I was sitting on the back step one day, talking to her and at the same time feeding a kid with cactus leaves from a nearby bush – to the amusement of the goatherd – when the postman cycled up.
‘So many letters, Memsahib,’ he said as he handed me three. I smiled. He was reminding me that he worked hard for us, so that his Diwali tip would be generous.
Only one letter was addressed to me personally. It was from Father, who hoped I was well, informed me that he was having some success with his chrysanthemums, had been made Chairman of a Red Cross Committee, and that the country was going to the dogs. I felt a tug of homesickness and for a moment the tangy smell of chrysanthemums obliterated the odour of the desert.
The other letters were for Ajit, one from Delhi addressed in a firm Italian hand of slender up strokes and heavy down ones, and one from Simla in the crabbed, hasty writing of a note maker. I propped them against a silver candlestick in the living-room and returned to the kitchen to cook the dinner.
‘Letters for you, love,’ I called, when I heard Ajit’s step on the veranda, and, wiping my hands on my pinafore, I went to kiss him.
He was looking at the letter in the Italian hand. ‘Father,’ he said softly, and quickly slit the envelope.
I felt as awed as if he had said God had written, and sat down on the edge of a basket chair to hear what had caused such an event.
Ajit sat down by the table and read in silence, and when he came to the end he put his head down upon the table and burst into tears.
Horrified, I ran to him and put my arm round his shoulders, begging him at the same time to tell me what had happened.
He buried his damp face in my pinafore, sobbed a moment or two and then with a beaming smile looked up at me and said: ‘It is joy. I cry for joy.’
‘Your father has written kindly?’
Ajit hugged me round the waist. ‘He has written that we are both to come home for Diwali. He has announced our marriage, and desires to make the acquaintance of his new daughter.’
‘My darling,’ I exclaimed, ‘I am so happy – so very happy, for your sake.’
‘Life is kind,’ said Ajit, hugging me tighter. ‘You are well – the house blossoms under your feet – and now we have again a family.’
‘What about the other letter?’ I asked, laughing at his poetic flights.
‘Oh, yes. It’s from Bhim. What’s he doing in Simla at this time of year?’ he queried as he examined the postmark.
‘Open it and see.’
He opened the letter. There was only one sheet of paper, closely covered with Hindi characters. Ajit translated it as he read: ‘Dear Brother, Nulini and I have come here for a rest, as she has had fever – Bannerji is looking after my practice during my absence. Mother writes that you are coming home for Diwali, and Nulini and I expect to return in time to welcome Peggie and you. Father announced your marriage. Mother says Uncles were amazed and she has been inundated with visitors who have come to ask about Peggie. There is great interest, although I believe no animosity.
‘Nulini is becoming strong again, and she is teaching me to dance. I did not know that she liked to dance. On our return to Delhi we shall join a small club, so that we can dance and play a game of bridge occasionally.
‘When you come to Delhi, I shall consult you about buying a radio and a pickup. I have never really listened to Western music – Nulini says I am missing much enjoyment.
‘We both send namastes to Peggie and you.’
Ajit looked at me out of the corner of his eye and grinned. ‘There is more to this letter than meets the eyes,’ he said. ‘What on earth has driven Bhim to learn to dance?’
‘Ha,’ I said wickedly, ‘what about your learning to dance – I didn’t know that one could dance in India.’
He looked at me appalled. ‘No!’
‘Yes,’ I said ruthlessly. ‘You could dance a little when you were in England. We’ll start again tonight – and you can take me to a dance when we go to Delhi.’
‘Oh, no,’ he wailed in mock misery.
We had a most entertaining evening while he renewed his knowledge of the waltz.
Ajit was dizzy with excitement during the days that followed. He nearly burst with happiness. So obvious was it, that the eldest Miss Shah inquired if I was going to have a baby.
‘Not just yet,’ I said.
When I lay ill, she had asked me if my parents-in-law had accepted me, because it was strange that no one had come to my aid from the family. I had asked her not to talk about the matter to anybody else and had then told her what had happened. Knowing the situation, she had rejoiced with me at Mrs Singh’s visit, and now I expected that she would share my pleasure again; but instead she looked very troubled. At last she said: ‘Are you not afraid of being poisoned?’
‘Poisoned? Good heavens, why should I be?’
Miss Shah said uneasily: ‘It is not an unknown way of getting rid of an unwanted daughter-in-law.’
‘Ridiculous,’ I said.
But as the train to Delhi carried us through the bleak country of Rajasthan, the clattering wheels chanted: ‘Poison, poison, poison,’ until I wanted to scream. As it slowed down to enter Delhi junction, it said: ‘Could be poisoned and burned in a night, burned in a night, burned in a night.’
At the station before Delhi junction there was a general exodus from our carriage and nobody else got in; Ajit and I were left in possession. I sat quietly as the train jerked forward again. We had long since rolled up our bedding and packed away the books we had bought to while away the thirty-hour journey, and nothing remained to be done, except listen to the chant of the wheels.
My face must have shown something of my sickening doubts, for Ajit looked at me and asked: ‘Are you all right, Rani?’
I could not answer. Unreasonable fear clamped my throat shut.
Ajit looked alarmed: ‘Dearest, what is it?’
I found my voice. ‘Ajit, I’m so frightened.’
‘Why should you be frightened?’ He put his arm round me comfortingly.
‘It’s something Miss Shah said,’ I said hesitatingly. I felt I must lay this terrifying ghost. Common sense told me I was being ridiculous – and yet I did not really know how bitter were the feelings of my father-in-law. Dreadful crimes had been committed at the time of the partitioning of the country, and how could I be sure that an equal anger might not descend on me?
‘Well, and what did Miss Gossip say?’
I told him.
‘Women!’ he exclaimed, ‘and some in particular.’
The typically Lancashire exclamation which he had picked up made me giggle, in spite of my fears.
‘Do you honestly believe that my father would murder my wife?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said defensively. ‘How can I know what people will do – anything could happen in such a strange country.’
‘You deserve to be spanked,’ said Ajit grimly. ‘To begin with, if Father really wished to get rid of you, there are a thousand more easy and less incriminating ways than poisoning you in his own house.’ He shook me playfully, and went on: ‘Secondly, although I know this is to you a queer, rickety old country, we do not as a rule spend our time poisoning people, even if we dislike them. There are probably not many more murders per head of population here than there are in England – and not even Father could escape official inquiry into the sudden death in his home of a perfectly healthy young woman.’
I felt ashamed.
He continued: ‘Miss Shah is romancing. Perhaps such things did happen long ago – I cannot say – but she has no right to fill your head with such rubbish. Why did you not ask me about it before?’
‘I did not know how you would take it.’
He was hurt. ‘Rani,’ he said very gently. ‘I have told you before that you must never be afraid to confide in me. I love you and you could not do anything which would break that love.’ He bent his head and kissed me; the kiss became a deep and long one. ‘Love you, love you, love you,
’ recited the wheels.
‘Porter, Sahib?’ asked a very intrigued man, as he put his head through the carriage window.
We laughed and jumped apart. Ajit looked out of the window nearest to him. ‘I can see them,’ he shouted. I straightened my travel-stained sari, took up my handbag and shawl and picked my way after Ajit through the luggage strewn on the floor. The porter wrenched open the door, we gave him hasty instructions, took his number and stepped down on to the platform. Then we were running hand in hand towards the little couple, who looked so fragile and lonely in the milling crowd.
I let go of Ajit’s hand and allowed him to approach first. He took dust from their feet, while Shushila, whom I had not noticed previously, danced up to me. ‘Are you my new sister?’ she asked.
I smiled. ‘If you are Shushila, I am.’
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she shouted, ‘I have found sister – see.’
Ajit had drilled me well for this meeting. My sari veiled my head and most of my face. I kept my eyes a little down and made my best namaste to my parents. I was a foot taller than Ram Singh, but he had an awe-inspiring dignity as he looked at me coldly for a moment. Then the big moustache twitched and he smiled, as he said in perfect English: ‘You are welcome, daughter.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Allow me to take your shawl,’ he said, just as Father would have done. The quiet, Western courtesy, remembered presumably specially for my benefit, to make me feel more at ease, touched my heart, and I handed the shawl to him with a frank smile, looking shyly into his eyes as I might well have done if he had been an elderly Englishman. He seemed to like it and straightened himself, smoothed his whiskers and called Shushila. Meanwhile, Mrs Singh turned from Ajit to ask me if I was now quite well and not too tired. I assured her that I was now comparatively strong and whispered that it was due to her great kindness. She giggled like a girl, but did not reply; possibly she had not yet told her husband of her visit to Shahpur, and I resolved not to betray her by an idle word.
We went through the vast halls of the station to the world outside, where I pulled up short. I had forgotten that it was Diwali.
The city was bathed in light. It burst upon my senses as if the sparkle of a huge catherine wheel had enveloped me. Lights were everywhere, outlining every building; arc lamps added grace to new buildings, tiny separate lights outlined the older establishments and left their ugliness in darkness, lights in the gutters and on the pavements kindled from carefully collected scraps of paper, by beggars and refugees; but best of all, thousands of tiny oil lamps outlining Ajit’s home, as we drove up to it.
Every balustrade, every window sill, had its row of lamps; intricate patterns in the brightest colours had been painted on the wide entrance steps; several small children were chasing each other backwards and forwards across the veranda, and through the windows came a buzz of conversation from their elders. Somewhere someone was plucking at a stringed instrument and the plaintive notes reverberated through my head, as I descended from the car after Mrs Singh, and stood hesitating at the foot of the steps looking up at the family before me. I hesitated only a moment, but it was sufficient to photograph upon my memory a picture which would stay with me always; long after the family had scattered I would remember them as I saw them then.
At the top of the steps stood a tall, glittering woman and by her side an equally tall, handsome man. It was my first glimpse of Bimla, who was to give me an intimate friendship; the man by her side was her new husband. Behind her stood Ayah and Thakkur, whose affection I was to enjoy through many years; they were craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the new daughter-in-law. Bimla had her arm round the shoulders of a slender, veiled woman – Nulini, I guessed correctly. Half-way down the steps was a big, shy-looking man, bending down to catch Shushila, who ran up to him. ‘Bhim,’ she cried. ‘Brother Bhim, we have brought sister.’
Finally, at the foot of the steps was the father, who, once having made up his mind to accept me into his family, was to enrich Ajit’s and my life by his learning and wisdom, and a few steps further up was the mother, to whom I would turn in times of stress as automatically as if she was my own mother.
The moment came and went. The photograph remained.
The group broke into movement. Bhim rushed down the steps, Shushila tucked under one arm and protesting loudly.
‘Ajit!’
‘Bhim! – How well you look – and how happy, you old scoundrel.’
‘I am happy,’ he replied simply. He smiled at me, but I was not introduced – I was a member of the family and needed no introduction. Nulini and Bimla started down the steps towards me, as Ajit, talking gaily to his mother and his brother, ascended towards Bimla’s husband and a bevy of aunts, uncles and cousins, who came pouring out of the house. I prepared to follow Ajit, but Ram Singh stepped back until he was level with me. He viewed his house with approbation, and gesturing towards it, he asked: ‘Do you know why we light up our houses like this?’
‘No, Sir,’ I said respectfully.
‘We believe that Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune, will come to the house which is most brightly lit up.’
‘May she enter your house,’ I said.
Ram Singh looked round at his family chattering on the steps; he saw the children of his brothers playing on his verandas; he heard the merry voices of his kinsmen enjoying his hospitality; and he looked up at his wife, who had turned round on the top step, to see why we were not following her in.
She smiled down at her husband and I saw him look up at her with the same sweet expression that Ajit had for me. He turned and looked at me, making a gay little gesture towards Mrs Singh. ‘I think Lakshmi has been in my house for many years,’ he said roguishly, his moustaches twitching and his heavy eyebrows curving upwards over the eyes which were narrowed in merriment.
I laughed. ‘I feel sure she has,’ I said.
Ajit ran down the steps again, and I put my hand into his. ‘Come and meet your family,’ he said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THURSDAY’S CHILD
Helen Forrester was born in Hoylake, Cheshire, the eldest of seven children. For many years, until she married, her home was Liverpool – a city that features prominently in her work. For the past forty years she has lived in Alberta, Canada.
Helen Forrester is the author of four bestselling volumes of autobiography and a number of equally successful novels, the latest of which is Madame Barbara. In 1988 she was awarded an honorary D. Litt by the University of Liverpool in recognition of her achievements as an author. The University of Alberta conferred on her the same honour in 1993.
OTHER WORKS
By Helen Forrester
Fiction
THURSDAY’S CHILD
THE LATCHKEY KID
LIVERPOOL DAISY
THREE WOMEN OF LIVERPOOL
THE MONEYLENDERS OF SHAHPUR
YES, MAMA
THE LEMON TREE
THE LIVERPOOL BASQUE
MOURNING DOVES
MADAME BARBARA
Non-fiction
TWOPENCE TO CROSS THE MERSEY
LIVERPOOL MISS
BY THE WATERS OF LIVERPOOL
LIME STREET AT TWO
COPYRIGHT
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This paperback edition 1999
Previously published in paperback by
HarperCollins 1994
Fontana 1985
Reprinted six times
First published in Great Britain as
Alien There Is None by
Hodder and Stoughto
n Ltd 1959
Copyright © J. Rana 1959
The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
EPub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN 9780007392186
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