Playing Fields in Winter

by Helen Harris

  *

  Ravi felt that the summer was closing in on him. It was gorgeous (to quote Sarah), it was beautiful, but it was closing in on him and he was secretly looking forward to flying home. His affair with Sarah Livingstone had been like a second private summer, running alongside the risible public one and giving it a mischievous capering shadow. It had turned the long succession of floral hats and strawberries into a celebration in which he could smilingly participate. He had never imagined that he would live like this. When he woke up in the morning and found Sarah beside him, smiling in her sleep, he could still hardly believe it. When she came running into his room, where her intimate possessions lay openly for everyone to see, each time he felt a jump of joy. He would catch sight of her in the street, across gardens, as though they were total strangers, smiling and chattering, and the connection between them repeatedly amazed him. She was tremendous. The ease, the happiness with which she had taken up his way of life here touched him deeply. It was a compliment to him, he knew, to see her mixing rice and vegetables on her plate with her fingers or kicking off her sandals to sit down barefoot on the floor, even if it looked a little silly. He had had to accommodate to her ways really remarkably little. What was the point, when she was so eager to shake them off? The two of them enjoyed their private summer and Dev and Sunil, who had begun by looking askance, now watched his happiness with envy and admiration.

  But vaguely disquieting – no, almost too unimportant to be disquieting – was any suggestion of permanence, any accidental assumption by Sarah that this idyll would continue elsewhere. Ravi knew that it was inseparably part of the university, as much as the student plays and the garden parties. Like them, it would be inconceivable outside the city. They both knew this, of course, must know this, but on some of the more rapturous nights it would have been so easy to forget it. By himself afterwards, Ravi sometimes worried that Sarah had long forgotten it and that it was really his duty to remind her. But he had been drawn to her originally for her independence, her bright resilience and he reassured himself now that those qualities would see her through when it all came to an end. Besides, how could anything so good-humoured possibly end in acrimony? When their different destinations inevitably recalled them, Sarah would cope. This was not the first time for her, after all. So he said nothing to remind her; it seemed unkind. By going back to India for the summer, he thought, he was doing enough to remind her that he belonged somewhere else.

  *

  She went to see him off at the airport, a forlorn ritual which only reinforced the impression of Ravi’s debonair departure and her sad remaining. When he had gone, she shut herself in a lavatory and cried. Outside the door, a grey mop pushed by a doleful-eyed Indian woman slopped to and fro and when Sarah came out of the cubicle, red-eyed, the woman stared at her with an unremittingly gloomy gaze. Sarah cried not only for the loss of Ravi, which was awful enough, but also for the return to monotony, for the humiliating relapse into everyday blandness which enclosed her as she rode back into London on the Underground.

  *

  ‘So tell us more about him, darling. He sounds quite fascinating.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, he’s not some exotic creature! You don’t have to talk about him as if he were an unusual specimen of pond life.’

  ‘But Sarah, I’m not doing anything of the sort. We just need to know a little more about him, don’t we, so that we can make conversation when he comes here. You said he’s reading Politics and Economics?’

  ‘You don’t need to “make conversation”, Mummy. Can’t you just be perfectly natural with him? He doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves.’

  ‘I’m not going to handle him with kid gloves. Gracious, you’re so prickly and over-sensitive these days, Sarah. Whereabouts in India did you say he comes from?’

  ‘Lucknow. But originally—’

  ‘Lucknow!’ Sarah’s father interrupted joyfully. ‘God, I remember Lucknow. I could tell you some funny stories about Lucknow …’

  *

  4 July, London

  Darling Ravi,

  How can I possibly last until September 30th? It is only three days since you left and already I miss you so much that I can’t concentrate on anything. (I hope it wears off!) I should be reading on ‘The Modern Novel’, but instead I’m afraid I’m just drifting around the house wishing it were already August, because then at least I’d have my holiday with Emily to look forward to. As it is, everything feels really moribund here; a lot of people are away and I’m pretty much cloistered in the house with my dear Mama, who is driving me slowly berserk. She keeps cross-questioning me about you, viz. ‘Does he drink? Does he smoke? Is he a vegetarian? Oh well, it’ll give me a chance to try out some of my new wholefood recipes. Is he very pernickety about his food? They usually are, aren’t they? Is he frightfully well off?’ She imagines you are some kind of maharajah, I think, since she supposes that’s the only kind of Indian who comes to Oxford. (She’s got no idea about scholarships.) I can tell the whole idea is starting rather to appeal to her, actually, so I haven’t bothered to disillusion her (much!). Now she’s wandering around the house looking smug and virtually humming songs from The King and I. You see, you really have no need to worry about staying here when you come back. You don’t need to ‘keep a low profile’ as you put it. You’ll get a VIP reception!

  Anyway, this gossip tells you there is as yet no news. Write and tell me what’s happening to you soon; how your family reunion went, etc, etc. It’s so hard not being able to imagine what it’s like where you are. It feels as though you’re in a void somewhere and will only really come back into existence at the end of September!

  These air-letters are horrible, aren’t they? Just as you get carried away, they run out. And I hate this blue. Next time, maybe I’ll write on proper paper. Will it take ages longer to get there? I do hope this letter doesn’t sound too complaining. I’m fine really. It’s just because I LOVE YOU.

  Sarah

  PS. Make sure you keep this letter well away from your father’s wandering gaze!

  *

  ‘I remember when I was compiling the pictures for the “Hunger” exhibition,’ Mr Livingstone recalled. ‘We were looking for some shots in a little place in Rajasthan. Its name escapes me. It’s a lovely region actually, with those wonderful reddish hills, but this was a beastly little place – some dusty town in the back of beyond – and I can’t think what we were doing there. And, to cap it all, it was one of the days when you weren’t allowed to buy a drink. There we were, Johnny Callaghan and myself, stuck in that godforsaken hole waiting for our picture, so we decided to go for a spin out of town to see what we could see. We struck lucky almost at once when we came upon a child with a camel pulling a plough. You see them in that part of India. We stopped the car, got out, went through our little routine with the child and made ready to take the pictures. It was Johnny’s picture, actually. Anyway, he went up to the camel, extended his lens, started focusing and said to the camel, “Stop looking so goddamn condescending. Look miserable, you beast.” And he went just a little bit closer. Then he was quite ready for the picture and he said, “Come on camel, look wretched, can’t you?” and the camel suddenly shot out a long stream of spit straight – wham! – into Johnny’s lens. Bull’s-eye! It was extraordinary, one of the damned funniest things I ever saw!’

  *

  21 July, London

  Darling Ravi,

  I am writing again, even though I haven’t yet got your answer to my first letter, because a piece of news – however trivial – has broken the monotony of my days and since I think my last letter must have sounded very low, I thought I’d write again to improve the picture. Sunil Sircar came to visit me while he was in London, as you had suggested. He’s been working in one of the libraries and staying with friends. We went for a meal in a Bangladeshi restaurant in the most sordid part of the East End – I didn’t even know it existed – and heads swivelled when Mr Sircar and I walked in! We had a really good eve
ning actually. He is very well and sends you his best wishes. He also sent you a message in Hindi, which I was supposed to write out phonetically, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it. It sounded rude.

  Do write to me soon. I know the mail’s awful and I can’t expect a reply yet, but I’ve bet myself a double vodka and lime that I’ll have one by the end of next week!

  The weather here’s dreadful; a real English summer with torrential rain, washed-out garden parties – and colds! At least, no excuse not to embark on ‘The Modern Novel’. I miss you, my Ravi.

  Love, Sarah

  *

  1 August, Lucknow

  My dear Sarah,

  Thank you for your letter. For some crazy reason, it took nearly two weeks to reach me and then I carried it around in my pocket (my breast pocket!) until I could find a quiet moment to sit down and write back to you. That took until today!

  I am leading a pretty hectic life after twelve months away, as I am sure you can imagine. I have to visit everyone and see everyone so as not to cause offence or tread on any toes. As well, people I can barely remember (and sometimes wished to forget!) keep turning up at my parents’ house to have a good stare at me and see how I’ve changed while I’ve been abroad. Paler and thinner is the general verdict! I’m beginning to feel like a display model …

  Next week I shall be at my uncle’s house in Delhi, where it’s probably best not to write to me. (I’ll only be there for a week and it could cause problems.) But if you write to me here, I will get your letter when I come back.

  I wish I had more time to work actually (and to write you a longer letter!) but my time here is hardly my own. My father has had one of his ridiculous ideas, which consists of my giving a talk at his social club on ‘A Student’s Life at Oxford University’. It sounds like a joke, but I shall actually have to look up some facts and figures, believe it or not, because some of those old fogies are bound to try and catch me out with their questions. I mustn’t imagine that you are sitting in the front row or I shall burst out laughing.

  I must stop now, as I have rashly promised to take Asha and Shakun to the cinema and I can hear them fussing around outside. I have some rubbishy film in store for me!

  Still, it is good to be back here with them, I must say (if you’ll forgive me for it!), even if I have to work hard for my keep. But, by September, I’m sure I shall have had more than enough of ‘home sweet home’. The ‘noises off’ are rising to a crescendo now and it would never do to miss the commercials! I must go. Cheer up!

  Love, Ravi

  *

  7 August, London

  Darling Ravi,

  I got your letter this morning and I’ve read it three times already! I’m glad everything’s OK and you’re having a good time. I love the thought of you giving a lecture on ‘A Student’s Life at Oxford University!’ Will you tell them about the loose morals of the female students too? I must say, I was miffed at being told not to write to you at your uncle’s house – surely everyone must know by now that the letters you’re getting are from me? – but since you didn’t give me the address in any case, I have no option. But, sulk over. You are forgiven really!

  Here, things are pretty much the same. Preparations for the holiday are well under way. Emily rang me last night in a sudden flap about money; she didn’t know if she could actually afford the holiday after all!! I nearly killed her. But the panic’s over and we’ll be leaving on August 15th and coming back at the end of the first week in September. I hope Emily turns out to be all right as a travelling companion. I can foresee friction if she gets one of her loony ideas into her head or takes a fancy to some dark-eyed Adonis. Still, it should be fun, hopefully. We’re flying to Split and getting a ferry down through the Adriatic. I’ll write to you from somewhere really gorgeous. (Desperate attempt to make you feel envious!)

  Now I suppose I should make a last attempt at finishing my ‘Modern Novel’ reading. I haven’t done nearly as much as I should, I fear. I ended up getting a waitressing job three nights a week in an American hamburger restaurant (just the kind of place you would hate). It works out quite lucrative with tips etc, but leaves me totally drained the next day. Still, sunny South, here I come!

  Lots of love and I wish September 30th were sooner.

  Love, Sarah

  PS. What do you mean by ‘problems’ at your uncle’s house? I’m most intrigued. Please explain. Love, S.

  *

  24 August, Mykonos

  Oh, darling Ravi!

  I’m lying on a rock about thirty feet above the most brilliant blue sea. The sun is beating down out of a matching sky and Emily and I are basting slowly like two fowl on a spit. (Please forgive odd spots of suntan oil!)

  The holiday so far has been great – no problems of any kind. We had one close shave in Athens when Emily insisted on investigating the night life in a distinctly sleazy part of town. I won’t go into sordid details but it ended up with us running – well, not exactly for our lives, but certainly for our virtue (!) – down a dark alley with two swarthy Athenians in hot pursuit. Honestly! Otherwise, things have been fine. These islands are so beautiful, it’s incredible. (I have fantasies of coming here one day with you!) Just imagine – totally white villages piled up on the hillsides like sugar lumps, stray rickety windmills and all around the most dazzling sea. Every night, we go down to one of the little tavernas on the waterfront and listen to bouzouki music and drink ouzo or retsina – and I miss you so much!

  We had quite a good time in Yugoslavia too, although it wasn’t one hundred per cent hedonistic like here. It was pretty interesting but in places inland the country was a bit depressing, sort of poor and primitive, with little dark children running around. We were secretly glad to get back to the sea and holiday proper!

  We have about a week here, then we move on to another island called Paros which apparently is even more beautiful and unspoilt. Now it’s time to turn over onto my back again, I think, to roast my front. Mmm …

  If I didn’t have something to look forward to at the end of September, I think I could stay here for ever.

  Lots of love,

  Sarah

  *

  1 September, Lucknow

  My dear Sarah,

  Another letter – and another! What have I done to deserve this? My father remarked suspiciously this morning, ‘Your friend S. Livingstone is a prolific correspondent.’ I agreed! I would of course have answered much sooner, but I knew you would be away. Hopefully this letter will arrive in time for your return anyway. I’m sure your holiday was a great success and I very much look forward to hearing all about it (with tales of excitement and adventure, I bet!). I have had little of either here, but a great deal of toing and froing. I ended up staying in Delhi for nearly two weeks, instead of just one. My uncle and aunt were very welcoming, in fact nearly too much so. It was one round of dinners and parties and visits. He is a pretty big wheel in the Government now and has a lifestyle to match. I also visited some old college friends – members of the clandestine radio group, remember? It was good fun. Then back here for a few days before another trip to Kanpur to visit some old family friends. That went quite well too, but it was all pretty exhausting and now I need a few days to recover!

  There is also talk of another visit to my uncle’s house just before I leave for England. He is very keen, but I’m not so sure if I am. Still, we shall see.

  You ask one or two searching questions, which I cannot evade entirely! In all honesty, no, I have not told the whole family precisely who my faithful correspondent is, only my brother Ramesh. For reasons which I am sure you understand, it would probably only cause more trouble than it’s worth. (My mother would not go around the house humming Broadway musical songs!) As regards not writing to me care of my uncle, frankly I’m surprised you ask. I think you can probably see why; it would cause a million and one raised eyebrows when I come for such a short stay – as if the letter must be so urgent that it couldn’t await my return! My uncle is also q
uite a big shot and, for all I know, his mail may be scrutinised. Your letter could give rise to all sorts of complications.

  But these are trivia; why am I devoting so much precious air-letter space to them?

  Look at the date, Sarah; only thirty days to go! Till then, I think of you.

  All my love, Ravi

  *

  9 September, London

  Dearest Ravi,

  I found your letter when I got back yesterday. It was lovely to find it, as everything else felt a bit flat. The holiday was marvellous, but you know how it is when you get back – all the normal everyday things seem doubly hard to put up with. I hope you got my letter from Mykonos and I also sent a postcard later from Paros, but it didn’t say much. There weren’t too many ‘tales of excitement and adventure’, as you put it, but Emily did have her beach-bag pinched on Paros. Luckily there wasn’t anything of much value in it, but some swarthy Greek probably made his lady a generous gift of Emily’s bikini!

  It certainly sounds as though you’ve had your share of gallivanting around too. I looked up the places where you’d been (Kanpur etc) in the atlas. (On my father’s it seems to be spelt Cawnpore?) I wanted to get some sort of idea of what it was actually like where you were, but needless to say failed miserably. Still, you’ll be able to tell me all about it yourself soon enough – in twenty-one days precisely. Let me know your flight so that I can come out to the airport to meet you. Then let’s go back to Oxford as soon as possible. I don’t fancy sticking around here any longer than I have to. The next three weeks I shall have to work like mad catching up on everything I haven’t done. So it’s just going to be a question of putting my head down and sitting tight until you appear.