cord.
    By the time they’re off the bus and walking through the side streets to Haseena’s house, the idea of Janice has almost vanished with their cold breath, but still he tries to catch up with it. Perhaps Janice is a good student, despite her background.
    â€˜Have you and Janice been friends long?’
    â€˜She’s not my friend.’
    Beat.
    â€˜Well, she is my friend. But she’s not with my other friends. We talk sometimes. I like her. She makes me laugh.’
    So, a boisterous West Indian girl. Just as he thought. He is anxious. What if this girl introduces Tarani to reggae? He has heard terrible things about reggae and how it makes children want to take drugs. He wants to ask Tarani about drugs. Has she been offered any? Has she seen anyone taking them? He has no idea what they might look like. His medical training has taught him nothing about street drugs.
    They arrive at Haseena’s house and ring the bell. Haseena, fresh and beautiful in a simple blue and white sari, embraces Tarani. ‘You are lovelier each time I