Chapter 7
Mavis had been handing out advice since the second week Asha started at the pub.
Most of it came without warning.
“Don’t smile too much at the miners,” she had muttered one afternoon while counting change into the till. “Some men take it as an invitation. Remember you are a woman alone with a son.”
Another time, seeing Asha walking alone with her hair loose down her back, she had clicked her tongue sharply.
“Pin that up, girl. You’re too striking as it is. No need to encourage trouble.”
Asha had almost laughed then, because there had been no malice in it, only weary practicality.
The backhanded compliment made her feel warm in her chest. A rare memory of her own mother oiling her hair rose unbidden.
There had been a lice infestation in school and her mother had been meticulous with her four daughters.
She would oil their hair one after the other and then run a fine-toothed comb through them one by one until it felt like her scalp was one big bruise.
Then they would have to wash the hair in a special herbal paste that she would grind at home.
But accompanying that was the bitter memory of herself at fourteen in bridal red, standing next to her already-married bridegroom of forty.
Her mother pretended it was a blessing and at that time she believed it was.
She preferred Mavis's gruff scolding to her mother who looked the other way when she needed her the most.
Mavis belonged to a generation of women who believed a woman’s safety rested heavily on how invisible she could make herself. She had opinions on everything.
“A woman alone always pays double for mistakes. Don’t you forget, lass.”
“Never let a man see how desperate you are. They will not ignore the chance to get under your skirts, girl.”
“If you can mend clothes proper, you’ll never starve.”
“Men respect women who work hard, but don't work too hard, girlie. Makes them nervous.”
And once, after hearing Asha mention she wanted to save enough money to perhaps rent somewhere nicer one day, Mavis had given her a long look over the rim of her spectacles.
Asha suspected she didn't really need them but she liked wearing them all the same because someone told her it made her look like a teacher.
“Dream sensible,” she advised. “Life’s easier that way. You won't be disappointed in the end.”
There were other things too—small remarks that slipped out so naturally Mavis never likely thought twice about them.
“English people don’t always understand spicy food,” she said, when Asha had brought a helping of vegetable curry for Mavis. But bless her kind heart, she had tried a bite or two before downing a pint of beer.
“You speak lovely English, but speak only when you need to if you can,” she said, when she happened upon Asha reading a newspaper someone had left behind.
Asha mentioned she loved books and the next day, Mavis brought a box full of old books.
She brushed her thanks away, mumbling about using them as kindling if Asha didn't want them.
“The boy sounds local now,” she remarked, as she listened to the boy talking to Patrick about school.
“Folk here aren’t bad people, mind. They just don't trust what they don’t know.”
Every word was offered with the sincere belief she was helping her survive in this strange place. And in many ways, she was. Asha was a woman of colour, a widowed mother in a foreign land.
Mavis watched out for her fiercely in the pub.
She intercepted wandering hands with a glare sharp enough to strip skin.
She slipped her leftovers in paper parcels “for the boy.” She made sure Asha took home extra coal during cold weeks.
Once, when a customer made a filthy remark about foreign women, Mavis had cracked him across the head with a tray.
And while Patrick was looming, no one dared talk back.
But her kindness existed alongside her rigid, immovable beliefs of the world she had grown up in. It was a world where there were lines between people and these were not to be crossed under any circumstances.
Lines of class. Of race. Of religion. Of colour. Of who belonged and who were merely passers-by.
And so, that evening, while wiping the counter clean with a rag, Mavis sighed and returned to the subject of James.
“That lad James,” she said. “He is a good lad. But Tommy, the barber's boy two shops down, said he saw him buy a box of French letters, he did. Best you stay away.”
Asha kept drying the glasses carefully, wondering French letters were.
“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Because men like him don’t stay tied to places... or people. Especially not with a face like that.” Mavis snorted softly. “And because folk talk. You can't be too careful, what with him following you home and all.”
She hesitated before adding.
“He had a sweetheart once. Nice local girl. A clever little thing with the biggest blue eyes and blonde hair. She finished high school and works in London now. His mam still speaks like they’re half-promised.
” Another shrug. “Girls like that usually come back. I think if he had given her an inkling that she was going to be his missus, she would have stayed.”
Asha said nothing. She didn't know why her heart felt like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed hard.
Mavis watched her for a moment with knowing eyes. Her expression went soft to see the stricken expression Asha couldn't hide.
“Oh, don’t look wounded, love. All I’m saying is he likes you. Anyone with eyes can see he’s half gone over you.” Her mouth twitched faintly. “But liking someone and building a life with them are two different matters.”
The regulars started slowly trickling in.
Mavis lowered her voice.
“You’ve got to think of your boy first. Men can afford foolishness. Women cannot.”
Asha folded the cloth in her hands.
Mavis continued gently.
“You work hard. People respect that. But this town…” She shook her head. “People can be polite enough once they know you. Doesn’t mean they forget you’re different.”
There it was again.
It was a simple fact of life, as far as Mavis understood the world. And Asha did not hold it against her.
“James comes from decent stock,” she said quietly. “His family will expect certain things. Church weddings. Babies christened proper.” She gave Asha a tired look. “You told me you are a… Hindu is it? See, people don't know what that means. People like life to make sense. Anything which doesn't...”
Then she reached out and briefly squeezed Asha’s wrist.
“We must always remember our place in the world,” she said, not unkindly. That hurt far more than cruelty would have.
***
The man with silver eyes continued to follow her home.
Not close enough to frighten her but not far enough to pretend otherwise.
She no longer found it unsettling—that large shadow keeping pace somewhere behind her every evening while the boy chattered sleepily beside her. But weeks passed and James was nothing if not persistent. He never asked to come in, seemingly content to bide his time.
If she slowed near the crossing, he slowed.
If rain began suddenly, somehow, he appeared closer.
Once, when two drunken lads staggered out of an alley laughing too loudly at her expense, they spotted James standing half in shadow behind them and abruptly remembered urgent business elsewhere.
She did not know how to tell him to stop, though she knew she should.
The truth was one she allowed herself to accept in the darkness of the night with a hopeless pang.
Though she knew she was nothing but a passing fancy, an exotic taste he would use and discard once she had given in, she was no longer sure she wanted him to stop. Even though she knew how it would end.
***
The only time she saw anything beyond the lazy scrutiny which gave her goosebumps was the evening her hair came undone halfway through her shift.
One moment it had been pinned tightly; the next her hair tie had snapped and the heavy dark mass slipped free.
It fell past her hips in a thick glossy skein of hair that made several conversations in the pub abruptly falter. Asha was not surprised as she and Mavis were the only women in the pub. It felt like everything they did was scrutinized.
Asha had muttered under her breath and tried to gather it quickly, fingers clumsy with exhaustion as she twisted it into a makeshift knot.
And all the while she had felt his eyes burning a hole into her.
By the time she finally secured it into a lopsided bun with trembling hands, her pulse was beating like a drum for reasons she did not entirely understand.
That night on the bus, the boy fell asleep against her shoulder almost immediately.
The bus rattled through the dark streets of Wakefield, windows fogged from damp coats and winter breath.
Somewhere near the front, the conductor muttered over coins while an elderly woman eyed Asha with open suspicion.
James sat behind her in silence.
Then suddenly, a rough, callused finger brushed lightly against the nape of her neck.
Asha almost jumped out of her seat.
James’s fingers lingered briefly where loose strands curled against her skin.
“You need to wear your hair in a braid or a bun,” he murmured, leaving her wondering why he was talking about hairstyles. Maybe this was a strange courtship ritual here.
His voice was low enough that only she could hear it over the growl of the engine. He seemed to have given the matter a lot of thought.
“No,” he corrected softly. “In a braid. Your bun can come undone.”
Asha turned toward him slowly, wide-eyed.
The dim yellow lights of the bus carved deep shadows across his face. His steely gaze remained fixed on her hair, on the strands still escaping around her cheeks.
And then he added in a whisper—
“You’ll wear it down only for me.”
Heat flooded her so violently she thought for one horrifying second the entire bus would notice. The conductor certainly seemed to notice something was amiss. He glanced over with the weary expression of a man already judging impropriety.
Asha’s throat felt like there was a lump there.
“I…” She swallowed. “I was thinking of cutting it.”
The word had barely left her mouth before James said—
“No.”
It came out slightly louder than before, drawing more stares.
Then his expression changed almost at once, something tender moving beneath the possessiveness. He lowered his voice again.
“No,” he said again in a whisper. “Please don’t.”
The word ‘please’ from a man like him felt strangely intimate, like a gift.
“Don’t do that.”
His hand slipped away from her neck slowly.
But his eyes, God, his eyes promised things she did not fully understand. Things warm and dangerous and frightening. Pleasures she knew absolutely nothing about.
And sitting there in that dim bus with her sleeping son curled against her shoulder and this impossible man watching her as though he had already imagined having her a hundred different ways, Asha realised something with sudden, terrifying clarity.
She wanted to know.
***
Somehow, her life became easier without her saying a word.
The leak in the tiny garret vanished after Asha’s landlady “happened” to have her nephew stop by. A mason with rough hands and cement dust in the creases of his clothes arrived one morning, muttered about rotten brickwork and spent three hours fixing the problem.
Asha had stood there confused.
“How—”
“Oh hush,” the landlady replied briskly. “Can’t have damp creeping in with a child sleeping there.”
But later, when she saw James nursing a pint while the mason slapped him on the shoulder with a grin, suspicion bloomed.
Then, came the other things.
A paper bag from the bakery was left near her doorstep with two cream cakes inside. She had overheard the boy asking Patrick what they tasted like. James happened to be sitting nearby.
A sack of potatoes and carrots turned up next.
A handbag appeared on her chair one evening. It looked expensive, made of plain brown leather with fine stitching.
She had stared at it in alarm.
Mavis had merely shrugged and shook her head while polishing glasses.
"Young ‘uns," she muttered, as if resigned to letting matters take their course..
Asha had flushed hot as she ran a trembling hand over butter-soft leather. She had sewn the torn handle together of her old satchel three separate times with dark thread.
Then, the books began appearing.
The first was a worn copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ left wrapped in newspaper beside her folded apron.
Inside, in awkward blocky handwriting, were the words: Thought you might like this one. And she did.
There wasn't a name or signature but there was no mistaking who had left it for her.
As if there was any doubt.
She had stared at it for a very long time before carefully placing it in her bag. Then, she had carefully folded the note and saved it in her old purse like a treasure.
After that, came War and Peace, second-hand and heavy.
Mavis had nearly dropped dead laughing when she saw Asha trying to lug it around.
“Christ alive, does he think you’ve got eight spare hours a night?”
Then, came slimmer books.
Dog-eared romances with women in dramatic gowns on the cover and heaving bosoms while men clutched them against impossible storms.
One had a kiss so scandalous painted on the front that Asha immediately hid it in her apron pocket with wild eyes watching for Mavis. The next day she wrapped the cover with a newspaper and read it during her lunch break.
Another book contained passages so risque she found herself reading the same page twice before realizing her face had gone hot.
Mavis caught sight of one while changing barrels.
“Oh Lord,” she barked, snatching it up. “Where’d he even find this filth?”
Asha tried to take it back quickly.
“It is not filth,” she mumbled.
“Man’s clearly trying to court you through literature,” Mavis muttered darkly. “And giving you the wrong idea, girlie. God help us all. I am going to talk to his mam about this.”
But despite herself, Asha began looking forward to the gifts.
After she once paused near a charity stall and briefly touched a cookbook she could not afford, an old baking book appeared two days later at her doorstep.
When she mentioned to Mrs. Wilmslow that she used to enjoy poetry, a thin volume of Keats arrived the following week.
James never talked about it. And she never knew how he knew.
But sometimes she would glance up while wiping tables and find him watching her from across the pub with that same quiet intensity.
It was like he was waiting for a sign.