Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  Light footsteps approached. The sound of a bolt being thrown. The viewing hatch opened and a woman’s face appeared behind the fretworked screen.

  “Yes?” she said, peering out to see who had dared to knock on her door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the glare sufficiently to take in the two figures standing before her. She seemed too busy to smile and looked at them with suspicion.

  “Is this St. Bride’s mission?” Dr. Schofield asked, holding up the slip of paper.

  “Who are you?” The woman came closer to the screen, checking the street in both directions. From behind the door they could hear evidence of occupation, that constant, dull cacophony when there are too many people in one place.

  “There’s no sign on the door,” Dr. Schofield explained. “I wasn’t sure if we had the right address.”

  “What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “My name is Dr. George Schofield, and this is my daughter, Sophie.” He paused a moment. “I think you’re expecting us. It’s very hot out here,” he added, removing his hat to display his fatigue. “Might we come inside?”

  The woman assessed him for a little longer, then slammed the hatch closed. In a few moments, the heavy timbers were heaved open on a hidden hinge that seemed to split the door in two, as though one entrance had been secreted within another. The woman stretched out her arm to aid Sophie’s negotiation of the step, bringing her into the cool of the shade beyond the thick stone wall. Dr. Schofield climbed in behind her.

  “You must excuse me,” said the woman, bolting the door shut and finally offering them a smile. “We get some unwelcome visitors here. There are still a lot of people who don’t approve of our activities and try to make trouble for us. Here,” she noticed Sophie’s fatigue with concern and urged her to sit on the cool stone block that ran the length of the wall, “let me bring you some water.”

  Sophie sat gratefully and pulled the sari from her head, using her hand to fan herself a little. The air was less unforgiving here, and she took a few moments to rest and take in her surroundings, sitting beneath the shade of the deep archway that passed under the building. A few yards ahead, it appeared to open out into a small square courtyard that dropped down through the center of the house like a hidden cloister, where a squabbling group of sparrows bathed in the overspill from a stone water trough fed by an old hand pump. Sophie breathed deeply, taking in the thick scent of dry dust and rich spices that clung to the inner walls.

  The woman returned carrying a clay jug and two cups. Tall and lean, with jet-black hair and pale, translucent skin peppered with freckles, she sat down beside them and poured some water before handing a cup to each of them. Dr. Schofield guessed that she was not quite Indian, a woman of mixed blood. Sophie took her cup and began to drink, gulping down all of it, and nodding gratefully as the woman refilled it for her. Dr. Schofield sipped at his cautiously.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t given you the water from our well,” she said with a smile. “It doesn’t seem to agree with everyone. This has been boiled.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said, returning the cup to her. “Gosh. That’s so much better.”

  The woman gave her an approving nod. “Dehydration is a very real danger. You must remember to drink plenty.”

  “This place certainly took some finding,” Dr. Schofield said.

  “We don’t exactly advertise ourselves.” The woman poured some water into the cup Sophie had used and quenched her own thirst. “Where have you traveled from?”

  “East,” Dr. Schofield said evasively, frowning briefly to himself. “Although we are from England.”

  “I can see that.” The woman laughed, a big, generous laugh filled with white teeth. “But isn’t this rather out of the way for a…” She paused, suddenly embarrassed. “Never mind. It just seems that you’ve traveled a very long way only to find an overcrowded, tumbledown house. We do our best,” she said. “It’s not too bad at the moment, but there are times when we’ve been quite overrun. Forgive me for the way I answered the door. We have to be careful of reprisals. Nobody ever wants to admit that a girl doesn’t get into that condition on her own. Some are raped, sometimes by members of their own family.” She spoke matter-of-factly, unruffled by Dr. Schofield’s evident discomfort. “Others have been led up the garden path and left in the lurch. You know how these things are.” She smiled at Sophie. “We don’t ask questions here. We’ve seen it all before.”

  “Your English is very good,” Sophie complimented her.

  “I went to school in England,” the woman said.

  “Really?” Dr. Schofield straightened himself, determined to appear suitably impressed, despite his exhaustion. Thank God, he thought. Thank God this place was as he was told. He couldn’t have borne to put Sophie into one of those terrible places people talked about. He would have refused, and he had told his wife as much, vowing that he would not leave her anywhere if he thought it unsuitable. Veronica had screamed at him and had thrown a vase and told him that if he dared to come back with Sophie, she would leave. She would not suffer the humiliation of it.

  Dr. Schofield felt a wave of tiredness as some of the tension seeped from him. With all his remaining strength, he somehow managed a smile for the woman who had shown them kindness today. “So, if you went to school in England, may I ask how on earth you ended up in a remote place like this?”

  “My mother founded the mission years ago.”

  “Your mother?” Dr. Schofield sat to attention slightly. “Miss Pinto is your mother?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled. “She had a love affair which she foolishly assumed would end in marriage, then discovered that she was expecting me. The man couldn’t get away fast enough. He was British, of course, and already married to someone else. They always were in those days.” Sophie stared at her incredulously, taken aback by her openness. “Don’t worry. It could have been a lot worse. At least he had the decency to give her a generous payout before deserting her, enough for her to buy herself a house and not to have to worry about putting food in my mouth. She found this place and bought it for next to nothing, then placed the rest of the money in trust. My mother turned out to be quite a whiz with her investments, and sometimes we receive donations.” She looked at Dr. Schofield with a sudden air of deference. “And your generosity was a gift from God.”

  Dr. Schofield nodded in small acknowledgement. All this talk of saving for a rainy day, after the war and all; he had thought it a stupid expression. But he had saved anyway, regardless of the vagaries of life and death, and now had come the downpour. God knows he would have given it all, and more, to have made this go away, to have saved his daughter from this cruelty. But there was nothing more that he could do, and the money might at least go some way to salving his conscience.

  Noticing Dr. Schofield’s drifting expression, the woman brightened with a small clap of her hands. “Well!” she said. “We’ve never wanted for anything. Right now we have twelve women here, but that could change tomorrow. Some don’t stay very long, others have been here for years, too afraid to leave.”

  “Well, well.” Dr. Schofield looked up and admired the decaying old house, its battered state lending its faded pink grandeur a suitably feminine charm. “Who would have thought it?”

  “Would you like to come and meet the family?”

  Recovered from the heat, Sophie and Dr. Schofield followed the woman across the courtyard, through a door in the far corner that opened into a small, untidy office. She called hello, switching effortlessly to Hindi as she announced the arrivals, showing the pair of them into the cramped room where an elderly woman, plump and soft-figured, looked up from a pile of paperwork.

  “Maa? This is Dr. Schofield and his daughter, Sophie.”

  “Ah.” Miss Pinto stood up. “We meet at last.” She shook hands firmly with Dr. Schofield and offered Sophie a sympathetic smile. “Do take a seat.” She
gave them a moment to settle themselves. “I see you have met my daughter, Pearl.”

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Can I offer you some tea?”

  “Yes please,” said Dr. Schofield, and they entered into a ritual of small talk about the heat and dust. When the tea came, he could feel his hand shaking, the cup clattering lightly against its saucer.

  “You mustn’t worry,” Miss Pinto said. “Your daughter will be safe here with us, and when her time comes, we will take good care of her.”

  Miss Pinto had never had to suffer the act of separation from her daughter. She was all she had left, this perfect child she had birthed into her own hands. The fear and pain had been unbearable, but to lose her child would have been beyond any suffering she could imagine. Alas, this was not the way it could be for the women who came here. Their babies would be taken from them, never to be seen again. For some of the girls, this was the way they wished it to be. Yet others would plead and cajole to no avail. The lucky babies would be adopted. The rest would be taken in by the many orphanages that mopped up the remnants of those who were either unwilling or unable to take responsibility for the lives they had created. But, above all, none would be killed, left outside to die of exposure or poisoned by their own mother’s hand. It was the best Miss Pinto could offer, each child having to make what they could of the unfortunate life that had been bestowed upon them.

  Dr. Schofield put his cup down on her desk. “And what about the infant?”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Why he asked, he didn’t know, but it had suddenly seemed so important. He knew it was too little and far too late. None of them had ever mentioned the word. Not his wife, not him, and not his daughter. She was to have a child, and all he could think of in that cramped office with the noisy, sluggish ceiling fan, all he could think of was the way he had been awash with love for her when she was born, this young woman who now sat beside him, a child growing inside her, a child she would never come to know. It tore him up, that she would have to bear this terrible thing, this thing that would leave an indelible mark on her for the rest of her years. He wondered if she would ever be able to put it behind her, to forget all this and get on with her life. He couldn’t bear it. It was his worst nightmare, not that he had ever known it until it presented itself to him. She was supposed to have a happy future, this girl of his. He had pictured it so many times, imagining her grown up, finding her stride, discovering the joys of life, walking up the aisle on his arm one day. He had seen it all, dreaming of her in a place where all those wrongs that had been done to her had been put right, a place where she was safe and happy. But he had never seen this.

  “The infant will be taken care of and placed with a good family.” Miss Pinto smiled at Sophie. “It is hard, I know, my dear, but it is for the best. In time, you will see that. You are young. You have your whole life ahead of you, and there will be other children.” Sophie nodded bravely, her lips held tightly together. “I promise.” Miss Pinto got up from her seat and came to comfort her. “You will recover from this, and your baby will have a good life.”

  Dr. Schofield couldn’t bring himself to look up from his cup. He didn’t need to witness his daughter’s expression to know that she was already in pieces. He could feel it as surely as he could feel the thin wafts of air from the rusting fan. He finished his tea in silence, not noticing that the suitcase had been taken.

  “Now, Dr. Schofield, it is time for you to say good-bye to your daughter.”

  Sophie felt her heart lurch. They had only just arrived. She had expected him to stay with her until she had prepared herself, at least for a few hours, so that she could come to the point of departure ready for the moment of separation. She looked at her father in desperation, wanting to shout, Don’t leave me here!

  “I will give you some privacy for a moment, but don’t take too long. It only makes it worse.” Miss Pinto left them in peace, closing the door quietly.

  Dr. Schofield, a sad figure in his crumpled suit, stood from his seat and seemed to sag. He dipped his face toward the floor, raised his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

  “It’s all right, Daddy,” Sophie said. She felt unable to reach out and touch him, to squeeze his hand or press upon him one of their warm embraces. Instead she just stood there, ashamed. “I’ll be all right. You mustn’t worry about me.”

  “Oh, Sophie.” He stepped forward and hugged her. “I’m so sorry, my darling.”

  Sophie had never seen her father cry before.

  20

  The train pulled in almost six hours late. Dr. Schofield, weary from the journey, put his hat on and climbed down from the carriage. A boy rushed to his side, pulling at his bag. “Me carry! Me carry!” he shouted.

  “Chale jao!” Dr. Schofield brushed him off, clutching the bag to his chest. He had learned his lesson about street rascals long ago, brazen little louts who would run off and disappear into the crowds with anything they could carry. Pushing his way through the swarm of people, he exited the station to see Mr. Ripperton waiting beside one of the blue palace cars, driver at the wheel. The Maharaja must be back and expecting someone important to send the first ADC to greet them. Dr. Schofield turned and made his way to the area where the rickshaw wallahs gathered.

  “George!” He halted at the call of his name. “George!” Mr. Ripperton raised a hand in greeting, threw his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out before marching over. “I thought you’d never get here.” They shook hands.

  “Rip,” Dr. Schofield said. “What brings you here? Waiting on an esteemed guest?”

  “Only you. Thought you might need a lift back to HQ. Can’t be too careful at the moment. There’s still a lot of saber-rattling going on. We had a stabbing on the estate on Monday. Nobody will say who did it, of course. Poor chap damn near lost a kidney.” The driver jumped out from behind the wheel and took Dr. Schofield’s bag, placing it on the front seat before opening the back doors for the men. “How was your trip?”

  “All right,” he said. “Dusty.”

  “It’s a fine thing young Sophie is doing there, going off to do her bit like that, particularly at a time like this. She’ll have them all whipped into shape in no time. Did you get to look the place over?” The car pulled away, honking its way through the crowds.

  “Yes, a bit.”

  “I suppose they’re all the same,” Rip said, adopting some of his passenger’s fatigued manner. “Still, good for her to get out of the old mausoleum, I suppose. It can’t be easy to be the only young bones in a place like that, although I have to say that poor Fiona is bereft, missing her like mad already.”

  George stared out of the window, unable to concentrate on the patter of small talk that fell from Mr. Ripperton’s mouth. It was part of his job, to impart polite conversation, keeping the Maharaja’s guests entertained and attended to, and he was very good at it. All the way to the palace, his steady, melodious voice imparted useless snippets of information about matters in which Dr. Schofield had no interest. He would reply with a nod or a small yes or no, and that was all it took to maintain the flow. George wished that Rip hadn’t bothered to collect him. He would have been just fine traveling solo and felt the need to be alone with his thoughts.

  The prospect of dealing with his wife hung around his neck like a dead weight. All he wanted was something decent to eat, and his bed, yet before that he would no doubt have to go through the performance of allowing Veronica to remind him of just how useless a husband and father he had been. There would be no sidestepping it. She had had too much time to sit there scheming, building up a fine head of steam that she would unleash upon him the moment he got back, sparing him nothing, hurling every error she could trawl from her memory. He would utter no word of protest today. It would serve only to extend the misery of the encounter and he was too damn tired. There was only one way to deal with it: walk straight i
nto it and get it over with quickly. A glass of whisky and a sleeping pill would probably help, either before or afterward. Perhaps he would have them before, to soften the assault.

  After what seemed an eternity, they arrived at the palace, passing through the high gates, up the long showy driveway. The car pulled to a halt.

  “Take the doctor’s bag to his apartments, will you?” The driver saluted, Mr. Ripperton waiting until he had gone. “George, before you dash off, there’s something you’d better know. Come and have a peg for a minute, would you?” Too tired to argue, George followed him through the blue courtyard.

  Mrs. Ripperton stood at the open window in her parlor, looking out on to the fountain, newly planted with bright marigolds, a gin and tonic in her hand.

  “George!” She had the door open for them before they had ascended the steps. She kissed his cheek and led them inside. “Oh George, do come in and sit down. You must be completely exhausted, you poor dear. Was there any trouble on the trains?”

  “No,” he said. “Just running hours late and a whole lot of chaos as usual.”

  A look passed between Mr. Ripperton and his wife. Mrs. Ripperton waited until both men had a whisky in hand before sitting with them.

  “Oh George, I’m afraid we have some rather awful news,” she said. Dr. Schofield looked up, his face expressionless, as though there could be no news to touch him after what he had been through these last few days. “It’s Veronica. Her mother has been taken ill. She was very upset about it.”

  Bearing in mind his wife’s foul mood when he had left her, Dr. Schofield understood the reason for the early warning. The last thing he needed right now was to walk into a situation even worse than the one he was already anticipating.