I covered the lower half of the face with my hand and looked at the eyes alone. Without the moustache to distract attention, the eyes and forehead were surprisingly benign.
There were several snaps of relations and friends, all looking untidy in an assortment of draperies, and finally there was a photograph of a large, white building, reminiscent of a tiered wedding cake.
‘What is this building?’ asked Father.
‘It is my father’s house.’
‘Really?’ said Father. I echoed his surprise. The building had two floors and at each corner there was a tower like a minaret. There was a pillared entrance, and carved veranda rails ran the width of the house at both ground and first-floor levels. A fine sweep of steps led from a well-laid-out garden up to the front door. In a corner of the picture I could see the outline of a gardener at work.
‘What is your father, Ajit?’
‘He is a retired District Magistrate.’
Father asked many more questions, to which Ajit replied patiently. Both of them were doing well, considering their differing backgrounds.
In his youth Father had been taught, as indeed I had been at school, that Indians were natives who existed to serve the long-suffering British in return for our ‘protection’. Englishmen went to India to rule or to make money and, in either case, they returned to England, to retire in comfort to a house in Harrogate or Bath. Probably the only history of India Father had learned at school was of Clive, the relief of Cawnpore, the Black Hole of Calcutta and, possibly, of the indictment of Hastings. Fortunately he had compensated for his public school education by much reading on every conceivable subject. During the First World War, he had fought in Russia in a polyglot army sent to fight the Bolsheviks. He always said he learned more about people during that period of his life than at any other time. I knew that he had learned Japanese and Russian from his fellow soldiers. It was upon these experiences that I think he drew in trying to understand Ajit, and because he had worked, fought, lived and eaten with men from the East that he regarded them as real people, who desired, loved, quarrelled and struggled through life just as he did – only their struggle was harder. He had always taken an interest in my work amongst coloured people in the city, and he was, therefore, prepared for the possible advent of coloured friends – but it had never occurred to him that I might take a brown husband.
Gradually the conversation petered out and he was left with an uneasy feeling that although he could find no concrete arguments against it, such an unconventional marriage should not take place. He said, with a sigh: ‘Well, think this conversation over, Singh – and you too, Peggie – before you do anything rash.’
We assented and Ajit rose, shook Father’s rather limp hand, and I saw him to the door. His face had the tightly shut-off look that I had seen before when he was thinking deeply. He knew he had not really convinced Father, and I was suddenly afraid that Father might have implanted in him doubts that would make him retreat. As this fear rose in me, I knew with certainty that I did not want to lose him at any cost – not at any cost.
He kissed me gently on the lips, said he would see me the following day at the club, and walked with the flat-footed gait of a man used to loose sandals down the path, out of the gate and along the road. I stood on the steps as long as I could hear his footfalls on the pavement, and then, feeling intensely lonely, I went slowly up to bed.
I lay sleepless for a long time, remembering how each time I had imagined I was to be happily married, the man concerned had been taken from me. Would Ajit, not wishing to harm me, voluntarily leave me?
When I slept I saw in my dreams Shiva dancing his dance of death; and he was laughing at my puny efforts to escape him.
CHAPTER TEN
On Monday, my hours of duty at the club were from ten in the morning until six in the evening, and when they had dragged to an end, I sat by the fire in the lounge, which was empty, and waited for Ajit. I had told Mother that I would take my dinner at the club, but the thought of food nauseated me; apprehension about the future filled me. Supposing Ajit backed out of his proposal, feeling that Father was right and I should marry amongst my own people. Supposing we did marry and it was not a success. What should I do?
A hand came over the back of my chair and lifted my chin. Ajit leaned over and kissed me. My fears left me; just by the assured touch of his fingers, I knew we would be married, and the rest would be what we made of it.
We announced our engagement, and Mother had a fine time preparing for a wedding. Father was sadly silent; he barely spoke to me, although he expressed his pleasure at my joy over the first presents which Ajit gave me – a red silk sari embroidered in gold, and a thick, gold bracelet. With the exception of the two engagement rings which lay in cotton wool in my dressing-table drawer, they were the most beautiful gifts I had ever received, and it was with some pride that I exhibited them to my friends.
The engagement announcement caused a fuss amongst Ajit’s Indian fellow students, and arguments for and against the union raged in many cheap digs, but Ajit went steadily on with his arrangements, despite the dismal prophecies of his friends. All he hoped was that no one would write and tell his father, before he could get home and tell him himself. It was not possible for me to fly with him to India as passages were hard to obtain and, furthermore, I wished to give the McShane Club a month’s notice of my intention to leave. It was, therefore, arranged that I should travel by sea, arriving in India about the middle of May.
‘It will be very hot at that time,’ said Ajit.
‘Never mind, the sea voyage will give me plenty of rest, so that I shall be better able to cope with the heat,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Besides, to come by plane with you would be so expensive.’
‘Miser,’ he said, but he was pleased. Long afterwards he told me that he would not have dared to marry me, if it had not been apparent that I was careful with money. In India, he would not earn so much that he could risk having an extravagant wife.
The question of guests at our wedding was a difficult one. Grandma – my mother’s mother – who was a product of a strict Victorian upbringing, thought it was a tremendous lark, she said she only wished she was young enough to kick over the traces too, and promptly spent hours putting fine stiches into petticoats for me. Her single daughters, Mother’s elder sisters, were horrified, and refused to associate themselves with the marriage at all, regarding Grandma as someone who had suddenly lost her senses. Father had one younger brother, living in London with his numerous family, and in reply to the invitation sent him, he wrote that he was sorry he could not come but he could not approve of such a union, to which his wife, Louise, had added a postscript that I should not take any notice of him – he just could not afford to come – but if things went wrong in India their home would always be open to me, and she and the children sent their good wishes with the enclosed. The enclosed proved to be two Benares brass vases made in Sheffield.
My friends’ attitude generally was that sorrow had turned my brain, but that it was not their responsibility to interfere; and those I asked to the wedding accepted and were cordial to Ajit. A few, bless them, saw the calibre of the man I was to marry and congratulated me with enthusiasm.
Ajit asked a peculiar assortment of people, all sharply different from each other, but all with one interest in common – Ajit.
There was his Professor, who afterwards became a close friend of Father’s; there was the riproaring Chundabhai and his Sheila Ferguson; there was a precise, quietly spoken English physicist with a plump, untidy wife, and an Indian physician with his English wife who impressed my parents greatly by her serene manner. There was also a large, important-looking business man with an equally large, important-looking wife, and although petrol was rationed, they arrived in a car which matched them – big and sleek. This man was the Production Director of a firm with whom Ajit had at various times done some practical work on instruments. Both he and his wife did much to make the reception a success – they move
d amongst the other guests, talking politely all the time and being most helpful to my hard-pressed parents. They met Dr Gantry and Bessie and eventually became Committee members of the McShane.
Lastly, there was Dr Wu, who, encased in a new, dark suit for the occasion, was the best man. Although his hair had been carefully combed, it hung down over his forehead like a shaggy dog’s, nearly touching the narrow eyes which crinkled up in laughter every few minutes. That same laughter softened his thin face, giving a kindly curve to the wide mouth and exposing unusually small, perfect teeth.
He greeted Angela as if she were an old friend although he had not met her before. He was acquainted with her work through the papers which she had published since the war, and she in turn knew about his work, so they had plenty to talk about in between discharging their respective duties at the wedding.
We were married before the law with a garble of words intoned over us by a disapproving Registrar; and with a flow of tender understanding between us we were married before the Creator.
The reception, which I had expected to be cold and stiff, was, on the contrary, a merry affair. Mother had opened up our big dining-room and lounge, and had asked a firm of caterers to supply the wedding breakfast. With prewar opulence, fires roared in both rooms, and the last of Grandfather’s wine cellar flowed in our honour. Angela worked like a honey bee to make the party a success.
Father was much relieved when Ajit’s Professor, warmed by several glasses of port, confided to him that his sister had married a Bengali Brahmin some twenty years before, that it had caused a near scandal but it had proved a great success – she was most happy – had come home on a visit only the previous year bringing two shy, adolescent sons – the elder boy was going to attend his lectures next year. He went on: ‘Fine young man – this Singh – will make a name for himself one day.’
Father expanded, and when it was time for us to go, he came over to Ajit and wrung his hand.
‘Take care of her,’ he said.
‘I will, Sir.’
A taxi was waiting and Ajit was calling. I was kissed by everybody. James whispered: ‘Good luck, old girl,’ and then I was really alone with my husband for the first time since he had proposed to me – the taxi driver being kind enough not to turn round during the whole eight miles of the drive to the small inn where we were to spend three precious days together.
During the war, Angela and I had sometimes come out to this inn in order to get a night’s sleep free of air raids, so I knew its clean, cold bedrooms well, and they did not inspire romance. I was astounded, therefore, when the Polish maid opened the door of our bedroom.
The brass bedstead had been pushed back, and a wood fire blazed in the hearth. In front of it was a table laid for a meal. A bottle of wine glowed warmly on a side table, which held also a basket of fruit and a bowl of flowers which looked as if it had been arranged by an artist. A box of chocolates, its lid alluringly half off, sat on the dressing-table. Some parcels tied with coloured ribbon lay on the bed.
‘Ajit,’ I cried, ‘what have you been doing?’
Ajit grinned shyly.
‘Chinese gentleman – he come this morning and see all is right – he make flowers in bowl,’ the Polish girl said.
‘I asked Wu to arrange for me, as Mother is not here to make ready for you,’ said Ajit.
I looked with gratitude at the room and went and lovingly touched the flower arrangement. Two men had done all this! How could they have guessed at the shyness, the innermost fears of a not very young woman, and know how to divert her?
‘You like dinner now?’ asked the girl.
‘In about three-quarters of an hour,’ said Ajit, taking off his overcoat.
He helped me to remove my outdoor clothes and I kissed him. I had never done so before – he had always kissed me. He led me to an easy chair by the fire and sat down with me on his knee. I laid my head on his shoulder. I could feel his heart pattering furiously. He stroked my cheek with one finger. ‘Rani,’ he said.
There was a knock on the door. I sprang up. Mrs Samson, the innkeeper’s wife, had come herself to serve our dinner. She pottered about the room, congratulating Ajit and at the same time serving us with roast chicken. She was fat and full of jokes, pressing us to eat more and telling anecdotes of her own youthful days in service. Finally, she added some logs to the fire and, taking the dishes with her, she left us to our port and ourselves.
Ajit took his port and climbed on to the bed and seated himself cross-legged as if he was on a divan. I curled up by him. While I sipped my port, he made me open the parcels. There was a pearl necklace, some nylon stockings, some embroidered handkerchiefs and some perfume. He watched me intently while I exclaimed over the various gifts, but gradually silence fell between us. He put down his glass on the side table and took mine and placed it beside his own. He lay down close to me and the slender fingers caressed my throat.
As we sipped our early morning tea and gossiped lazily, Ajit asked me if I did not find his brown skin ugly in comparison with my exquisite whiteness.
I stopped drinking tea. In the three days that we had been together it had never occurred to me that he was a different colour. All I could remember was a feeling of admiration that a man could look so handsome. I told him this, and his teeth sparkled in a grin and the eyes with their incredibly long lashes crinkled up wickedly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As I saw the London plane take off and circle round the airport, I could feel my legs giving way under me. No matter how many times I told myself that Ajit was going on an ordinary journey done every day by hundreds of people, I could not eradicate the feeling that this was a final farewell and I would never see him again; it was a feeling left over from the sad goodbyes of wartime, tied to the fact that his family might exert unbearable pressure upon him to desert me. It happened often enough, and, knowing that everybody had a breaking point, I did not think I would blame him if he failed to send for me. He loved me – but distance does not always make the heart grow fonder, said a cynical voice within me. I tried to think dispassionately of being left alone again, but I could not. I loved him. I ached with love.
Angela was waiting at the entrance to the airport. She had insisted on waiting outside for me, so that I could have a last few words with Ajit. We went home together, but I did no more than have a word with Mother and then took the bus down to the club. My honeymoon was over.
People came forward to shake my hand. Dr Wu had told all the club members about the wedding and they were very courteous about it. The attitude of the Indians towards me changed markedly. Whereas they normally tucked themselves away in corners, forming a tight clique, today they came and asked politely after my health and that of Ajit. They did not shake hands with me but raised their hands, palms together, in their own form of salute. I was one of them now and they were showing that they accepted me. They were charmed when I returned their salute in the same fashion and said: ‘Namaste,’ as Ajit had taught me. They would have kept me with them to talk, but I had work to do and had to leave them.
‘Come soon and visit me,’ said one of the girl students, pulling her sari round her.
‘I will.’
I went to see Bessie. She told me I looked wonderful and, indeed, I knew I was glowing like a lamp newly lit.
‘I didn’t see Dr Wu in the lounge,’ I said idly, as I pulled off my gloves and took off my coat. I saw that there was a pile of correspondence waiting for me on my desk.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ asked Bessie in surprise. ‘He had news yesterday that his father had been executed – his brothers have fled to Hongkong.’
‘My God!’ I said. ‘How terrible!’
I sat down at my desk and stared unseeingly at the letters on it. ‘I thought he was a member of the Communist Party – he fought with them – he’s got a bullet wound in one leg, I’m told. I always imagined that his family were very happy under the Communist régime – that it was the fulfilment of all their hopes.’
>
‘He’s not a party member, according to his application form,’ said Bessie. ‘I took the trouble of having a look, because it seemed queer to me too – he believed wholeheartedly in their cause – he was always talking about it.’
‘Poor Wu,’ I said. ‘He is bereaved in more ways than one then – and he is such a kind soul. I wonder what he will do now.’
‘Can’t imagine,’ said Bessie, picking up the telephone.
I started to go through the accumulation of letters. I wrote a letter to Wu expressing Ajit’s and my sympathy and assuring him of our lasting friendship. Then I sent for a stenographer. Among the pile of letters I dictated was one to a London bookseller asking for a Gujerati grammar, dictionary and reader. Ajit and I had agreed that I should learn first the language of Shahpur district, and later on learn Hindi, which was his mother tongue.
The books arrived three days later. They were dilapidated second-hand copies – the only ones the dealer could obtain – but they answered the purpose. They became my constant companions. I read them on the bus going to and from work, and propped them in front of me while washing dishes or doing my hair. At the end of the week I had mastered the alphabet and the rest came more easily. The Indian girl who had invited me to visit her had a friend who was a Gujerati. The Gujerati girl, on the promise of reciprocal English lessons, was persuaded to come to the club four times a week to hear me read and, after a while, converse. At one time I had congratulated myself on acquiring a working knowledge of German in six months; now I wanted to learn an oriental language in six weeks at an age when languages do not come easily to the tongue. Spurred by necessity, however, I learned at least to understand simple conversation.
On the same day that the books arrived, Mother telephoned to say that a cable had come from Bombay telling of Ajit’s safe arrival. A load slid off my back and I could admit how afraid I had been for his safety. As I put the telephone back on to the rest, I saw again the room at the inn, lit only by the falling logs in the fireplace, and I sighed wistfully.
Thursday's Child Page 8
