Losing Touch by Sandra Hunter Read Free Book Online

house-cleaning entertainment.
    Murad is hunched over, trying to close the eighteen-inch distance between himself and the radio. This is rubbish. Can’t Murad see that? It’s even worse than the other nonsense he and his sister so love, some idiot called Kenny who sings a ‘Hello’ song to introduce himself instead of a dignified announcement.
    Murad hitches himself closer. As the Irish clod says something else, Murad releases a soft snort. Through the long hair, Arjun can see it: turned down at the corners, no teeth showing, but a real smile. Arjun can’t remember the last time he saw his son smile. The radio babble continues and the corners of Murad’s mouth twitch. Arjun pushes himself back in the seat, rotates his shoulders and settles himself to endure the station for as long as it takes to reach Bekonscot.
    Finally, a song. Louis Armstrong singing ‘Hello Dolly’.
    Murad is sitting back, the sullen mask in place.
    â€˜You like Louis Armstrong?’
    Murad half-shrugs. ‘He’s okay.’
    â€˜This song doesn’t do him justice. He’s not really a singer. But you should hear him play trumpet. You know “The Five Pennies”, the record we have at home? He plays really well. Some people call him “Pops” or “Satchmo”. Not very respectful in my opinion. Now, Dizzy Gillespie, he started bebop. Improvisation.’ Arjun taps a finger on the wheel. ‘Everyone imitated him. And he played with all the big boys. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Earl Hines. Great musicians.’
    The Irish voice starts up again and Murad moves slightly forward, just enough to signal that he’s no longer listening to Arjun. He probably wasn’t listening anyway. Arjun suddenly loathes the Irishman and all these radio voices that can make his son smile, gurgle, snort in ways he no longer can. How easy it was when Murad and Tarani were little. Anything made them laugh. Now they just look at you as though you’re speaking Dutch.
    He wants to spin the dial, find some Hawkins, Monk, Lionel Hampton; tell Murad, ‘Open your ears– this is music’ . But Murad is half-smiling again, rocking forward as the Irish voice lilts inanities, chats to admirers on the phone, tell his listeners to get up and dance. Arjun realizes he’s never seen Murad dance. Is he slow and stealthy, just a little shoulder movement, maybe one hand held out at waist level, fingers curled, the other in his pocket, shifting from foot to foot? Is he, perhaps, one of those who suddenly become animated all over like an electric eel? The idea of Murad dancing like an eel makes him bite the insides of his cheeks. It wouldn’t do to laugh at his son.
    However, when he finally composes himself enough to look at Murad, to suggest they change the station, the eel image returns and he has to turn a sudden laugh into a cough. He puts the back of one hand to his face in case Murad is looking. And who is he to laugh, when all he can manage is a tentative foxtrot and a shuffling waltz?
    Let Murad perform his eel-like gyrations if he wishes. At least he might be happy, although it is difficult to imagine Murad being happy anywhere. Has he ever asked anyone to dance? An approaching roundabout brings Arjun’s attention back to the road. He carefully joins the swirl of oncoming traffic, brakes in time to avoid a pushy black van and continues on the A40.
    Should he offer Murad advice on asking a girl to dance? How is he to introduce the subject? ‘Elusive Butterfly’ is now playing and Murad is sitting back with something like his usual scowl. The song grates through its jolly melody and Arjun can’t help it.
    â€˜Pah.’ His usual expression of disgust.
    â€˜Mum likes this. Val Doonican.’
    Arjun pauses, unsure what to say about Sunila’s tastes in music. ‘She likes Hawaiian music, too.’
    Murad snorts. Arjun can’t believe it. A laugh? From his son?