Read Online Losing Touch by Sandra Hunter - Free Book Online Page B

everything that doesn’t immediately concern him. Obviously, good manners are no longer necessary.
    These days, Murad only has time for his bodybuilding. Arjun has heard the painful squeaking of springs behind Murad’s door and once saw the chest expander protruding from under the bed. Murad is making himself into a different person, one who will never have sand kicked in his face providing he actually makes it to a beach.
    Sunila tells Tarani to ignore Murad’s teasing, but she can’t. Her face crumples each time her brother jeers at her. Arjun feels the word-hooks, feels the bleeding below the skin, tries to think of something to say that will heal her. But she has no time for him either. He is also the enemy. She narrows her shoulders against him, squeezes herself inwards so that no one can reach her. She is gradually turning concave. He wants to tell her to stand upright, to push her shoulders back. He has tried to get her to play squash. It would boost her confidence. But she refuses, says it’s too hard.
    Tarani comes clumping downstairs disguised as a chameleon: green skirt with an Indian design of elephants and a neon-pink t-shirt under a dull-orange hand-knitted sweater that Sunila gave her two Christmases ago, never worn until now. She lifts her chin, waiting for his disapproval, waiting for him to send her upstairs to change again. But Arjun doesn’t want to see what alternatives she can find.
    He clears his throat. ‘That’s a nice skirt. Did Pavitra Aunty give you?’
    â€˜Haseena Aunty.’ The voice is packed with cold anger. And there’s something else, too: the agony of being small and unattractive. His heart contracts for her. She will walk out of the house looking like a carnival clown purely to show him. Her black stockings sag around the knees and ankles. Her shoes, school lace-ups, are unpolished.
    â€˜Come. Sit down.’ His voice is gentle, and he sees her glance at him. He motions to the stairs and she sits, waiting for him to say something. He rummages under the stairs for the bag of shoe polish that only he uses.
    He lays out the black Kiwi wax, brush and soft cloth and, beginning with the left shoe, uses a brush to apply the polish. He balances her foot on his bent knee as he brushes and buffs the leather until it gleams dully. Tarani, thin hands grasped together, looks down at her newly polished shoe.
    â€˜See what a little effort can do?’ He polishes her other shoe, ties her shoelaces, collects the brush, polish and cloth and puts the bag away. ‘If you do this your shoes will always look nice.’
    She is still sitting on the stairs staring up at him, as though he’s just told her a secret. Her eyes are large and slightly scared. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
    â€˜All right. Let’s go.’ Underneath all the sulky resentment and rude behaviour is fear ? Why? He’s always loved her so dearly. What has made her afraid?
    She pulls on the heavy, hairy camel-coloured coat that makes her look, as Murad says, like a yeti. At least she will be warm. He wraps his wool scarf around his neck and pulls on his thick parka and lined leather gloves.
    The morning is flint-edged, sun sparkling off the frost on the pavement, hedges and trees. Clouds of their warm breath pulse ahead as they walk to catch the bus. Tarani glances down at her shoes. Sometimes, she kicks one foot out a little further, just to see the polished leather, pretending that she’s kicking the last of the dead black leaves iced onto the pavement. He can’t remember when he did anything that made her so happy. Halfway across the field they spot the bus coming along the Uxbridge Road and race to the bus stop. Tarani giggles as she runs. By the time they climb aboard, he is laughing, too.
    He pays their bus fare and she looks at him.
    â€˜Well, you’re getting fast.’ He hands her a bus ticket.
    â€˜I’m not that fast.’
    â€˜I used to run faster