A Visit to Manji

When I woke up this morning, the living room curtains were drawn aside and sun was streaming through a wide open window. An Elizabeth serving-wench stood in front of it, painting at an easel.

“Becky,” I groaned, “is that you?”

“Good morning, Dave! How can you sleep on such a wonderful day?”

“I can’t. Draw the curtains and go back to bed.”

“What? And miss all this?” She waved her brush to encompass the view and scattered a row of blue dots right across the red carpet.

“Careful!” I cried. “And perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re dressed like an out of work milkmaid.”

Becky pulled at her puffed sleeves proudly.

“It’s my uniform. Do you like it?”

“No, it’s awful – it’s wrong – it doesn’t even fit you.”

She pouted.

“I’ll have you know that Mr Singh the manager complemented me on my appearance yesterday. He wants me to go in at ten again this morning.”

I rolled off the sofa.

“I’ll give you a lift to the restaurant. I have to visit someone today.”

“Who?”

“A boy called Manji Patel. One of the youth group girls likes him.”

Becky giggled.

“Don’t laugh,” I said, “you’ll splash my walls. Would you happen to know where Norton Road is?”

She shook her head.

“Sorry, Dave, never heard of it.”

“That’s a pity. Neither have I.”

While my sister continued to apply paint to her canvas, I showered, dressed and consulted the trusty street atlas. Norton Road wasn’t far away and looked fairly easy to get to, so I gobbled a hasty breakfast, grabbed Becky and dragged her to the car. After dropping her off at the Tudor Cottage restaurant, I drove on parked as near as I could get to Manji’s house. It was an attractive place, well maintained and had a garden full of dahlias that glowed beneath the sun.

I rang the doorbell. A woman dressed in a sari answered it, staring at me suspiciously.

“Good morning,” I said. “Mrs Patel?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak to Manji, please?”

“Are you from the police?”

“Certainly not.” I showed her my identity card. “I’m David Taylor, the pastor of Wembley Central Free Church – where Manji goes to the youth group. It’s that I want to talk about.”

She gave a smile of relief.

“Come inside, please.”

We trotted through the hall and into the sitting-room.

“Someone to see you, Manji!” shouted Mrs Patel, as we passed the foot of the stairs.

I heard the sound of heavy feet descending, then a tall, thin young man stepped into the room. He looked al round in surprise.

“This is Mr Taylor from the Free Church,’ said his mother. He’d like to talk to you about the youth group.”

She left the room and closed the door politely. Manji took a seat in an armchair, while keeping a close eye on me.

“What about the youth group?” he asked.

“I think there may have been a misunderstanding ….”

“What about?”

“Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.”

“What?” He leapt to his feet. “Vina’s sent you, hasn’t she?”

“Not exactly sent, but she did ask if I could have a word with you. She’s worried that she offended you. She wants you to know that it isn’t you she doesn’t like – it’s Indiana Jones.”

“Really?” He sat down again. “I thought everyone liked Indiana Jones.”

I shook my head.

“No. Some people do – some people don’t.”

He looked interested.

“So, what does Vina like?”

“That,” I said, “is something you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

He grinned.

“I will – now!”

He jumped up, ran out of the room, out of the house, down the path and leapt over the gate. Unfortunately, he caught his toe on the top bar and fell flat on his face. I’ve only just got back from hospital, where they put his arm in plaster. He’s alright, though. Vina’s keeping him company.

~ by Christopher Jealous on September 13, 2008.