by Tim Parks
The hearse followed a narrow track along the perimeter wall until it reached a clearing where a low cement building was topped by a conspicuous chimney. It’s just me and Mum, John realised, as he climbed out. Already the undertaker’s men were sliding the coffin out onto a bright steel trolley. The thought upset him. Dad loved people.
‘Isn’t there anybody else?’ he asked. His mother was pulling a veil over her eyes, John hadn’t noticed that the hat had a veil. She looked like a mourner in a film, tall and upright and gracefully contained in her suffering. John felt like an actor without a part.
Inside the crematorium, a dozen benches were unevenly lined in the cramped space. How damp it was. At the front was a low brick platform and against the wall a sort of counter with rollers leading to a purple curtain covering an aperture in the wall. Helen James and her son stood to one side of the door while the men wheeled in the coffin. It seemed improbable with its shiny finish and brass fittings. ‘Isn’t anyone going to say anything?’ John asked. But his mother had already begun to walk after the trolley which clattered and squeaked across the concrete floor. The undertaker’s men were talking and chewing.
Almost in a panic now, John followed. That his father was actually shut away in that box seemed inconceivable. I should have seen him lying in it, he thought. I should have said goodbye. Why were there no flowers? India was full of wreaths and garlands. Why hadn’t Mother arranged for the body to be flown back to London? For some reason he was frightened now that the coffin would just be dumped on the rollers and slid directly through the purple curtain, on the other side of which, surely, the cremation furnace must lie. Dad would be cancelled out without anything being said.
Helen James went to sit in the front row. Now John saw there was a large red push-button on the wall beside the curtain. He hadn’t expected these feelings. He had never been close to his father. These last few years the man had come to seem an obstacle, an embarrassment. Stumbling into the pew beside his mother, he asked, ‘Can I go and kiss the coffin?’ He was sweating, but Helen James sat perfectly erect staring through the black gauze veil at the gleaming box now placed on the rollers.
Looking at her, John sensed that in her mind his mother was accomplishing some private ritual. She had known how these moments would be, she was prepared and concentrated, while he felt completely unanchored, his mind prey to a storm of feeling. I have nothing, the words crossed his mind. He left me nothing.
John thought he could see his mother’s lips moving behind the veil. She was talking to Father. She has veiled her face to cut out the background noise, he thought, to have this last conversation with Dad in peace. And now she seemed to rock very slightly backwards and forwards on the pew. She is honouring some vow. He felt jealous. She was rocking backwards and forwards; it was a strange, trance-like motion. She is talking to him.
Then it occurred to John he must get to his feet, run out to the front, kneel before the coffin and kiss it. He would lay his forehead on the polished wood. He could see himself doing it. He could taste the polished wood on his lips. His eyes would be closed. His whole body was tensed now to make this dramatic gesture, to kiss his father’s coffin before it slid into the fire.
But he mustn’t. It would disturb his mother. This was her day, not his. He must not interrupt her last communion with her husband. John felt paralysed by a sense of inadequacy, and outrage too. He started to shake and had to put his face in his hands to hide the tears. He wanted and did not want to watch the coffin slide through the curtain. Who would press the button? Do it now, he thought, do it now!
Then a voice said: ‘Mrs James?’
John’s head jerked up. It was an elderly Indian in a dog collar approaching from the far end of the pew. Leaning forward, grey-haired and affable, the clergyman started to ask something in a low voice. A noise at the back of the hall prevented John from hearing what was said; there were footsteps and a buzz of voices. People were filing in and the noise had an odd, tinkling quality.
John twisted his neck. A dozen people in middle age, three or four of them white, together with some younger people, all Indian, including one very attractive woman, were walking up beside the benches. Two or three approached, as if to shake his mother’s hand, but the fixity of her concentration on her husband’s coffin must have deterred them. They nodded to John, presumably aware who he was, and arranged themselves on the benches behind. Meanwhile, the tinkling sing-song was growing louder, until, twisting again towards the back, John saw to his surprise that a crowd of young girls had begun to push through the crematorium door, held back for a moment by a buxom nun who frowned and hissed at their forwardness.
Peering in and pushing, the girls must have been fifteen or sixteen years old, all Indian, but wearing the kind of school uniforms that have long been a rarity in England: green blazers edged with gold, green skirts, green hats with golden ribbons, smart black, silver-buckled shoes that clipped and clattered on the hard floor. And as they advanced up the aisle in this bustle of green and gold, the atmosphere changed. The air in the place began to move and was suddenly perfumed. Beneath their hats, the girls’ hair glistened, as if drenched in oil. Their eyes flashed, their skin was alive. The nun, also Indian, was shushing them now as they came forward, two by two along the aisle, each one clutching, John saw, a small transparent plastic bag, tinged with yellow. What was it about?
Helen James had not turned to look, but nor did she seem surprised. Solemn and excited, the girls came forward, curtseyed before the coffin, made the sign of the cross and sprinkled their yellow petals on the polished wood. Watching the scene, John felt a powerful sense of relief, and of yearning too. What small and dainty feet the girls had as they filed past to occupy the rows behind. Unexpectedly, he remembered the tiny shoe of his dream. Why didn’t I have flowers to bring? he wondered. The coffin was thick with petals.
‘The nuns and girls of the convent school of St Anne’s,’ the nun announced, standing on the platform, ‘would like to express our deepest and most heartfelt gratitude for the work of Albert James in our small and humble community.’ She smiled. ‘He was very much loved. May he rest in God’s peace and be ever and most warmly remembered.’
As she spoke, John watched the last pair of ankles pass. The young girl kept her eyes down and her hands pressed together as she hurried after her friends. So Dad was reduced to teaching school, he thought.
Now one of the older Indian men walked to the front and took the nun’s place. He stood stooped in a long white kurta. ‘The Theosophical Society of Delhi,’ he said, blinking behind rimless spectacles, ‘would like to wish Albert James an easy and peaceful return to the Great Circle of Being which was always the object of his most distinguished work.’
‘Very true,’ someone muttered.
Three other speakers followed. Earnest and pale, a hang-jawed Englishman said that as head of the British Council he had always relied on Albert to explain everything that was mysterious to him in India, which, needless to say, was a great deal. The Zoological Institute of the University of Delhi, announced a sober middle-aged Indian woman, was deeply indebted to Professor James for his contribution to various research programmes. ‘We could rely on Professor James,’ she said solemnly, ‘to add unexpected dimensions to any project.’
‘I’m here from the Delhi Drama School,’ declared a young man in jeans. Bright-eyed and confident, he occupied the platform in a way the other’s hadn’t. ‘Youth theatre that is.’ He smiled. ‘Yeah, well, we’d just like to take this opportunity to thank Albi, really thank him from the heart, for the fascinating way he had of thinking about drama. You know, he tried to teach a bunch of us a whole new way of interacting. Nobody was paying him and we were full of admiration. We learned a lot from him and had a good time together. Maybe one day we’ll put what he taught us on stage. I hope so.’
Almost too pleased with himself, the young actor turned to pat the coffin. ‘Thanks, Albi.’ Then he tripped getting down from the platform. There was a
titter from his friends.
‘Mrs James?’ the clergyman said. He had been standing behind the others and beckoned now to John’s mother. All this had been planned, then, John thought: the flowers, the half-dozen telegraphic gestures of homage. He was very much relieved. Yet a feeling akin to guilt crept in at the thought that he himself had offered nothing. He hadn’t been invited to speak, as if he were a stranger here.
Helen James walked forward, climbed the brick platform, stood by the coffin. She turned, hesitated, austerely upright in her black dress and veil. ‘What is there to say?’ she asked. Her voice was low but steady. ‘Albert was my life, my destiny’ – she paused – ‘and I his. I his,’ she repeated. ‘That is the truth.’
Helen James drew a deep breath as though about to begin a longer speech, then with a rapid movement she turned and pressed the red button on the wall.
The hum of an electric motor underlined the tension of staring eyes. The yellow flowers were swept across the coffin’s shiny lid and sprinkled to the floor as it slid away beneath the purple curtain. The two colours, yellow and purple, seemed to form a dividing line through which his father was passing. John saw him going, saw his mother’s lips moving beneath her veil, the petals falling to the floor. Behind him, one of the girls had begun to sob. Just before the coffin finally disappeared, Helen James lifted her hands to her face and pressed them against her mouth through the veil. There was the metallic click of the furnace door sliding shut, and then a dull roar. For a few moments the room sat still in the knowledge of the body burning. Then John was on his feet to hug her.
Walking out of the crematorium on her son’s arm, Helen James felt she was stepping into a vast empty space. Albert was gone. She had passed a threshold. She was light-headed. Now she accepted these people’s commiserations and condolences. She didn’t know them well. Now she thanked the schoolgirls for having come. ‘That was so kind of you. I’m very grateful.’
‘Your husband was such a generous and learned teacher,’ the nun said, bowing slightly and taking Helen’s hand in both of hers. ‘The girls were in adoration, Mrs James.’ She had to speak loudly over the cawing of the crows. ‘We were all in adoration.’
The midday air seemed to have grown whiter, milkier above the wheeling birds, and when Helen said, no, she hadn’t planned a lunch, really she hadn’t planned anything, she hadn’t had time quite honestly and she was needed at the clinic of course, the guests from the university protested, they absolutely insisted on taking her and her son to eat. ‘In memory of Albert. The very least we can do.’
‘I’m game,’ John said. It was a relief to be out of the damp gloom of the crematorium.
Helen hesitated. Then she saw it was a solution: ‘Take us wherever you want,’ she smiled. ‘Will you come too?’ she turned to the head of the Theosophical Society, then replied to his question of a moment before: ‘He asked me to sprinkle them in the Yamuna. This is my son John; John, Dr Bhagwan Coomaraswamy, head of the Theosophical Society.’
‘I’m afraid I really don’t know what theosophy is,’ John confessed and someone laughed.
The group were still sorting themselves into cars when a taxi appeared along the drive. The hearse had long gone. The schoolgirls were climbing into an ancient bus. A man got out of the taxi, a European, or American perhaps, wearing crumpled Western clothes. In the strangely empty state of mind she was falling into, Helen understood at once that he had just got off a plane. He was coming directly towards her, hand extended. She was caught off guard.
‘You must be Helen James.’
He had a rather fleshy face, as of a boy who has aged without becoming adult. You knew at once he would be warm and enthusiastic and that it was the kind of warmth and enthusiasm that irritated. Instinctively, Helen raised her veil, then let it fall again. She looked at him through the gauze.
‘I’m afraid I’ve arrived late,’ the stranger said. He spoke with an American accent and looked up above the crematorium to where a steady grey smoke was winding off into the hazy air.
Helen James straightened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid, I don’t …’
‘My name is Paul Roberts. It’s really too bad I’m late. My flight got delayed.’ He smiled an apology. ‘The fact is, I’d very much like to speak to you, Mrs James.’
Helen couldn’t understand who the man might be or how, coming from England or even the States, he could possibly have known about the funeral. Now all she wanted was to be alone. It was only the need to find something for John to do that had prompted her to agree to lunch. The others were in their various cars, ready and waiting.
Yet automatically she asked, ‘What about?’
‘Oh, there’s no hurry,’ the man said. ‘This is a distressing moment. Perhaps if you left me your phone number …’
Again automatically, Helen told him the number, but as the man keyed it into a mobile, she felt a growing resistance. ‘Do please tell me what it’s about. Then perhaps you could spare yourself the trouble.’
Paul Roberts seemed confident. ‘Mrs James, I want to write a biography of your husband. I believe Albert James was a most extraordinary individual and that the story of his life will be a great inspiration to many people. His work needs to be collected, re-edited and republished. As I see it, the world hasn’t even begun to understand what it owes to him.’
Helen felt she had been struck an unexpected blow.
‘Of course,’ the American was saying, and his face was alive with an earnest professional enthusiasm, ‘you will understand that it would be of the utmost importance for me to have your blessing in this project, Mrs James, your authorisation, as it were. As his wife. Such a mandate from yourself would open doors. The work would take on the credibility a great man deserves.’
Helen James was struggling not to hear, not to take the words in, while at the same time she was hearing them perfectly, she understood exactly what he was saying. The roar of a motor sent the crows cawing into the air. It was a prepared speech, she thought. All around the city threw up its haze, its strange, sour, burning smell, through which, very occasionally, the sun floated ghostlike.
Paul Roberts had stopped talking. He waited expectantly.
‘We can speak on the phone,’ she muttered.
CHAPTER FOUR
NOTHING WAS SAID about Albert James over lunch. They had been taken, very simply, to the university canteen where they served themselves on tin plates with rice and dhal, then sat on benches either side of the busy plastic-topped tables. The president of the Theosophical Society spoke of a new biography of Annie Besant, while the younger folks, joined now by other friends, were arguing heatedly about the government’s plans to reserve college places for lower castes. The relationship between an individual and his surrounding ethos was at once undeniable and elusive, the theosophy man was saying. His small old face was smoothed of any expression. ‘In that sense,’ he added, ‘it is not unlike the relationship between father and son, don’t you think?’
Across the table, Helen James ate as though performing a duty. John wasn’t following the conversation. The young woman beside him, the beauty of the group, had begun to ask about his research and he eagerly started to describe the complex experiments his team was working on. He had become interested in the purely technical challenge, he explained, that so many experiments presented today. Above all you had to isolate the tiniest particles welded to each other in the most complex ways.
A small, dark girl and her earnest, bespectacled partner joined the conversation. The point of this present project, John told them, was to establish every, but really every condition that was required to support the life cycle of a certain tubercular mycobacterium after it had moved into the dormant state following initial infection: nutrients, protein production, cell-wall resistance, environment, conditions for replication and so on.
‘What you mean,’ the earnest man proposed, ‘is that you are looking at every possible way of killing the bacterium.’
But no
w a message had arrived on John’s mobile. He felt the vibration in his pocket. ‘Audition a disaster,’ he read. ‘Director a shit.’ John sighed and put the phone away.
‘Well, yes and no,’ he answered the man with spectacles. ‘We’re looking at how we can avoid reactivation of the dormant bacterium that about one third of people on the planet carry. Really, one third. So obviously we’re studying the conditions required for dormant life and reactivation so that someone else can consider ways of denying the bacterium those conditions.’
Then John explained that he personally was just one of a long and by no means linear or lineal chain of researchers seeking to develop a drug to nail this bacterium, or prevent it reactivating, but in the simplest, least toxic fashion. That was the progress they were aiming for: non-toxic prevention. No side effects. He would reply to Elaine later, he thought, some consoling message.
One team, he said, studied the life cycle of the thing, how it passed from active to dormant and vice versa, another its biochemistry, its cell structure – ‘to identify vulnerabilities, targets if you like’ – another studied what substances might efficiently attack those targets or in some way compromise one or more of the many conditions essential for its survival. Then someone else studied the toxic effect of those substances, someone else again thought about how to deliver and package them, and finally someone considered how to manufacture them.
‘Nobody begins to understand it all, you see,’ John concluded as if repeating a profound truth. ‘I mean, I don’t think it would be possible, really, to understand everything about even the most ordinary pharmaceutical project today. Nobody even tries. It would be like trying to hold the whole world in your mind.’
As he spoke, the Indians were flatteringly attentive, so unlike Elaine’s theatre friends. John smiled, sipping from a cup of disgustingly sweet tea. There was a pause. ‘The triumph would be,’ the theosophy man was heard to say into the relative silence, ‘as your dear Albert once wrote, I believe, to reach a point where one has no more biography than God Himself, can you imagine what liberation? To be utterly without a personal history.’
