Thursday's Child

by Helen Forrester

  ‘Peggie, in one month’s time I have to return to India.’

  ‘So soon?’ I asked in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, my Queen, I have obtained a post at the new power station at Pandipura, near Shahpur – where Chundabhai lives – and I must start work in two months’ time.’

  ‘But, darling …’ I expostulated. I got no further, the rest of what I was about to say being smothered in a kiss. It was the first time I had used an endearment when speaking to him, and he was delighted. I had to laugh. He had picked just the right second in which to kiss me – the barmaid had bent down beneath her counter to put away a glass.

  ‘Darling,’ I protested, fighting my way free, ‘not in public.’ I relieved him of the poker which he had been brandishing in the air.

  He immediately let go of me. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking very crestfallen.

  I slipped my hand into his and said: ‘You are sweet – and don’t be sorry – the kiss meant a great deal to me –’ I stammered and could feel the colour mounting to my cheeks.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It was naughty of me – in Bombay I would have been liable to a fine for such behaviour.’

  ‘It was a little naughty – but very nice,’ I said. ‘Now, tell me about your return home.’

  He did not immediately reply to my prompting about his journey home. After a moment or two, he said slowly: ‘I have not yet told my father about my marriage to you.’

  ‘How could you? You have only today asked me.’

  ‘I have had the intention for twelve months,’ he said calmly.

  I grinned. I could imagine it. Although his ideas erupted suddenly into words, it was obvious that much preparatory thought had been given to them. I was glad that he, at least, had given thought to our marriage; I was still bewildered at the change he had brought into my life and at my temerity in accepting his proposal.

  ‘Are you going to write to your father now?’

  He did not answer the question directly, but said:

  ‘My father will not wish us to marry. He will wish me to have a bride of his own choice from our own caste. It is possible that he will be most angry.’

  I knew that the old customs were dying out in India and I queried his remarks.

  ‘They are dying,’ he said, ‘but still they linger in families. I love my parents and I do not wish their anger – but I love you more and am determined to marry you.’ His face darkened as he said this and he put his arm round my waist. ‘Peggie,’ he went on, his voice full of urgency, ‘marry me now, quickly. What has been done cannot be undone.’

  I had heard of the power of Indian parents, and I asked him what his father was likely to do if he defied him, as he suggested.

  ‘I am fortunate,’ said Ajit. ‘I have a post and do not have to depend on my family. I do not think Father will use his influence to have me dismissed – he will not wish to ruin me. We shall, therefore, be assured of our income.’ He stirred uneasily and went on, ‘It must be hard for you to understand the tight bonds of an Indian family – here you leave your parents as a matter of course, but in India it is not so. It is the unity of our families which makes life bearable in a country where there is no other protection against catastrophe except the family.’

  I thought this over. Then I asked: ‘Why don’t you get a job in this country, where life is easier and a quarrel with your father would not affect you so much?’

  ‘Peggie, you have often told me of the difficulty of getting employment for coloured people in this city. You know the difficulties.’

  I did know the difficulties. Although before the law all citizens had the same rights, when a man came before a prospective employer he had to balance his brown skin by being twice as good as the white man applying with him, even if they had been born and bred in the same district. It would be even more difficult for a foreigner. He might be lucky and obtain a post, but I writhed at the thought of the petty insults he might well have to endure from the men who served under him.

  ‘I do know,’ I said, my mind made up. ‘We shall go to India, and we shall hope to win your parents’ goodwill. You shall teach me carefully the customs of your caste, so that after a while people will half forget that I am English, and then perhaps your father will not be so angry and you can make peace with him.’

  ‘You are good,’ he said. ‘You would not have to alter completely your way of life – you need only conform in public – perhaps wear a sari.’

  His face cleared, and I said: ‘You are right about being married soon. We will put up the banns immediately and we can then be married a week before you go.’

  ‘What are banns?’ he asked.

  I explained about a registry office marriage. He was full of excitement. ‘I will go to the Registrar tomorrow,’ he said. He squeezed me hard against him, and then got up abruptly, fumbling in his pocket for money to pay our bill.

  We decided to go back to town by bus, and as we waited in the darkness at the bus stop near the inn, he came close to me and held me to him, and talked quietly about our future life together.

  Our children could be Christians, he said, if I wished it, but he would prefer to bring them up as Hindus as they would have to live in India. This question had already occurred to me, and I said that they should be Hindus. I knew from previous conversations with Ajit that the rules of conduct laid down for Hindus were wise, and all I asked of Ajit was that what we taught our children should be free from corruption or bigotry.

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, ‘and put out of your mind most missionary writings about us. You will find purity of thought in India as well as here.’

  ‘I shall be happy if our children are like you,’ I said.

  He trembled. ‘I am not good,’ he said. ‘I … I want that we do not wait three weeks for our marriage.’

  ‘The time will go quickly,’ I said, unclasping myself from him, as the lights of the bus swept us.

  As the bus jogged back to town, I puzzled over the best way to break the news of my engagement at home. My head was heavy from lack of sleep and I could not think very well, so I decided to leave the question until the following day.

  Knowing that Ajit’s dragon did not provide supper, I insisted that he should come home for a meal.

  As our shoes were dirty, we went in through the back door. My heart was pattering and I think Ajit’s must have been too, but Mother was too busy to notice any difference in us. She was just taking a pie out of the oven.

  ‘Come in, children,’ she said. ‘I hoped you would come soon. I have made a pie for supper. Peggie, pass me that cloth. Ajit, I am glad you have come. Perhaps you would like a wash. Hang the rucksack on the door.’ She flew round the kitchen like a plump robin.

  Ajit smiled at her, his slow, sweet smile, and my heart leaped. I gave her the oven cloth and took the rucksack from Ajit and hung it on the hook which she had indicated.

  Father came out of the living-room, the Sunday paper in his hand, his old leather slippers on his feet.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Have a good day?’

  Ajit assented. I looked at Father with new eyes while I said: ‘Yes, thank you, Daddy.’ Father was getting on. Why, his hair was quite white; I had never noticed it before. It is going to hurt me to leave him, I thought, and a little pain nagged inside me when I realised that if I went to India it was possible that I would not see him again.

  Mother did not give me much time to brood. ‘Wash your hands, Peggie,’ she said, as she filled the kettle at the tap, ‘and lay the table for me.’ To her, I was still a small girl, and I found myself thinking that I had been too long at home. It would be good for me to go away.

  Ajit wiped his feet carefully on the mat by the kitchen door and went up the heavily carpeted staircase to the bathroom to wash, and then came down again to the living-room, where he sat down to chat with Father.

  Father knew from experience that he would have to tell him to smoke before he would do so in front of an older ma
n, so Father unscrewed his tobacco jar and passed it to Ajit. Ajit took out his old pipe and lovingly packed it with tobacco, while I laid the table and Father talked about the news in the paper.

  ‘I see Nehru has had another try at getting the Hindu Code Bill through parliament,’ he said. ‘There is an article on how it would improve the status of women. What is the real status of a woman in India today?’ he asked.

  Ajit lit his pipe before answering.

  ‘It depends,’ he said, ‘on the community to which they belong. They have equal rights with men before the law, they can vote and they can hold public office.’ He leaned back in his easy chair and looked at the moulding on the ceiling. ‘The Code Bill would give them rights of divorce and inheritance – it will clarify their position generally.’

  He went on slowly: ‘In our community, we are proud that our womenfolk are said to be the best taken care of in India. We do our best to see that they are nicely dressed and properly fed. We listen to them with respect, and in the home, of course, their rule is absolute.’

  Father chuckled.

  ‘I am in the same boat,’ he said, ‘ruled with a rod of iron by three women – they eat me out of house and home – and take all my clothing coupons into the bargain.’

  I leaned over the back of his chair and pulled his hair, then fled to the kitchen as he rose in mock anger, brandishing his newspaper at me.

  Ajit laughed, as I scuttled down the passage. I relieved Mother of our best silver teapot and carried it back into the living-room; Angela came in from church, looking wan and bored, and we all sat down to supper.

  Afterwards, as we sat by the fire, I looked round the shabby comfortable room. Much of my life had been spent in it. I had done my homework on the oak table, cut out my first evening frock on the Axminster carpet, written up case histories as I sat by the fire while the guns outside roared and the shutters rattled, sewn two trousseaux under the light of the reading lamp; and now, in the same room, sat the man who was to take me away from it. What would he give me in its place? Would I, through days of heat, long for the steady warmth of our living-room fire, for the welcoming easy chair, for Father reading his endless history books and Mother doing her equally endless knitting? I must be mad, I thought, to want to leave such peace. But I did want to leave it – I felt stifled, penned in. I wanted to go out and know adventure, suffer hardship, be myself – not Mr and Mrs Delaney’s elder daughter.

  Angela had been talking about a conference she was to attend in Manchester, and then we fell silent. I was feeling sleepy.

  Suddenly I was roused to paralysed attention, when Ajit said: ‘Mr Delaney, Sir – Mrs Delaney, I want to ask you something of special importance.’

  Mother looked up from her knitting pattern. ‘What is it, Ajit?’ she asked.

  Ajit took a long breath. ‘Today I asked Peggie to marry me and she accepted. I ask your blessing.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Father, dropping his newspaper and clutching the arms of his chair. ‘Good heavens, boy.’

  Mother and Angela turned to me and said in chorus: ‘Darling, how lovely.’ Angela’s face was lighted up with pleasure, and Mother took my hand and patted it: ‘I am so pleased.’

  She beamed pointedly at Father, fearing that he would make a fuss.

  Father looked at Mother furiously. There was a great fear in his expression. I am sure all the missionaries’ appeals for funds, the whole text of ‘Mother India’ and the contents of half a dozen books by British Army Colonels must have rushed into his mind at once, and he saw me facing all sorts of horrors, ranging from cholera epidemics to a sutti on Ajit’s funeral pyre.

  ‘Singh, do you realise what you are saying? Peggie, is this true?’

  ‘It is true, Father,’ I said, ‘and I am very happy about it.’

  I went over to him, sat on the arm of his chair and put my arm round his neck. He looked up at me. His eyes were moist and he was shaking. He was not angry, I realised, but only shocked.

  ‘I want you to be happy about it, too,’ I said.

  Ajit saw that he had wounded my father deeply, and his voice was concerned as he said: ‘Sir, do not fear for Peggie’s life with me. It will not be the same as in your beautiful home here, but it will be a fairly comfortable life.’ He continued, his voice very gentle, as Father held my hand tightly: ‘I cannot promise to send her home for a holiday during the first year, but probably during the second year she could come, and, as my earning increases, she shall come as often as possible.’

  Mother’s featherweight brain had not taken in the full implications of Ajit’s announcement: she was just pleased that I was to marry a nice man after all, even if he was brown. She saw, however, that Father was upset and she said comfortingly: ‘Now don’t get upset, Tom. Ajit’s a nice boy – he will make Peggie happy,’ and she beamed on Ajit and me. Turning again to Father, she patted his knee: ‘There, there, my dear, Peggie will be all right, I am sure.’

  Father was recovering his composure, but he held on to my hand, as he said: ‘Singh, I cannot hide from you that this is a great shock to me – a very great shock – although I should, of course, have foreseen it.’ He looked anxiously at me. ‘Peggie is old enough to know what she wants, but I had hoped – hoped that she would marry someone in our own circle. She has had a lot of sorrow and I don’t want her to have any more.’

  ‘I understand, Sir – perfectly,’ said Ajit in a polite, small voice.

  Father turned to Mother. ‘I would like to talk to these young people alone, Margaret, if you would not mind.’

  It looked as if Mother minded very much, but she got up and said: ‘Come, Angela,’ and they both left the room.

  There was silence for a moment. I had not imagined that Ajit would take the responsibility of telling my parents of our plans. I had been prepared to face alone the denouncements, upbraidings and tears, and had dreaded them.

  Father said in a controlled kind of voice: ‘Singh, I appreciate your coming to tell me yourself about this matter, especially as both Peggie and you are of an age to make decisions without advice from your parents.’ He hesitated while he thoughtfully smoothed my fingers between his. ‘You know that mixed marriages can cause a lot of sorrow, and they bring problems that do not arise in ordinary marriages.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I have given thought to this for two years – two years is a long time, Sir, to think about marriage – and I have asked Peggie to marry me because I believe that the problems of which you are thinking can be overcome.’ He leaned forward, his voice earnest. ‘India is changing rapidly, and I feel that Peggie would be able to adapt herself to the life of my people.’

  ‘Have you got a job? What will you do about your children?’

  Ajit told him about the Shahpur post and about the prospects of better posts later on, and then said: ‘I have to speak further with Peggie about our children. I can say to you, however, that they will be considered to be of my caste and we shall save to educate them for professions. It would be easier for them if they were brought up as Hindus – if Peggie objects to this, I should not, of course, forbid a Christian upbringing.’

  ‘You feel that their mixed blood would not stand against them in India?’

  ‘No, Sir, as long as they are trained from the beginning to think of themselves as Indians, and not as people superior to or apart from Indians, there is no reason why they should not be happy. There is not much prejudice about whom one marries – as long as one’s family has given its approval.’

  ‘Does your father approve?’

  ‘I have not yet told him – he will be distressed. Naturally he will wish that I marry into our own caste – but he has much wisdom and he is also benevolent – he knows that India is changing and the caste system is breaking down.’

  Father told me afterwards that when Ajit said this, he immediately pictured a father in flowing robes and a turban, reading a holy book and counselling his son in a sing-song voice, using his hands in strange oriental gestures to emphasise h
is words. Somewhat different, he remarked ruefully, from a dry as dust civil servant like himself who lived in a Victorian house and had a garden full of daffodil bulbs.

  ‘What is your father like?’ asked my father, his voice becoming more natural, as fear gave way to curiosity. ‘Have you a picture of your home?’

  ‘Why, yes, pictures of home and of Father and Mother are here in my pocket.’

  He rummaged in his wallet and handed a bunch of photographs to Father. I had not seen them, so I leaned over his shoulder to look. I had not said one word during the discussion, feeling it was better for the two men to talk without interruption.

  After scrutinising them carefully, Father handed me two studio portraits, one of a plump lady whose grave expression was belied by laughter lines at the corners of the eyes. Her head was draped with a veil, and in the middle of her forehead was painted a round dot. Her carefully posed hands were small and the fingers were covered with numerous rings. On either wrist hung several bracelets. She wore also an elaborate necklace and ear-rings.

  ‘Your mother looks very pretty,’ I said, ‘and her jewellery is exquisite.’

  ‘Do you like the jewellery?’ asked Ajit, anxious to make a point. ‘You will have the same as soon as I am able to buy the gold and stones. Some also my parents will give you, and at Father’s death he will give you gold and silver for ornaments.’

  I must have looked a little incredulous and Father looked most surprised, for Ajit added: ‘Truly it will be so.’ He turned to Father. ‘All jewellery given to a wife is her property – and can be her standby in time of need.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Father non-committally. ‘What is the dot in the middle of Mrs Singh’s forehead?’

  ‘It shows that she is a Hindu. She paints it each day with vermilion – now it is worn mostly for fashion – I have even seen Muslim ladies wear it.’

  The second portrait was that of a man of great dignity, heavily moustached and black browed. He did not wear a turban. He had on instead a round, black cap, and he was buttoned into a high-necked black jacket.