The Pavilion in the Clouds

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The generator up at the factory was switched off slightly early that night, as Virginia had been warned it would be. A small amount of maintenance work was required on it, the factory manager had told her, and would she mind if the power were to be shut off half an hour in advance? She had agreed but had forgotten about the arrangement until it happened, and she was plunged into darkness while still sitting at her desk, writing a letter. Bella was safely in bed, her light already out, Li Po and Po Chü-i on the pillow beside her. They knew, of course, about what was going on because they saw it all. And they knew, too, that theirs would be the last laugh – knowledge that sustained all the dolls, all the stuffed animals, all the familiars of the young. Bella lay there, staring at the ceiling, on which muted patterns of moonlight shone faintly through a chink in the curtains. She was thinking of Miss White and what she had done to her – a terrible thing, the enormity of which was far outweighed by her attempt at an apology.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she whispered to Li Po. “I really didn’t. I thought . . .” She could not find the words for what she had thought.

  Li Po was impassive. Sometimes he was like that; he kept his own counsel and was tantalizingly silent, even when a few words would make things so much better.

  “You believe me, don’t you? You know that I didn’t mean to hurt Miss White.”

  He could hardly ignore the directness of the plea.

  “You could always tell Daddy,” he said.

  She had not expected this, and it took a few moments for her to respond. “But he’ll be cross with me.” She could not tell him; she simply could not. What would he think when she told him she had taken his clothes – stolen them, really. He had never raised a hand to her, never smacked her, even when she had done things that had shocked Li Po and Po Chü-i into silence, but perhaps this would be an occasion when the only punishment severe enough would be a hiding. Richard had told her that his father had given him a hiding when he had tied a firework to their dog’s tail – and he had admitted that it was a terrible thing and he had not realised that the dog would be so upset by it. He had been sorry that he did it, because he loved their dog, and he had never been cruel to it before. “He ran away, wailing his head off, and hid under a bush, and they had to send the gardener’s boy in on his hands and knees to drag him out. I felt so bad. I was really sorry. Poor dog. And then my dad gave me a hiding although I’d already promised that I would never do anything like that again.”

  The story had made a strong impression on her, and she remembered it now. There was a world of harsh justice that governed the affairs of boys and men; it did not seem to affect girls and women in quite the same way. Mind you, they didn’t do the sort of things that would bring retribution down on their heads. Boys did things like that, of course, because boys were . . . well, boys were a bit stupid. But some of the things they did were not so stupid and were exciting, and made her think that all the time boys were having more fun and laughing at girls because they could do all those things that girls were not allowed to do. What use were boys anyway?

  “If you decide to tell Daddy,” said Li Po, “you could tell him when he comes home tomorrow.”

  She tried to make out his expression – to see whether he looked really serious when he gave this advice, but it was too dark, and she closed her eyes again. She was not very sleepy.

  In the drawing room, where Virginia had her desk, she rose to her feet and found one of the oil lamps kept ready for use on a side-table. She pumped it up and put a match to the mantle. Then she lit another one, and the darkness was dispelled.

  She walked over to the window that gave onto the veranda. In the distance, across the lawn, she saw a light appear in Miss White’s bungalow. The curtains of her living room, which faced the main house, had not been drawn, and for a few moments she saw Miss White silhouetted by the light. And the sight somehow made her realise what she had to do.

  She left one of the lamps where it was on the table and took the other one with her. She did not like going anywhere in the darkness, even with a lamp, but it would be a short walk across the lawn to the other bungalow. And if she kept her eyes on where she was putting her feet, she would see exactly where she was going, and there was no reason to imagine that the cobra would be anywhere near at this stage. They very rarely saw snakes, and cobras, she told herself, were such rare visitors anyway. It would be far away by now, heading down the hill, going back to wherever it had come from, to the warmth of the lower ground where cobras felt more comfortable.

  She called out as she approached the dark mouth of Miss White’s veranda. “Only me. Only me.”

  The thought occurred to her that she should be careful not to give the governess a fright by appearing unannounced at her door. She was, after all, armed, and although nothing had been seen of her pistol, it was still there, she assumed, and might be used. What if Miss White were to shoot her? People occasionally shot other people, and it was exactly in these circumstances that they did so. There had been that case down in Kandy where the young English wife of one of the civil servants had shot her husband in the course of an argument. The bullet had lodged in his leg and had not done much damage, but it had been the talk of Ceylon – or part of Ceylon – for some time. She had not been prosecuted, because the husband had backed up her claim that it was an accident, but the wife had confessed to a friend, after having too much to drink one evening, that she had actually been aiming at his toes because she had discovered that he had been having an affair, and it was only his sense of guilt that had made him back her story. It was a shocking business, but it was another example of how dangerous it was to have guns in the house.

  But she put the thought out of her mind. Governesses did not shoot people. It was entirely unheard of. Miss White was harmless.

  She called out again, “It’s only me, Miss White. Me. Virginia.”

  There was silence, followed by the sound of footsteps, amplified by the movement of floorboards. Miss White’s bungalow had creaky floors – Henry had promised to have them fixed but had never got round to it. He was too busy; there was just too much to do. “I can’t do everything,” he had said, peevishly. “People expect me to do this, that and the next thing, but there are limits.” Now the floorboards protested loudly in the darkness as Miss White approached.

  She stood in the doorway, holding a lamp. “I was about to go to bed,” she said. Her tone was unfriendly.

  “Please could we speak? Just for a few minutes.”

  “About?”

  Virginia felt the back of her neck get warm. The governess must know what this what about. She was being disingenuous.

  “About what was said earlier on. About what Bella said.”

  Miss White did not reply immediately. The lamp hissed as the fuel sprayed on the mantle. Then, eventually, she said, “I’m not sure that there’s much to say about that. And I have decided to bring forward my departure to the day after tomorrow.”

  That was unexpected. Virginia gasped. “Oh, you mustn’t. Please . . .”

  Miss White stepped aside, indicating that Virginia should come into the bungalow. It was a grudging invitation, but Virginia said, “Thank you. I won’t keep you long.”

  They went into Miss White’s living room, where another lamp, throwing out a soft white light, stood on a small table in the middle of the room. Virginia sat down, and then Miss White did so too, choosing a chair facing her visitor. Neither woman relaxed.

  “I feel very badly about this whole business,” Virginia began. “And I thought I should just tell you how I feel. Perhaps I should have done this some time ago. I’m sorry.”

  Miss White stared at her. “Nobody is obliged to wear her heart on her sleeve,” she said.

  Virginia swallowed. The other woman was not going to make it easy. “I feel that there was a bit of a personality clash. I know you’re very good at your job – nobody would doubt that for a moment – not for a moment. But at the same time, I felt . . .” This would be the
difficult part. “I felt that it was inherently hard sharing my home, if you understand what I mean.”

  Miss White arched an eyebrow. “I believe there are two roofs here,” she said icily.

  “I know, I know. But we are very isolated, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But sometimes one just wants to be by oneself – in a marriage, that is. You find it hard to share your home.”

  Miss White’s expression was impassive. “I see. Well, that’s your prerogative. It’s your home. I’m just a . . .”

  She did not finish. Virginia raised a hand. “Oh, please don’t talk like that. We value you very highly.”

  Miss White spoke slowly. “What I wonder is this: where did Bella get those ideas about . . . about your husband and me? Where did that come from?”

  Virginia hesitated. “I might have said something without thinking. She may have misunderstood me. Heaven knows.”

  “I see.”

  Only now did Miss White look away. “I know what you think of me,” she said. “You think I’m one of those desperate spinsters who’ll always be on the edge of things. Who’ll never have a man of her own . . .”

  “Oh no. No. I don’t think that at all.”

  But Miss White seemed determined to continue. “People think that way, you know. They really do. But they’d be surprised. I have had . . .” She paused. “I’ve had many offers.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  Miss White sniffed. “You’re just saying that. You, like a lot of people, think I’m on the shelf.”

  “I don’t.” She did.

  “I’m not, as it happens. I have had . . . well, I’ve had many lovers.”

  Virginia struggled not to laugh. Miss White . . . many lovers? This was ridiculous, but it was also slightly pathetic. Whoever boasted of having had many lovers with any degree of credibility? Certainly not rather plain governesses.

  Miss White was staring at her. “You do know,” she said, “that men find me attractive? You know that?”

  Virginia’s eyes widened. “Men find you attractive? Well, of course they will. I don’t doubt that.”

  “I’m not sure if you really mean that.”

  Virginia said nothing. She did not see where the conversation could go, and she now thought it a mistake to have gone over to Miss White’s bungalow in the first place.

  Miss White now got to her feet. She said, “I’m going to leave the day after tomorrow. I have friends in Kandy with whom I’ll stay. I’ll arrange for my things to be collected.”

  She moved towards the door, and Virginia knew that the conversation had come to an end. As she left the veranda, she turned and said to Miss White, “I hope you and I can continue to be friends.”

  Miss White moved back from the half-closed door. She had not heard what Virginia had said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she said.

  “I said that I hope you and I can continue to be friends.”

  She took a step back into the darkness of the house but then came forward so that she was standing in the doorway once again. “Oh, were we ever friends? Do you think we were?” The question was posed without much expression – as if it were a dispassionate enquiry, about something of little significance.

  Virginia was about to answer – to protest that she had always considered them to have been friends – but Miss White did not stay for an answer. The door was closed, not quite slammed, but shut decisively, and then there came the sound of a key turning in the lock. Virginia turned and began to walk back across the dark square of the lawn. The lamp threw a faint yellow glow – not much more than that as it was running low on fuel. She broke into a run, her eyes fixed on the square of light that was the front door of the main bungalow.

  13

  Slow-Burning Fire

  M iss White insisted.

  “I would like to give Bella her normal lessons this morning,” she said when she knocked at the bungalow door shortly before breakfast the following morning. “Changed circumstances don’t mean that her education needs to be . . .” She searched for the right word, and settled on “disrupted”. That was accompanied by a look of reproach in an otherwise bland countenance.

  “You really don’t need to bother,” said Virginia. “And I wish you’d . . . you’d reconsider. I hate the thought of your leaving so quickly.”

  But Miss White insisted. Turning away, she said to Virginia, “I shall be in the schoolroom at eight-thirty, as normal. If you could please tell Bella to bring her geography book, we shall do rivers of the world.”

  Virginia watched the governess retreat over the lawn, back to her own bungalow. She sighed. The situation, she knew, was beyond rescue, but she wondered how she had allowed it to get to this point. Before Miss White arrived, even if their life had been dull, it had nevertheless been straightforward. She had managed Bella’s home-schooling well enough, she thought; any deficiencies could quickly be ironed out once she started her proper education back in Scotland. Her reading was good by any standards – certainly it was better than Richard’s, and he had the benefit of having been at the Hill School. Her numbers were a little bit shaky

  – Virginia was uncertain when, and how, they should be tackling long division, but once again a real school would presumably take long division in its stride. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have a governess at all – nobody else seemed to bother, although she believed that there were one or two families in Colombo – wealthy mercantile families – who had somebody from home to help look after the children and do something about education.

  No, it was all Miss White’s fault. It was her conduct that had raised suspicions; she must have given Henry some encouragement, if it really was true that he had shown that sort of interest in her. Those things did not come from nowhere, she told herself – a certain coquettishness, even from a plain woman like Miss White, could start a slowburning fire in a man . . . A slow-burning fire: she had come across that expression in one of the books that she read in private – that is, of the kind that she would never want members of the reading circle to know that she read. It had a slightly lurid cover and was a romance in which all the men, as far as she could make out, were subject to slow-burning fires of one sort or another. It was all rather absurd, really, but she had found herself drawn into it and had ended up turning the pages quickly in her eagerness to find out what happened. None of the slow-burning fires had been extinguished – even by the simpering passivity of the heroines – and at the end there had been what struck her as a general conflagration. But the phrase had stayed with her, and now she found herself thinking, Men have slow-burning fires within them. And that included Henry . . . But she stopped herself. If anybody should know about what went on inside Henry, it was she. And she had seen no signs of a slow-burning fire, although was she really sure about that? Another phrase she had encountered in the slow-burning fire book was married to a stranger. One of the characters had discovered that her husband had been leading a parallel life, about the details of which she had been completely ignorant. She had woken up and discovered that she was married to a stranger – an expression that was perhaps rather more worrying than any talk about slow-burning fires. Was she married to a stranger? Was there a side to Henry that she had not yet discovered and that she would never be able to touch? Men could be elusive – she knew that; they could withhold themselves; they could remain private in a way in which women found more difficult to do themselves. You could never be absolutely sure of what was going on in a man’s head, however much you thought you understood him. And that thought was worrying, however one approached it. It was perfectly possible that Henry was passionately in love with Miss White – unlikely though that might seem; it was perfectly possible that Miss White had not only allowed that but had encouraged it because she had never before had a man fall for her – in spite of her ridiculous claim the night before of having had many lovers. Many lovers! Miss White, with her caked-on rouge and her preoccupation with rivers of the world and French verbs? That was laughable.
And yet, laughable things happened all the time. Ceylon was full of stories of unbelievable, laughable things in which the wrong people – the entirely wrong people – had the last laugh. So it was entirely possible that Miss White had said to Henry, “We must get rid of your wife,” and he had said, “It will be easy for her to have an unfortunate fall.” It is possible that when that did not work, Miss White had suggested something else that could never be laid at anybody’s door – a snake bite – and had then found one of those itinerant snake charmers that you occasionally saw in Kandy, with their baskets of cobras. She had seen this on several occasions and recoiled in disgust – she did not like snakes at all – but presumably these snake charmers could be tempted by a large enough payment to use one of their snakes to get rid of somebody. Far stranger things had happened, she thought. There had been that man in Colombo who had drugged his wife with opium with the specific aim of getting her addicted and then abandoning her for his lover. And the poor woman had ended up in an opium den somewhere, unable to get away from the clutches of the drug. Somebody had said that was a true story, although others had said that it was entirely false and had been made up by one of the men in the bar at the club when the conversation had lagged a bit.

  She made an effort to remove these thoughts firmly from her mind. Henry loved her. Henry would never do anything like that. She should be careful: allowing oneself to dwell on such matters was a sure way to become unbalanced. If she continued to think in that way, then she would end up half mad. You had to be careful. This beguiling country, with its hills and its skies, and its vegetation, so green and intense that it could drive you crazy – it had happened before, and it would happen again. She would not let it happen to her.