Nazneen stood behind her daughter and stroked her hair.

'We are not allowed to speak English in this house,' said Shahana, transgressing at top volume.

There was always this tension between them. They could never get over their disappointments. If Shahana had been a boy, would it be different? Bibi he barely noticed. He talked to her, but how surprised he would be if answers started coming back.

'And we are always keeping to the rule?' said Nazneen.

'But it's his stupid rule in the first place!'

'I know,' said Nazneen.

When Chanu went out the girls frequently switched languages. Nazneen let it pass. Perhaps even encouraged it.

Years ago, before even Raqib was born, Razia had attempted to transfer the fruits of her Community Education classes to Nazneen. But they were delicate items, easily bruised. 'I need a help with filling form.' She had practised it about one hundred times a day. So far, she had found no use for it.

Over the last decade and a half she had gleaned vocabulary here and there. The television, the brief exchanges at the few non-Bengali shops she entered, the dentist, the doctor, teachers at the girls' schools. But it was the girls who taught her. Without lessons, textbooks or Razia's 'key phrases'. Their method was simple: they demanded to be understood.

Nazneen went back to Bengali. 'When I was first married, I wanted to go to college to learn English. But your father said there was no need.'

Shahana flicked her mother's hand away from her hair. When she sighed and her chest rose up against the white brushed cotton of her nightdress, Nazneen saw that breasts were beginning to come.

'And he was right. I know enough.' Her hand hovered above her daughter's shoulder. 'But when I was younger I was always worrying about everything.'

Shahana turned round. Her eyes, mouth, nose pinched up. 'So what? What are you talking about? What do I care? I hate him. I hate him.' She jumped up and clenched her arms and teeth. And she kicked her mother's shins with her little soft feet.

Two weeks was enough to learn all the features. She mastered basting stitch, hemming, button-holing and gathering. Razia came to supervise and set homework. Nazneen put in zips, flew through seams. She stay-stitched the flabby end of Chanu's vest and understitched the collar on a doll's dress. No more broken needles. No more snarled-up tea towels. Every spare piece of cloth in the house had been stitched together and taken apart and married to another. To practise on a long length she took down the curtains and sewed them into tubes. They lay across the dining table like deflated sails. Spools of coloured thread sat on Chanu's books, bright flags signalling the way to knowledge. Nazneen bent to her task while Chanu read and tapped the keyboard, sang and muttered, remembered his dislike of chairs and got to the ground, remembered his stiff knees and got up, hummed and read, tapped and talked.

Today he had gone to buy food. Shahana, leaving for school, requested Birds Eye burgers. Chanu was planning fish head curry, dried hilsha if there was no fresh. Nazneen, with cloth reserves depleted, was unpicking the lace edge of an underskirt and thinking she would get a finer needle when a knock came at the door.

Mrs Islam was propped up in the communal hallway, Ralgex Heat Spray in hand. Nazneen carried the cavernous black bag for her and put an arm beneath Mrs Islam's elbow as they walked inside. Mrs Islam had surprisingly sharp elbows. Nazneen cleared the sofa and the visitor lay down. She tugged her sari at the hip, applied the Ralgex and moaned. She sprayed her stomach, inserted the tin into the sleeve of her cardigan and sprayed again. Then she sprayed a handkerchief and placed it over her face. It was understood that these exertions must be made in silence and a proper recuperative period be allowed. Nazneen stood by.

Although she appeared in no way older than when Nazneen was a young bride, Mrs Islam had declared herself to be in her dotage. The black bag, which had itself aged severely, was a pharmaceutical cornucopia as if, late in life, the bag had found its true calling. It carried a stockpile of tablets, lozenges, powders and bottles. There were jars of ointment and packets of mysterious granules. And there were canisters of medicinal spices and a few loose sheaves of herbs. But all these were merely held in reserve, for emergency procedures perhaps. Whenever Nazneen was ordered to delve for a medication it was invariably Benylin Chesty Coughs.

Mrs Islam waved weakly towards the bag and Nazneen leaped forward and undid the destoned clasp. She handed over the bottle and Mrs Islam drank deeply beneath her handkerchief. During the past ten years, Nazneen could not recall a single occasion on which she had heard Mrs Islam coughing. Benylin Chesty Coughs was very effective. Sometimes, in an afternoon visit, she would drink an entire bottle and fall asleep for an hour or so. Chanu would creep around and speak in exaggerated whispers to Nazneen. 'Isn't it an honour? See how relaxed she is here. I knew her husband.'

The Ralgex Heat Spray she carried around. The smell, mixed with the mints she kept under her tongue and the sweet syrup cough preparation, produced about her an aura of the sickbed. But her eyes were hard and bright and her voice came like darts.

'Gold mine,' she said, removing the handkerchief from her face and casting a glance in the direction of the sewing machine.

'I have been practising,' said Nazneen. She sat in the cowdungcoloured armchair and held up a gather-stitched duster as evidence.

'When I was a girl we learned to stitch by hand. We did not have things so easy.'

Nazneen, who had a bit of cramp in her right hand and was toying with the idea of borrowing the Ralgex, could only agree. 'Yes. It is very fast. Good machine.'

Mrs Islam wiggled her carpet slippers. 'Are you going to start sending the girls? Your husband said you would send them but they have not been seen.'

'Oh,' said Nazneen. 'Yes.'

Through a fug of Ralgex Heat Spray, applied to the collarbone, Mrs Islam said, 'I am a sick woman now. Very, very sick. Anyone can say anything to me. They know how weak I have become. You tell me "yes, they will go" but you do not send them. But to sick old women it is possible to say anything.'

She was talking about the madrassa, the new mosque school. It had been established with a generous endowment from Mrs Islam. Shahana and Bibi were supposed to go after ordinary school had finished for the day but Chanu forbade it. He raged. 'Do they call it education? Rocking around like little parrots on a perch, reciting words they do not understand.' He would teach them. The Qur'an but also Hindu philosophy, Buddhist thought, Christian parables. 'Don't forget,' he told Nazneen, 'Bengal was Hindu long before it was Muslim, and before that Buddhist, and that was after the first Hindu period. We are only Muslims because of the Moguls. Don't forget.' And to Mrs Islam, he said, 'Yes, my wife will send them. I remember your husband. He was the most respectable-type man. One time we thought of doing some business. Jute industry. Import-export sort of affair.'

Nazneen opened her mouth to protest but Mrs Islam cut her off. 'You do as you please. I tell my sons Mrs Ahmed always does as she pleases, I don't interfere. I tried to look after her son, loved that child like my own but she slapped me down and I don't interfere.' She took a swig of Benylin and a little red ooze appeared down the side of her chin. 'Only I can tell you this. A sick woman still has ears. If you think I have gone deaf, let me tell you my ears are good. I hear what goes on.' In her excitement she had half sat up but she remembered now her invalid status and rested with her forearms across her forehead. The bottle and the spray can framed her face.

'I will speak to my husband,' said Nazneen. She looked for a way out. 'How is your hip? Is it giving much trouble?'

Mrs Islam hitched down the side of her sari to expose a large, perfectly smooth brown hip. She grunted as if to say, satisfied now? 'My sons tell me to go for a hip replacement, but I say no. Do not waste a good new hip. I do not want to be buried with a new hip. God does not love a wasteful woman. Save the good hips for those who can use them. Give the money to the mosque and give me only a little for the Heat Spray. That's all I ask.' She paused a while and then said it again, more gently. 'That's all I ask.' Then she tried once more, attempting softness, the suggestion of fading, a hint that now even now she might be slipping from life. 'That's all I ask.'

Nazneen sat on the edge of her chair, within reach of the black bag.

'Open the bag for me, child,' said Mrs Islam, her voice still feeble.

Nazneen knelt and opened it.

'Place the money in the side pocket. I don't count it.'

'You don't count it?' Nazneen ran her fingers over the tarnished, twisted clasp. She looked inside among the packets and tubes to see where the money might be. It would clearly be more convenient to keep the money in the side compartment where it would be easy to find, rather than hiding somewhere in the depths of this pharmacy. She fished around. Something sticky on the lining. Some powder bursting through from a thin cardboard pack. The whole contents needed sorting out. She was just about to offer when Mrs Islam said, 'Ah, to be young and strong again.'

A packet of throat sweets was lying crushed at the bottom of the bag. Nazneen pulled it out and held it up. 'Look. Leaking honey.'

Mrs Islam twisted herself round and propped herself up on an elbow. 'Did you put the money in?' Her voice came sharp, and immediately she added in a weaker tone, 'Did you, child?'

'I can't find it.'

'Look again, child. Fifty pounds. As arranged.'

Nazneen looked closer, her head practically in the bag. The smell was overpowering, an essence of ill health.

'What are you doing?' screeched Mrs Islam. 'Get out of my bag.'

She sat up and the back of her neck had been branded. Heat spread around her skull and into her cheeks. 'You asked me . . .' she said slowly.

'Do I look like a dead woman to you?' said Mrs Islam, suddenly very alive.

Nazneen could only open her mouth and close it.

'Are you trying to rob my grave? Get. Me. My. Money.'

She knew now. Everything was clear. Chanu took a loan. Mrs Islam had come to collect. But still Nazneen did not move. She had no money to give. As arranged. Gesturing towards the sewing machine she gave her only defence. 'Still practising. No work yet.'

Mrs Islam considered for a moment. Her small black bird eyes fixed on Nazneen's burning face. 'I understand. Forgive a sick and anxious old woman. This arrangement is between friends. Pay when you can.' She made a show of struggling to her feet and Nazneen helped her so that when she was up they stood in a sort of embrace. Mrs Islam kissed her, hard mouth to soft cheek. 'We understand each other. I will come again. My salaam to your husband.'

They went to the door. Mrs Islam tucked a fresh mint beneath her tongue, applied a general mist of Ralgex, a prescription of perfume, and took her bag from Nazneen.

'You will find a way,' she said. 'God always gives a way. You just have to find it. And I will bring my sons next time. They would like to see your husband again.'

CHAPTER NINE.

On his computer, Charm could access the entire world. 'Anything,' he said. 'Anything you want to see. Just tell me and I'll find it. This little wire that goes into the telephone socket do you see it? it all comes down the wire.'

'We go on the internet at school,' said Shahana, in English.

Chanu pretended not to hear.

Bibi held on to her plaits. She tried so hard that she could not think of anything.

'I'd like to see kadam again,' said Nazneen.

He held up a finger. 'So you shall.' He jabbed away. 'I am typing it in. Key words: Flowers of Bangladesh.' The computer thought for a while. Bibi looked over her shoulder at Nazneen. Shahana blew up at her fringe, a new development that Chanu read as insolence. The screen flickered into life. 'One hundred and sixteen entries,' marvelled Chanu. He fiddled with the mouse and a picture wove itself, strand by thick strand. Clustered over the screen was an array of pink prickly balls.

'Kadam,' said Nazneen.

'Bor-ing,' sang Shahana, in English.

Chanu remained calm. 'Bangla2000 web site. Who wants to take a look?'

Bibi stepped closer to her father. But he was waiting for Shahana.

Nazneen put her hand on Shahana's arm. 'Go on, girl,' she whispered. Shahana did not budge. 'Take a little look.*

'No. It's bor-ing.'

Chanu jumped up and turned round in one movement so that the dining chair toppled. His cheeks quivered. 'Too boring for the memsahib?'

'She's going to look now,' said Nazneen. Bibi backed away from her father, a barely perceptible shuffling that gave the impression that she was responding to the tug of her mother's force field.

'What is the wrong with you?' shouted Chanu, speaking in English.

'Do you mean,' said Shahana,' "What is wrong with you?"' She blew at her fringe. 'Not "the wrong".'

He gasped hard as if she had punched him in the stomach. For a few seconds his jaw worked frantically. 'Tell your sister,' he screamed, reverting to Bengali, 'that I am going to tie her up and cut out her tongue. Tell the memsahib that when I have skinned her alive she will not be looking so pleased with herself.'

Bibi began to repeat, 'He is going to tie you up and cut out. . .' She squinted up at Nazneen. 'I don't want to tell her. You can tell her for me, can't you?' Anxiety pressed on her forehead and lowered it against her eyes.

Inside Chanu, a tornado was at work. It shook his body and twisted his face. 'I'll kill you now,' he shrieked. He ripped the mouse from the computer and launched himself at Shahana. The wire caught Shahana across the cheek and she ran for cover behind the sofa. Chanu approached but stood indecisively in front of it. He moved to the right and Shahana feinted left. He took a step to the left and she dodged the other way. Suddenly he lunged across the top and grabbed hold of a skinny wrist. He began to flail with the mouse while Shahana wriggled and lashed out with her free arm.

If only she would cry, thought Nazneen. She should cry now and save his tears.

'Don't touch my computer,' yelled Chanu. 'You are forbidden.' He slowed down. Shahana risked putting her head above the sofa back. He stopped. 'Your sister is forbidden as well. Do you hear me?'

'Yes, Abba,' said Bibi smartly.

'Yes, Abba,' said Shahana. 'I won't touch it.'

Nazneen took the girls to their room. A redness circled Shahana's wrist. She pulled her arm away from her mother and sucked her lips inside her mouth.

'Time for bed,' said Nazneen. She kissed Bibi and she tried to kiss Shahana. Leaving the room she turned around in time to see Shahana land a kick on her sister's behind. Bibi rubbed her bottom and sat down on her bed. Shahana flung herself face down and began to kick the mattress.

Chanu rubbed his hand hard over his face and shook his head. He wobbled his fleshy nose with the centre of his palm. 'Gone to bed?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Nazneen.

The computer was turned off.

A chair scraped overhead.

'These girls,' said Chanu, baffled by their very existence.

'Mrs Islam came today.'

'These girls.'

'Mrs Islam.'

He was annoyed. 'Don't keep telling me "Mrs Islam"!'

'She came today.'

'Yes. You told me that.' He put his hands beneath his stomach and lifted it up and down.

'For the money.'

With his vest riding up over his chest, Chanu pressed his stomach up as high as it would go. The effect was startling. It became taut as a water-filled balloon and exposed a band of purplish flesh, eager to greet the air. He let go and the flesh cascaded onto his lap. 'Money? Oh, yes. I'll take it next week.' He smiled unevenly and rubbed his hands together. 'You look a bit hungry. Why don't you make some shimai? Let's have a little sweet something before bed.'

Later, when the shimai had been made and Chanu had eaten while Nazneen washed the dishes, they went together to watch them sleep, to hear them breathe, to rearrange limbs beneath blankets and administer secret doses of love. Chanu smoothed Shahana's hair away from her face. He sat on the edge of the bed and put an arm across her insensible form. His small eyes were lost in creases. Then they swapped places and Chanu went to Bibi. He kissed her cheek and he held her hand and Nazneen saw him and saw that he was not just baffled but afraid. They went out together and she turned from closing the door and leaned into him so that her head rested on his shoulder and his chin brushed against her hair.

There had been a period, weeks or perhaps months but to Nazneen it seemed an infinity, when he had gone to bed and stayed there. He stopped making plans. His plans, to which he gave his all and from which he expected so much, had deserted him. Before that, each collapse of ambition, though it dented his surface, had goaded him to new determination, a more urgent reaching. He started every new job with a freshly spruced suit and a growing collection of pens. His face shone with hope. And then greyed with frustration, with resentment. He began businesses with a visit to the shoe repairer and made outlays on hard-sided, brisk briefcases. Energetic numbers on his furiously written and rewritten business plans showed the way to fortunes. And he worked hard; worked late on his plans; joked with Nazneen; became indulgent with the children.

But he was slighted. By customers, by suppliers, by superiors and inferiors. He worked hard for respect but he could not find it. There was in the world a great shortage of respect and Chanu was among the famished.

Finally, he lay down on the bed and began a monotonous grumbling. Then he took his certificates and spread them around and looked at them day after day. He stopped the grumbling. He stopped eating and his stomach became alarmingly small, puckered and loose, a depleted rice sack. When he stopped reading, Nazneen was overpowered with worry.

The Job Centre called him for an interview. He was offered a job washing dishes in a restaurant. He went back to bed but he was in some way galvanized. Some vestige of fight was reignited within him and he began setting tasks for his daughters.

'Shahana,' he would call. 'Quick, girl. Look. Be quick.' When she arrived in the bedroom, scratching intensely at her arm, he ordered her to fetch his slippers. She picked them up from the foot of the bed and dangled them by the heels.

'OK?' she said.

'Put them on. Quick.' He lifted his feet.

On her way out she was recalled to arrange his pillows, pass the water jug, find his pen, pull the curtains or draw them back.