The First of August

 

The First of August

(The catalyst for the love between a Muslim and a Hindu)

 

 

 

“Oh, my God!” she said, putting her hands up to her face, “of course.”

 

She had been sitting on the bench seat near the church entrance, gazing into the distance, unnoticed by her daughter who was drawing the church gate.

 

“What is it, Mummy? Are you OK?”

 

“Sorry, darling. Yes, I’m fine. I’ve just realised that it’s ten years ago today that I first came here.

 

She knew it was the 1^st of August today but, as she had sat remembering that first visit, it dawned on her that it had been the 1^st of August way back then. 1^st of August’s had come to be significant to her over the years which is why that one, ten years earlier, easily came to mind. She remembered it had been the year before she got married, which made it 2013.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, it was such a lovely day then. The weather was just like this, and my friend, a sweet old man, brought me here for a surprise.”

 

“Was he like that old man, Mummy?”

 

“I’ve told you not to point at people like that!” she replied, but couldn’t hide a giggle as a wrinkled old man appeared down the lane, shuffling along, stooped over his walking-stick.

 

“No, not that old, but old to me. He was almost twice my age then. It was the day after my thirty-second birthday.”

 

“What was his name?”

 

“I can’t tell you, darling, that’s just something for me.”

 

“Well, are you going to talk about him?”

 

“Yes, I’d like to.”

 

“That’s good, but we can’t just keep saying ‘sweet old man’, can we?”

 

“I suppose we can’t.”

 

“What about the initials S..O..M?”

 

“Sweet Old Man. I see. Som, no, that doesn’t sound very good, does it?”

 

“Was he a dear old man, then?”

 

“Yes, he was.”

 

“Well D..O..M then. Dom, we have a Dom in our class, and he’s the oldest of all of us.”

 

“OK, Dom sounds good!” she said, laughing at the logic of her six-year old’s mind.

 

“Where is Dom now, Mummy?”

 

“He’s dead. He died not long after we came here, in fact,” she replied, turning away to hide a tear from her daughter.

 

“Did you love him, Mummy?”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“Like the way you love me and Daddy?”

 

“No, but we have different types of love for things, don’t we? You don’t love cake the same way that you love me, do you?”

 

“No, you’re right. I love cake a lot more than you, Mummy!”

 

“You cheeky monkey!”

 

They sat laughing together in each other’s arms.

 

“Did Dom love you, Mummy?”

 

“Yes, I think he did.”

 

“Like cake, or Daddy?”

 

“A bit more than cake, but not like the way Daddy loves me,” she replied, wondering what her daughter had actually meant and whether she understood what adult love could mean.

 

“He made me feel good, and gave me confidence by saying how beautiful I was.”

 

“You must have been, because you are now, and I’ve heard some of the Mums at school saying how good you look.”

 

She was very good looking, with the beauty of the girls and woman that her region of Eastern India was renowned for. The Old Man would have to have been blind not to see that, and he always reminded her of it whenever she was down. What he could also see that those not willing to look for was her inner beauty that enabled her to reach into other’s souls. That was the big attraction for the Old Man, and had asked her once if the Muslim that she was engaged to also appreciated that. She had told the Old Man not to generalise about religions, and that her Muslim loved that part of her more than anyone.

 

“So, why did Dom bring you here?”

 

“I was working in London then, and the sweet old, sorry, Dom used to drive me up there, or back to the office near where we live now, whenever he could. There was a problem on the motorway that day and he took a detour through the New Forest, and when we turned into this narrow road that we just came along, it was as much a mystery to him as it was a surprise for me. He had passed the sign to the church many times, but that was his first visit here to see Florence Nightingale’s grave.”

 

“I think I’ll draw her grave when I’ve finished the gate.”

 

“OK. Let me have a look at what you’ve done so far”, reaching for her daughter’s sketchbook. “You know, that really is very good, darling.”

 

The teachers at school had been right, her daughter had a real talent for drawing, and she encouraged her to make the most of it. She kept plenty of sketch pads and pencils around the house and always kept a pad in the car and in her handbag.

 

“That day I sat here with Dom, he had brought along a folder of some of his old drawings and paintings, but they were of boy’s stuff like football and rugby. He thought his other sketchbook was in the folder with the drawings of people he had told me about, ones he wanted to turn into complete pictures, and that’s what I was hoping to see, but they weren’t. I doubt if he had time to finish any of them. So, if you start a picture, sweetheart, or have an idea for one, you must finish it, even if you don’t like it afterwards, because you might not get the chance again.”

 

“I understand, Mummy,” looking up at her, “is that a tear?”

 

“Just a small one. I tell you what. Shall we do some exploring?”

 

“Yes, please. That sounds exciting!”

 

“We’ll come back here another time so that you can draw the grave, but we’ll go and find a road.”

 

“A road? What road, Mummy?”

 

“One that Dom took me along that day.”

 

“Great! Let’s go!”

 

They drove away from St. Margaret’s church along the narrow road and were soon heading somewhere, she wasn’t sure where, but she would know it when they got there.

 

“I’m sure I can find it, darling, but we might take a few wrong turns!”

 

“I don’t mind, but I’m getting hungry.”

 

“OK, we’ll find something soon.”

 

Before long they were at a T-junction.

 

“I think it’s left here but I’m not sure.”

 

After a few hundred yards, she said, “No, this doesn’t feel right. Let’s turn round.”

 

They got back to the junction and she saw a left-hand turn just after it.

 

“Yes, this is it. It was a right and quick left. I remember now.”

 

She was right, as they were soon approaching the bridge over the river.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, this is definitely it. Dom said he always used to look to the right at the river here, but it’s just as beautiful on both sides. Look, there’s a tea-room. Shall we stop here?”

 

“Yes, this looks great!”

 

“Let’s sit at that table near the fence by the river. Would you like some cake, darling?”

 

“Oh, yes please! Do they sell Mummy cake here?”

 

“What’s Mummy cake?”

 

“One that I love as much as you?”

 

They hadn’t laughed as much as they had today for a long time. When they had finished their cake they stood and leant on the fence and looked at the river. Further up, it was a clear fast-moving chalk stream, but here it was wide, and today appeared to be hardly moving. Summer weed had flecked the surface with green.

 

“The river is called the River Test. Dom said it was his favourite, but hadn’t ever got to fish it. He probably never did.”

 

“It’s lovely here. Oh, look, there’s a swan! And some ducks over there! I can’t wait to tell my friends at school about this. Can I draw this now?”

 

“Not now, darling, but we’ll come here again with Daddy and you’ll have plenty of time to draw it then.”

 

They watched the ducks playing and the fish as they came near the surface.

 

“Will you ever be twice my age, Mummy?”

 

“Yes, one day. Shall we work out when that will be?”

 

“Yes, will it be soon.”

 

“I doubt it, let’s see. Well, I was thirty-six when you were born, so I will be twice your age when you’re thirty-six. As you’re six now, that means it will be in thirty years time, when I’ll be seventy-two. That’s scary isn’t it?”

 

Her daughter didn’t answer, but just stayed staring into the river, not understanding how her Mum could ever get to be that old.

 

“Do you know, Dom was only a year younger than my Dad, your Nanaji, was when he died. I wish Nanaji had lived to have seen you. He was such a lovely man. You’ve seen the pictures of him. Maybe Naniji will bring some more when she comes next month.”

 

She had been very close to her father, and helped him whenever she could during his long illness before he died. In fact, she had helped all her family when she started earning enough. During her teenage years she had not helped at all. All she wanted to do was stretch the boundaries and she was very successful at that. But she worked hard at school, went to university, and got a good job in banking. She supported her family financially as much as she could.

 

When she got her first transfer to England, she found a new set of boundaries that she was happy to cross. She confided in the Old Man when she crossed them with the black man, the young guy, the players at work, and others. Each time she would say, ‘Old Man, I’ve been a fucking idiot again!’ And the Old Man would say, ‘No, you’ve been an idiot fucking again!’

 

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go and find the road. It should be easy now.”

 

“No more wrong turnings then, Mummy?”

 

“No more wrong turnings,” she replied hugging her daughter to her as they walked to the car.

 

As they left the car park she saw a signpost to Stockbridge.

 

“That’s it! Stockbridge, I remember now, and the road is not far from there.”

 

They went through the picture-box village of Kings Somborne with its thatched houses and pub, and soon came to Stockbridge.

 

“I’m sure we go round here, and then round there.”

 

“What does that sign say? Yes, that’s it, the A30! This is the road, honey!”

 

“It just looks like any other road, Mummy. Why is it so special?”

 

“I suppose it’s the memories of that last day I saw Dom, really, but you might enjoy it more when we get to the top of the hill.”

 

“How did you meet Dom, Mummy?”

 

“Well, sweetheart, I’m sure it was something called serendipity, which means when an unexpected thing happens which leads you somewhere. It’s difficult to explain that properly, but maybe you’ll find out one day when it happens to you. I think it only happens to people who want it to.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“That’s a good question, and I’m not sure there’s an answer until it happens.”

 

“So what happened to you and Dom then?”

 

“Dom had brought something for one of my colleagues in the office who wasn’t at his desk so he left it with me to give him. He had overheard me talking to someone else about how to get up to London on Friday after work. He told me he would be driving up there and offered me a lift, and there I was, on that Friday, sitting next to this stranger on our way to London!”

 

“Weren’t you scared, Mummy? You always tell me to stay away from cars and people like that.”

 

“I know, honey, but when you’re older, a lot older, you’re able to take more chances, and I just felt comfortable with Dom.”

 

“What did you talk about?”

 

“He spoke nearly all the way about a story he was writing, and I really was so interested. I told him that I had studied English Literature at university and that I would make sure he got to finish his book. And we became friends over the following weeks. He needed a kick to get writing again, and I kicked him!”

 

“Didn’t you hurt him when you did that?”

 

“No, it’s just a saying. It’s like me trying to get you up for school in the mornings.”

 

The Old Man could write some very tender lines, but could also be outrageous at the same time. She had never come across anyone before who could start a poem in a Christmas card with the line ‘As the snow lay round about’ and end it with ‘We’ll fuck each others brains out!’

 

“We’re at the top of the hill now, darling. Look at that view!”

 

“It’s so lovely, Mummy! Look, the road just goes straight for ever, and all those colours in the fields! I want to draw those as well. There’s been so many things we’ve seen today that I’d like to draw. The swans and ducks on the river, those lovely houses with the straw roofs, that old church with the grave. We’ll have to come back more than once, Mummy!”

 

“I think we will, in fact, I know we will now, after today.”

 

“When Dom drove me down here I almost forgot about Daddy. My mind was in a different place.”

 

“Where was it then, in your leg, or your handbag?”

 

She laughed out loud at the innocence of her child’s not unreasonable question.

 

“No, darling. Those views of the fields made me feel as if I wanted to marry a farmer, instead of Daddy, and breeding horses on the farm.”

 

What the views also did to her was to make her question why she and her colleagues were burning themselves out, chasing the dollar. How much money did they really need? Sure, she knew everyone needed money, but what were they missing? The countryside like this, for one thing. She also questioned her desire for wardrobes full of clothes. Surely, she could appreciate those fields, that journey, that grave in the churchyard, wearing just an old pair of jeans. Would Florence Nightingale have worried about her clothes when she was up to her armpits with the blood and guts from the battlefield? Of course not, and probably not when she was at home in Wellow, either.

 

“I’d love to have horses. Do you think we ever will?”

 

“Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll be able to.”

 

“Anyway, I’m glad I married your Daddy, because without him there wouldn’t be you, would there?”

 

Her daughter didn’t answer because she was fast asleep now, maybe dreaming of horses. It had been a long day for her. The long straight road came to an end at a roundabout, so she turned round and began to re-trace the route home home. She thought again of that last time, the first time she had travelled this road. A couple of days earlier she had told the Old Man about the Irishman. ‘An idiot fucking again?’ ‘Yes, why do I do it?’ The Irishman had phoned her as they reached the end of that road, hoping to meet up with her when she got to London. The Old Man suggested that the three of them have a drink in Wilton’s, and the Irishman was happy to do that.

 

From then until they reached London she had got more and more excited, texting and calling, worrying about her clothes again, despite her earlier thoughts, and how her face looked. She looked as beautiful as usual, but it still wasn’t good enough for her. By the time they got to the bar she was like a dog on heat.

 

At the bar in east London, the Old Man got up to leave them, but she walked with him to where he was parked and hugged him closer and for longer than she had ever done before as they said their farewells, and that was the last time she ever saw him.

 

But she knew, after what he had said to her during that last drive, that even though she would probably be ‘an idiot fucking’ again with the Irishman that night, the one who she wanted to marry and spend the rest of her life with, was the Muslim, and he would be in England soon.

 

The End