Read Online Losing Touch by Sandra Hunter - Free Book Online

faintly unacceptable… He has struggled so hard to blend in and now he is a focal point. He shifts his weight, gingerly trying out his right leg. Please let the leg be all right. And, suddenly, it is. He is free to step back onto the path.
    Murad and Sadiq round the corner and stop in front of him.
    â€˜Oh. There you are. I was just coming to find you.’ Arjun tries to speak normally over the dissipating embarrassment.
    â€˜Uncle, look at your shoes! You won’t get any chocolate biscuits for tea.’ Sadiq’s round eyes. Murad’s snort.
    â€˜Someone stood in front of me. Huge fellow. I had to step off the path to avoid being trampled on.’ It is meant to be funny: Arjun as a bewildered Buster Keaton figure, the others as the bumbling Keystone Cops. Jonti would have known how to make it into a joke. Arjun clears his throat.
    â€˜So, Sadiq. Did you like the signal box? Did you run any of the trains?’
    â€˜Only the signalman can perform operations,’ Murad says.
    â€˜But we saw everything , didn’t we, Murad? And the man—’
    â€˜â€”the signalman —’
    â€˜Yes, him. He said we could come and work there.’ Sadiq beams. ‘I’m going to pass all my exams and then I can build a new track through a mountain. I’m going to make the mountain as well.’
    Arjun buys cream cakes for the boys. Sadiq has lemonade and Murad has tea. Murad takes huge bites of the cake, chewing and swallowing as though the cake is something shameful to be dealt with as efficiently as possible. Sadiq pokes out fingerfuls of cream as he continues to outline his plan for a mountain, a forest and a family of three-toed sloths that he’s been reading about. Arjun sips his tea, grateful for the warmth of the thick china mug. How to get Murad, his son with fifteen O-levels, to talk?
    â€˜Ah, how are your studies going?’
    Murad, finishing his cake, makes a strange gulping noise.
    Arjun tries again. ‘Do you like any of your classes?’
    Shrug.
    A pattern of cracks in the white mug’s glazing leads the eye through a maze to blank whiteness. ‘Do they have woodwork?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜I’m doing woodwork next year, Uncle. I’m going to make Mum a cheeseboard.’
    â€˜Very nice, Sadiq.’ Arjun tries to keep Murad talking. ‘Maths?’ He keeps his voice strictly neutral as he turns the mug. Another maze appears on the mug and just as abruptly stops.
    â€˜I love maths. Do you love maths, Murad?’ Sadiq swings his legs and sucks at the lemonade.
    The next pause is a long one. Finally, Murad relents. ‘Maths. Chemistry. And biology. Biochemistry.’
    What on earth is biochemistry? It sounds dangerous.
    Murad studies his empty plate. ‘It’s the study of chemical processes in living organisms. It’s new. Our chemistry teacher, Mr Randall, told us about it. He’s one of the pioneers.’ Something softens in Murad’s face. ‘Two separate sciences, but they’re connected.’ He softly repeats the word. ‘Connected.’ An old Murad-habit of iteration, to hear again how the words sound.
    â€˜Can you blow things up? I can’t wait to do chemistry. It’s called “stinks”.’
    â€˜Sadiq. You should call it “chemistry”.’ Arjun tries for propriety.
    â€˜And biology is called “bilge”.’ Sadiq yawns. ‘Can I go to the toilet?’
    Arjun takes Sadiq to the gents, offers to stay with him and is loftily waved away.
    Back at the table, he decides to risk a question. ‘Is this biochemistry offered at any university?’
    â€˜Mr Randall says Cambridge.’ Murad says this in a way that indicates he understands Cambridge is some impossibly distant country where he will not go. ‘But there are others. Cardiff, Sussex, Leicester.’
    â€˜Three A-levels. That’s the usual load, isn’t