‘Please be careful where you walk,’ said Mr Vaghela, gesturing towards the discoloured sand. ‘I do not think this is a good place.’ He glanced back, apparently wondering whether the old woman should remain at the tea-house.
But she did not want to sit and face those young men alone. ‘I shall hold on to you, Mr Vaghela, if you don’t mind.’
‘I think this would be recommended,’ he said, squinting into the distance.
Around them, on the sand, stood chaotic piles of rusting girders, what looked like oversized turbines, and crumpled steel sheets. Huge barnacle-encrusted chains snaked around everything or were piled in seaweedy coils, like giant sleeping serpents, dwarfing the workers around them.
Jennifer was nowhere to be seen.
A small group of people had gathered on the sand, some clutching binoculars, others resting against bicycles, all looking out to sea. She took a firmer hold of Mr Vaghela’s arm and paused for a second, adjusting to the heat. Then they moved forward slowly down to the shore, to where men with walkie-talkies and dusty robes moved backwards and forwards, talking excitedly to each other, and children played unconcernedly at their parents’ feet.
‘Another ship is coming in,’ said Mr Vaghela, pointing.
They watched what might have been an old tanker, towed by several tugs, becoming gradually distinct as it drew towards the shore. A Japanese four-wheel drive roared past, screeching to a halt a few hundred yards ahead. And it was then that they became aware of voices raised in anger and, as they turned past a huge pile of gas cylinders, of a small crowd further along, standing in the shadow of a huge metallic hull. In their midst, there was some kind of commotion.
‘Madam, we should probably head this way,’ said Mr Vaghela.
She nodded. She had begun to feel anxious.
The man, whose generous pot-belly would have marked him out from the others even without the aid of his smart car, was gesturing at the ship, his indignant speech accompanied by sprays of spittle. Sanjay stood before him in the circle of men, his hands palms down in a conciliatory gesture, trying to interrupt. The object of the man’s ire, Jennifer, was standing in a pose her grandmother remembered from her adolescence, hips jutted, arms folded defensively across her chest, head cocked in an insolent manner.
‘You can tell him,’ she interjected periodically, ‘that I wasn’t trying to do anything to his bloody ship. And that there’s no law against looking.’
Sanjay turned to her. ‘That’s the problem, Jen. There is a law against looking. When you’re trespassing on someone else’s property.’
‘It’s a beach,’ she yelled at the man. ‘It’s ten kilometres long. With thousands of bloody people. How is me looking at a few rusting ships going to make the slightest difference to anything?’
‘Jen, please . . .’
Around Sanjay, the men stood watching with unconcealed interest, nudging each other at Jennifer’s jeans and vest-top, some bowed under the weight of the oxygen cylinders they carried on their shoulders. As the old woman approached, several moved back, and she caught the smell of stale sweat, overlaid with incense and something sulphurous. She fought the urge to put a hand over her mouth.
‘He thinks Jennifer is from some environmental group, that she’s here to gather evidence against him,’ Sanjay told her.
‘It’s obvious I’m only looking,’ said Jennifer. ‘I haven’t even got a camera on me,’ she enunciated at the man, who scowled at her.
‘You’re really not helping,’ Sanjay remonstrated.
The old woman tried to assess how much of a threat the man might be. His gestures had become increasingly abrupt and dramatic, his expression florid with rage. She looked at Mr Vaghela, almost as if he were the only adult present.
Perhaps mindful of this, he detached himself from her and moved through the men, his carriage suddenly erect. He went to the shipbreaker and thrust out his hand, so that the man was forced to take it. ‘Sir. I am Mr Ram B. Vaghela,’ he announced.
The two men began to talk rapidly, in Urdu, Mr Vaghela’s voice wheedling and conciliatory one minute, determined and assertive the next.
The conversation was evidently going to take some time. Without Mr Vaghela’s arm, the old woman found she felt wobbly. She glanced to each side of her, searching for somewhere to sit down, then backed a little way from the group, trying not to feel self-conscious – or fearful – of the blatant curiosity of some of the men. She spied a steel drum and walked slowly towards it.
She sat on it for several minutes, watching as Mr Vaghela and Sanjay tried to placate the shipowner, to convince him of the naïvety and commercial innocence of his visitors. Occasionally they waved towards her and she fanned herself under the umbrella, conscious that her presence, an apparently frail old lady, would probably aid their cause. Despite her benign appearance, she was furious. Jennifer had wilfully ignored everyone else’s wishes and, in the process, set back their journey at least an hour. Shipyards were dangerous places, Mr Vaghela had muttered as they crossed the sand, not just for the workers, but for those who were thought to be ‘interfering’. Property had been known to be confiscated, he had said, looking back nervously at the car.
Now she mulled over the fact that she was going to have to walk the same distance back across the hot sand, and that it was entirely possible they would have to pay these people before they could leave, which would eat further into her already depleted budget. ‘Foolish, inconsiderate girl,’ she muttered.
In an attempt at nonchalance, she stood up and began to walk towards the bow of the ship, keen to be away from her irresponsible granddaughter and the blank-eyed men. She raised the umbrella and held it low over her head, kicking up dustclouds of sand as she went towards a shaded area. The ship was half dismantled and ended abruptly, as if some giant hand had cut it in two and removed the back half. She lifted the umbrella high to get a better view. It was hard to see much from so far underneath, but she could just make out a couple of gun turrets that had yet to be removed. She studied them, frowning at their familiarity, at the peeling pale grey paintwork, a soft colour you saw nowhere but on British naval ships. After a minute, she lowered the umbrella, stepped back, and stared up at the broken hull looming above her, stiff neck temporarily forgotten.
She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the fierce sun until she could see what remained of the name on the side.
And then, as the last of the letters became distinct, the arguing voices receded, and even in the oppressive heat of an Indian afternoon, the old woman beneath the ship felt herself possessed of a sudden and icy cold.
The shipbreaker, Mr Bhattacharya, was unconvinced, yet even in the face of his mounting hostility, the growing restlessness of the crowd and even that they were now a good hour behind schedule, the young people were still bickering. Mr Vaghela wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Miss Jennifer was kicking sand angrily behind her, her expression one of sulky acquiescence. Mr Sanjay wore the uncomfortably flushed countenance of someone who feels himself to be defending an unwinnable argument. Periodically he would look at Miss Jennifer, then away, as if he, too, were annoyed with her.
‘I don’t need you to have my arguments for me, okay?’
Mr Vaghela tapped her arm. ‘If you will forgive me for saying so, Miss Jennifer, I do not believe your grasp of Urdu leaves you up to the task.’