The Cambridge Curry Club Read Free Page B

fluttery. I’d get rid of it in any language,’ Durga ventured.
    Swarnakumari was defensive. ‘We do get good things in this shop. Otherwise I would not be working here,
na
.’
    The shop items passing through Swarnakumari’s keen hands underwent a primary test of usefulness to the Chatterjee family, other volunteers at the shop and selected members of the Cambridge Indian community , after which time-consuming procedure she reluctantly considered the items for window display. A consignment of red and black porcelain mugs with
Mad Cow Mother-in-Law Disease
inscribed above the face of a scowling woman left Swarnakumari unmoved despite the magic words
Made in England
on the underside.Durga used one for coffee breaks at the shop, but the rest lay neglected on a shelf until purchased by a taciturn Bulgarian language student who was brilliant at mathematics but struggled with his English. Eileen had silently pointed to the words
Mad Cow Mother- in-Law Disease
, and he had merely nodded. The meeting of minds over mathematics never took place. It was one of those encounters bursting at the bud, like the thousands in the lifetime of an individual, that, but for chance or fate, lead nowhere.
    Heera moved forward to answer the insistent telephone . ‘IndiaNeed … Yes, Mrs Wellington-Smythe, it is Heera here … No, I’m sorry, I was a little late today because I wasn’t feeling … It was only ten minutes after ten … Yes, the shop should be opened on time, I am very sorry. Next time I’ll … Yes, it is important for the customers … Yes, they come first … No, we haven’t heard anything new about the missing items … Yes, of course I shall let you know … You’ve found a new volunteer to join us? That’s very good … Yes, goodbye.’
    She stormed back to the sorting table. ‘How many times does Lady Di need to ask me about those missing items?
Arre
, once they’re gone, they’re gone. Is the thief going to come back and say, “Here, you can have them back, I’m having a bad hair day, now please arrest me?” And making such a big fuss over my coming late this morning! I wasn’t feeling well, and I almost didn’t come at all. Everyone has his or her problems, right? And every time I answer the telephone, why does she ask me who’s speaking? Shouldn’t she recognise my voice by now?’
    A female pensioner entered as Eileen continued tocount the pieces in the cutlery boxes. Despite her record as an inspiring mathematics teacher, Eileen had been dismissed by the Village College where she was Head of the Department, as soon as she crossed her sixtieth birthday in June. A number had been the final betrayal. Her husband, a plumber, had recently discovered his body’s tendency to spring leaks of its own, and so the pipes were no longer calling ‘Danny Boy’ as he retired, driving Eileen out of their home in secret desperation.
    There had been a child once; an engaging curly-haired boy of six, struck down by a speeding van outside the school gates as Eileen watched. For days she stayed in his room, rocking back and forth on his bed, hugging his clothes close to her chest. Mathematics and the Catholic Church had provided succour, and she had plunged gratefully into the worlds of numbers and rosary beads.
    Eileen had been the shop’s first volunteer. Every Thursday, she bustled quietly, her bright eyes inquiring of the objects she constantly rearranged whether life was an endless equation. The shop items became mathematical digits to contemplate in endless combinations: she placed a bunch of yellow recycled pencils at five pence each along with elephant key chains and beaded pens and colourful Rajasthani cloth puppets and McDonald’s Happy Meal toys in a wicker tray near the till, returning almost immediately to remove the pens and look anew at the configuration.
    Heera continued to fold the clothing in silence. She had been appointed the manager of IndiaNeed ten days after her seventeenth wedding anniversary, and