The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  “There is so much to see! I am worried that if I miss something, I will never be able to find it again.”

  “There will be plenty of other opportunities I’m sure.”

  “You sound so confident. You see you are going to be here for ever, whereas I am here on borrowed time.”

  “I thought you were going to be here for some time–”

  “Yes, a few months, or a year maybe, but I am supposed to be here for work. I cannot expect to have so good a time every day, nor such a patient and willing guide every Sunday of my stay here.”

  “Who can say? We English do not believe in working over the weekends – we either catch up on our chores or pack a picnic and lose ourselves in the countryside. Also your guide may make you further offers, you never know. Now I feel parched – I have driven for an hour and a half and I think I deserve my Sunday pint.”

  They stopped near a sign reading ‘The Three Bells.’ Christopher ordered a pint of ale from the publican who seemed to know him and Dwita ordered a shandy. Her entry into the old dimly lit village pub caused some stir – a few pairs of eyes were fixed on her and Christopher. The locals seemed to find them intriguing. She wondered if saree-clad Indian women did not quite fit in the surroundings of a pub.

  “I feel rather self-conscious here,” she told Christopher.

  “Well, it is not every day that they see an Indian beauty in a saree gracing The Three Bells.”

  “I think they are also worried that one more Englishman is being seduced by oriental feminine wiles.”

  “Hmm – let’s word it differently – succumbing to oriental charm. You are one of those people who I think cannot walk in and out unnoticed.”

  “You are being very sweet to me this morning.”

  “Not really,” he said, as they got up to resume their journey to Waverley. “We should be at the Parkinsons in a little over half an hour. A pity – I was rather enjoying getting away from it all for a while.”

  “Do you not like people? Or is it the Parkinsons?”

  “No, I like people and John and Jennifer particularly, but I suppose I am getting to like some people more than others.” He grinned.

  She decided to pretend that she had not noticed this remark. It would be safer. She was beginning to respond to Christopher despite herself – he seemed to impart a sort of warmth to her. Who was he? What was he up to? She chided herself for being a romantic – she blamed it on her life so far, which had been noticeably lacking in attractive males. She knew it would be too easy to fall for his good looks, his gentle manners – he exuded decency and sexual charm.

  “Time to wake up – we are about five minutes away.”

  “Was I asleep?”

  “No, but you seemed to be daydreaming.”

  “Sorry for being a rude passenger.”

  “Not rude, just quiet. Now you may wish to crane your swan-like neck again to see everything in time, lest you miss out on the splendours of Waverley.” He was smiling.

  “You must find me incredibly naïve – I promise to be more blasé in a few weeks time.”

  “Please,” he said, “don’t change in any way.”

  Waverley was quite a small village fringed by the green network of forest surrounding it. The trees were tall and majestic, thick with foliage. The road took them through an avenue of poplars and elms. Large houses peeped through hedged seclusion. It was obviously an enclave of the well-to-do; the more fortunate and affluent members of the community lived here surrounded by extensive gardens and paddocks, swimming pools and other trappings of wealth.

  Christopher drove through a white metal gate on which the name ‘Oleander’ was painted in black, together with another sign, the familiar English warning,‘Beware of the dog’. Oleander, like the others, had its rose gardens, fruit orchards, well-kept lawns and a diamond-shaped swimming pool. In addition, there was an exquisite landscaped garden encircling the house on two sides. There was a large terrace in the front of the house with a small fishpond.

  She stood at the edge of the lawn admiring this paradise of a retreat when the front door opened and they were greeted by John and Jennifer Parkinson, with their Irish terrier and two Golden Retrievers following at their heels. The animal population were all very inquisitive, but quite friendly.

  “Hello, Christopher – and you must be Dwita. We’re delighted to have you both with us. Welcome to the English countryside on a warm English Sunday. You do not know how lucky you are to have the sun on your first day out – it is not an everyday bonus as it is in your country.”

  “The countryside here seems lovely to me. May I thank you both for inviting me today and making me feel so welcome.”

  “It is lovely to have you, my dear – we have heard so much about you from Rusi and Janet, we feel we know you already.”

  They were a friendly, middle-aged couple. John was tall and lanky, balding and seemed to have a sweet, warm personality. Jennifer was short and stocky, but soignée and composed – she had her sister’s quiet charm and reassuring manners. She had a strong face, wrinkled and round, and salt-and-pepper hair curling away from her face. Her white linen dress and matching high-heeled sandals suited her as much as John’s light linen trousers and casual shirt went with his relaxed manner. She decided she was going to like them.

  “Come on in – let me show you your rooms. We hope you can both spend the night.” They followed Jennifer into the house.

  “I’ve brought an overnight bag,” Christopher said, “but Dwita seems to have arrived without anything.”

  “Not quite – this bag of mine has enormous secret potential. I have a few things I need for tonight. Then I was hoping to persuade Jennifer to take me shopping.”

  “Yes, of course – we shall do that tomorrow.”

  “Oh, women and their shopping!” Christopher exclaimed throwing his hands in the air.

  “Would you not be bored without us?” Jennifer just laughed.

  Dwita was shown into an attractively furnished room in white and gold, very French in its décor. Every last item of furniture and furnishing had been chosen with taste and care.

  Downstairs, they sat in the easy chairs on the terrace and sipped one of John’s special cocktails. Jennifer soon disappeared into the kitchen to organise lunch. She would not let Dwita help her – “Not on your first day here – you will have plenty of opportunities later.”

  “Yes, you might as well enjoy it while it lasts. The status of a guest in England is not quite as sparing as in the East. You will soon find out!” John joked.

  After a while John rose saying, “I’ll help lay the table. Chris, you are excused today. Your duty is to entertain Dwita and show her round the gardens and the house.”

  “With pleasure – Dwita already knows what a good guide I am.”

  He made her walk over the lawns, up and down the landscaped flowerbeds, through the vegetable gardens at the back, weaving through fruit and flowering trees into the paddock where the Parkinsons stabled their two horses. It was so peaceful, quite unlike the unkempt careworn estates of Benebagan. The extensive grassland stretched far into the horizon – the Parkinsons seemed to own many acres, including some farmland which Christopher said was rented out. They wound their way back to the swimming pool, which glistened blue in the midday sun.

  “Would you like to rest for a few minutes? You look a little breathless.”

  “Yes, please – I think saree and sandals definitely have to be discarded for future visits.” She laughed to cover up her breathlessness. She did not wish to admit even to herself the reason of her discomfiture.

  “You have such lovely hands,” he remarked suddenly, “so slender. Do you dance? I know many Indian girls do.”

  “Not now – not since I was seven. I attempted manipuri when I was about five – then later on I switched over to vocal music. We Indian women are often keen on cultural indulgences.”

  She was rushing the sentences to avoid registering the compliment.

  “You
use your hands a lot whilst speaking as well.”

  “An old Indian habit I suppose I must control.”

  “Why should you? Why do you want to change yourself? There is no point trying to become something else when what you are now is much more attractive.”

  She was spared from answering this by the sight of John ambling down the lawn towards the pool. “Lunch!” he called, and holding the cocktail glasses in the air – “More?”

  “No, thanks,” they said in unison, Christopher adding, “come, Dwita, we have to postpone this discussion until later.”

  “What discussion?” John expressed his interest.

  “Women.”

  “Sounds exciting – but we must get to the lunch table or Jen will murder us.”

  The discussion was not resumed then as Dwita, like everyone else, concentrated on the delicate flavours of crab mousse, roast grouse, and fragrant lemon soufflé, followed by an extremely good cheese board of Stilton and Brie. Crab was one of her favourites and she was eating grouse for the first time. She was rather pleased to be back in the recognisable world of gourmandise and certainly did not mind being denied the usual English Sunday culinary extravaganza in the form of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It was sometimes good to escape predictability, she thought to herself.

  The afternoon was well advanced by the time they were done and sinking into comfortable armchairs with their coffee.

  “How about some vintage port or perhaps a cognac to top it off?” John volunteered.

  “You do live well, my dear fellow,” Christopher said, “perhaps I should have become a Harley Street specialist – I’ve obviously missed out on something.”

  “Well, from what I hear, you are not doing too badly yourself without having to wield the scalpel.”

  “I think I have drunk enough for one day,” Dwita broke in, “my mother will not live if she hears about her daughter’s wild drinking habits.”

  “Come on, have a port, you will soon have to stop anyway–” Jennifer stopped short and looked at John in dismay.

  Dwita smiled to put her at ease, but Christopher looked puzzled.

  “Why should she have to stop?” he enquired.

  “Life cannot be one long holiday, dear boy. She starts work from Wednesday,” John said quickly. “By the way, Dwita, please remember to ring Ernest Reed tomorrow just to check in. He has your schedule of visits and training attachments. Do you know him?”

  “I have spoken to him a few times from Calcutta, as he is our agent for UK and Europe, but I have never met him. Is he nice? Or will I need armour?”

  “He is nice enough,” Christopher cut in, “but not as nice as me.”

  “Oh, you are a little inflated, aren’t you?” Dwita said.

  “I am trying to impress the present company.”

  The afternoon had rolled into the evening pleasantly, and finally they had all gone for a drive round the country and got out at a picturesque forest spot to give the dogs some exercise. John and Jennifer had gone ahead, Dwita stayed behind with Christopher. She had excused herself, she was suddenly feeling a little tired, perhaps the wine and the jet-lag were catching up with her. Christopher had insisted on keeping her company and they were now sitting on a wooden bench under a weeping willow by a little gurgling stream. It was so idyllic, the calm of the hushed forest, occasionally interrupted by a rustling of leaves swaying in the gentle summer breeze took her back to her own country. She suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia seizing her. Dwita was expert at controlling emotion, she had had to do it nearly all her life. She was not even twenty-five, yet a forlorn vista stretched in front of her like a life sentence.

  She suddenly felt a warm hand take one of hers, squeezing it hard in quiet understanding. Christopher’s interest seemed to permeate her inner self in a way that she had never known before. She felt helpless against his warm friendly strength and it revived her. He kissed her gently on the forehead and for the first time they looked into each other’s eyes with complete contact and rapport, voiceless and perfect. They both knew it was pointless to resist.

  Then came voices nearby and the sound of the dogs scrabbling in the bushes forced them out of their reverie. John emerged saying: “Sorry we took longer than intended, but Jack, one of the Golden Retrievers, managed to elude Jennifer. He has now been retrieved and duly admonished.”

  “We didn’t miss you,” Christopher teased him, looking at Dwita. “However, if we do not return soon, one of us will have to be carried home. I fear Dwita is feeling the effects of wine and jet-lag.”

  They drove back, mostly in silence, and on arrival Dwita said her thanks and excused herself in order to retire early. She noticed that she and Christopher had adjacent rooms and that they were going to share a bathroom as well. This somehow did not disturb her. She was far too tired to raise any objections anyway. The soft mattress received her into its embrace and the feather quilt enveloped her deliciously.

  Dwita overslept and did not hear the alarm by her bedside. It was already eight-thirty on a Monday morning, she suddenly realised in horror. She jerked out of bed and slipped into her negligee, then heard the familiar voice followed by three knocks on the door. She opened the door to let Christopher in.

  “I am sorry to wake you, but I have to leave early for an appointment in town. I could not leave without seeing you again.” He then looked at her with deep tenderness and said, “I don’t know what has come over me, Dwita, but I do know I have to see you again – I will be in touch. I believe you are going to London later with John and Jennifer. Please keep this card – it has my office address and telephone numbers.”

  “Yes, see you soon. Bye for now,” she said quietly.

  He left abruptly without looking back – and it hurt, she thought, surprised, a sort of physical pain just below her consciousness – what was it? She wondered, was it just a passing attraction? Dwita kept asking herself the question as she was getting ready. She came downstairs, dressed and ready for departure. She apologised for sleeping late to Jennifer who was sitting at the kitchen table with her pot of coffee, a copy of the morning paper spread in front of her.

  “Don’t apologise, my dear – we are in no hurry. John decided to go with Chris in the end, so we can have a leisurely start to the day. He would like us to call in at his clinic around five-thirty this evening – he wishes to examine you and discuss arrangements. Otherwise the rest of the day is ours. He also asked me to remind you about Ernest Reed.”

  “Yes, I had better ring him straight away.”

  “You can give him another twenty minutes – sit down and have some breakfast.”

  “I do not eat breakfast normally–”

  “But you must eat something in the morning in your present condition,” Jennifer was firm.

  “I will help myself to a piece of toast and some tea.”

  She rang Ernest who sounded jovial and cheerful for a Monday morning. They chatted about the flight and the hotel and he asked after the Wadias and Parkinsons – then they arranged to meet at his offices in Jermyn Street on Wednesday morning at nine. He also told her that she would have to stay in the hotel for another week as her room in the guesthouse was still occupied by a business contact from Europe.

  She came out to find Jennifer already seated at the wheel of a cream BMW, waiting for her. “Jump in, Dwita, and we’ll be off. Have you got everything? Well, the lovely weekend is over and now it’s back to our apartment and the noise of London – no more peace and quiet until Friday. By the way, remind me to give you our London address and phone number. We must keep in touch during the week and if you don’t get tied up, come back with us on Friday.”

  “You are being wonderful to me, Jennifer. Thank you, I would like to.”

  They were now winding their way out of Waverley into open countryside to catch up with the flow of traffic on the main road to London. Her mind went back to yesterday morning with Christopher beside her and she felt confused again.

  “Dwita, are you all righ
t?”

  “Yes, I feel fine.”

  “You were not looking fine a second ago.”

  The journey was made shorter by the roads Jennifer had chosen to follow. She drove through Belgravia into Sloane Square, giving a running commentary on the passing scene and briefing Dwita on the neighbouring streets, shops, cinemas and theatres. There was so much to see and feel and momentarily she was cheered out of her gloom.

  “Dwita, I am going to leave the car in the carpark off Sloane Street just ahead of us. Why don’t you take yourself into that store opposite and I will find you in the Separates and Coordinates department on the first floor in twenty minutes’ time?”

  She got out of the car and crossed the street into the store Jennifer had pointed out to her. She wandered around aimlessly for ten minutes on the ground floor. There was so much to see and buy – the sheer variety displayed enthralled her. She found her way up to the the first floor – each item seemed more tempting than the last, but she knew some of the styles or colours would not suit her.

  “Have you found anything yet?” Jennifer had caught up with her. She touched this, picked up that, finally chose two matching sets in rust and blue to try on. She bought one of them, a simple skirt and blouse in cream and rust with a matching jacket. “Just right for work,” Jennifer commented. Then they came out of the store and hailed a taxi to take them to Knightsbridge in pursuit of the shops on Sloane Street and Brompton Road. Jennifer had decided to leave the car where it was.

  The magnificence of some of the shops threw her completely. Coming from a developing country, particularly from a deprived, dilapidated city like Calcutta, she felt she had landed on a different planet. Although she had been brought up in relative plenty, amongst people who could not exactly be categorised amongst the have-nots of Bengal, she found the extravagance displayed in some of the shops somewhat obscene in a world where so many were starving. She told Jennifer that it was too soon for her to accept such indulgence, maybe she would feel differently in the months to come. Jennifer smiled and said, “You don’t have to buy here, you know, this is mostly just for sightseeing. Some people just come to buy bacon in that large store there and then go home happily. The bacon is very good no doubt, but it’s mostly about having the famous brand name on it – such things seem very important to some of us! ” They both laughed and decided to carry on elsewhere.