By Eastern windows
Page 22
‘Accha!’ Bappoo reached across to slap George's shoulder in laughing praise. ‘Very good!’
*
It was dark when Lachlan returned to his own house. He found a packet of letters from England awaiting him. He left them where they lay, too tired to read them now; plenty of time tomorrow to find out what was happening in the world outside the East.
As always, he awoke before daybreak. The chik sunblind had been raised and the air was still cool from the night. He got out of bed and pulled on a robe. The rest of the house was still sleeping. He collected his letters, found himself a glass of mango juice, then returned to his room and propped himself against the pillows to read his letters.
The first was from Lestock Wilson, bearing an unusual address, Jerusalem Cafe, London, and was seven months out of date. He read the letter with pleasure, smiling as he turned the pages.
The second letter was from Maria Morley. He read it with interest. She had written him ten letters in all, and in each her expressions of affection for him grew less inhibited. ‘My dear, dear Lachlan.’ She longed to see India again.
Finally, he opened the last letter of the batch. This one was from Scotland, from his Uncle Murdoch. His breath expulsed sharply as he read it – his brother Donald had died – a short illness, a quiet and peaceful death.
The Chinese clock on the sidetable ticked noisily in the silence. Poor Donald ... all his years of waiting and watching the hill for his brother's return had been in vain.
Lachlan's sorrow welled around a sharp stab of guilt. His preoccupation with Jane over the years had relegated Donald to that distant part of his life which no longer existed. He felt sorry, painfully sorry, that he had neglected to care for his quiet and forlorn brother beyond the assistance of money. His sorrow swiftly changed to anger – anger at himself. But it was too late, much too late, to try and make amends now.
He moved off the bed and sat in the cane armchair by the window, staring at the sky already bereft of stars in the silver dawn. Soon he saw the first far-off glimmer in the eastern sky, watched the pale rays rise higher and become stronger until the morning sun swept over the trees and streamed through the window.
There was a jingle of crockery at the door.
‘Chota hazri, Huzoor,’ Bappoo said cheerfully behind him, laying down the morning tray of tea and fruit. ‘I leave here on table by bed.’
After a pause, Bappoo exclaimed in a bright chatty mood. ‘Oh yes, good show, you read now all letters from your Blighty. Now you happy! Yes? No?’
Lachlan did not stir nor answer. He was engrossed in thoughts of home … his home in the West.
PART TWO
SCOTLAND
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward , look, the land is bright!
EIGHTEEN
In the west of Scotland, on the island of Mull, the Laird of Lochbuy was becoming much too passionately engrossed in his daily shoots of the black grouse and tawny hare – when he was not deer-hunting – to have much time left for riding from Lochbuy over to the farm of his elder sister at Oskamull to read to her the letters that came with affectionate regularity from her son in India.
Murdoch knew he owed a huge debt to Lachlan, who had come to his rescue two years earlier when Murdoch found himself facing bankruptcy and the moneylenders were preparing to move in and seize his estate lands.
Lachlan had immediately responded to his plea for help by sending a bank draft from India for the enormous sum of ten thousand pounds, rendering Murdoch solvent again, with money in the bank, and all the loans paid off. And Lachlan, too, was now also a landowner, having bought ten thousand acres of land and estates in Mull from the Duke of Argyll.
Murdoch knew he also had a duty to his ageing sister who depended on him to ride over upon immediate receipt of the letters from India, but the old girl did gang on at times, insisting he read the letters over and over, and always resulting in the same lament:
‘I mustna be angry with him for staying away so long, must I, Murdoch? He's a good son, aye. But, Murdoch – ‘ she would wail in the end, `poor Donald never did, but I must, oh! I must see Lachlan again before I die.’
And there was little chance of that! As far as Murdoch could see, Lachlan Macquarie had no intention of ever leaving India.
And so, while the black cocks were strutting and the hares were running, the Laird of Lochbuy was greatly relieved when his wife's younger sister, Elizabeth Campbell, who was staying with them at Lochbuy House, very kindly offered to take the letters from India over to Oskamull and read them to Mrs Macquarie.
Nevertheless, as pleased as he was, Murdoch was visibly shocked when Elizabeth insisted on doing the journey by sea, around the island, with only the boat's crew for company.
‘Murdoch, you know well that I'll come to no harm with Ivor and Jamie,’ Elizabeth laughed as the boat rowed away.
Murdoch gave a long sigh before glancing sideways at his wife. ‘Maggie,’ he said, in the tone he always used when voicing his reservations about her youngest sister, ‘I know I should not say this, Maggie, but betimes yon Elizabeth attacks life with an almost masculine vitality that's indecent. Aye, indecent. It's a large vice for a female to be too independent. What makes her so? Would it be a fault in her upbringing, do ye think? All that schooling?’
Margaret opened her lips to protest in her sister's defence, but before she could say a word Murdoch continued, ‘Elizabeth should never have been allowed to go to school in England. Big mistake! Edinburgh would have turned her out far better.’
*
Elizabeth had her own reasons for wanting to make the journey to Oskamull. Now twenty-four years of age, she had never forgotten the young man who had been her first love, her only heartbreak. And when she ventured out to the farmhouse at Oskamull to read his letter to his mother, it was the same young man she saw in her mind, as if he had not aged a day in the years that had passed.
Having arrived at Oskamull, Elizabeth's eyes moved round the parlour of the farmhouse, surprised at its lack of grandeur when Mrs Macquarie's son was reputed to be a rich man now with ten thousand acres of land and estates on Mull – yet here was his mother without even one servant in her house.
Elizabeth's eyes went to the comfortable though antiquated furnishings, surprised at the spotlessness of everything, the wood on tables and cupboards sparkling with polish; not a sign of clutter or dust anywhere, and yet the old lady did all the cleaning herself.
Mrs Macquarie was making her own covert inspection of the girl, noting her natural open-air type of beauty and her lovely copper-gold hair, wondering why Elizabeth had offered to perform this service. The Campbells of Airds were relatives of course, but very distantly so, apart from Margaret Campbell who had married Murdoch years ago and since then had given him nine children.
But then, Mrs Macquarie thought, Margaret Campbell Maclaine was a simple and homely type of lassie who adored children, but was barely educated, whereas her younger sister, Elizabeth, was a young lady of refinement who had been educated and finished at a school in Hammersmith in England. A young lady who must surely have better things to do than travel the long journey from Lochbuy to Oskamull just to sit and read letters to an old woman.
Bereft of a servant, simply because she had always refused to have one, Mrs Macquarie prepared the tea herself.
Elizabeth immediately offered to help her.
As they moved around each other they began to converse. Mrs Macquarie discovered that Elizabeth possessed a down-to-earth unfussy personality, which she liked. Before long a warm and genuine rapport developed between the two women.
They talked of each other's families.
‘Aye,’ Mrs Macquarie answered Elizabeth, ‘My dear husband died from pluerotic fever, due I think, from all his early mornings out fishing in all weathers, and then working as a kelper over on Ulva. He loved that island,
aye, truly loved it. And so he is now buried there. She nodded towards the window. ‘From that window ye can gaze straight across the water to Ulva.’
Elizabeth spoke of her own family, of her father, Sir John Campbell, who had died and left the estate at Airds, encumbered by debts, to her brother John, in whose house and under whose care she still lived.
‘But now that John is married,’ Elizabeth said, ‘I don't feel quite at home at Airds as I used to do.’
‘Aye, ye were the lady of the house after your father died, I suppose,’ said Mrs Macquarie. ‘But when another woman moves in as mistress of the home you were born and reared in, it takes some getting used to.’
Mrs Macquarie opened a drawer in the dresser and took out a plain but snow-white tablecloth that she spread over the table. ‘Is that why ye spend so much time with your sister at Lochbuy?’ she asked Elizabeth.
‘Perhaps. But even at Lochbuy,’ Elizabeth admitted, ‘I sometimes feel like the spare spinster sister.’
Mrs Macquarie looked at her, puzzling as to why such a nice-looking young woman should still be unmarried.
The kettle was steaming. Elizabeth bent and swung it aside, and then added another peat brick to the fire. ‘What I would really like to do,’ she said, ‘is find some useful employment.’
‘What? Employment?’ Mrs Macquarie stared at her with eyes horrified. ‘Oh, I doona think that would be a good thing at all!’ she blurted. ‘A gentle-bred young lady like ye! Oh no, Elizabeth! And I doona think your brother at Airds would ever allow ye to work on a farm?’
‘Work on a farm?’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘I wouldn't know how.’
‘Ye were only jesting me then?’ Mrs Macquarie looked relieved. ‘Aye well, I'm verra glad you feel ye can jest with me, Elizabeth. I take it as a compliment.’ She nodded her head and smiled.
Elizabeth had not been joking, she had been considering the idea of becoming a teacher, but she let the matter drop when Mrs Macquarie said eagerly, ‘But now, Elizabeth, ye’ve had such a journey ye’ll surely be glad to get some food inside ye. Come sit ye down, and I'll let ye be the one to send up a prayer before we eat.’
Elizabeth knew that poor Mrs Macquarie was bursting to know what was in her son's letter, but this pleasure she would not allow herself until Elizabeth's welcome, after her journey, had been attended to with true Highland hospitality.
They sat down to a tea of a small chicken and fresh vegetables in a thick tasty broth, followed by fresh bannocks and oatcakes kept hot by the hob, all delicious, and all made by Mrs Macquarie's own hand.
Then, with a lovely fire glowing, the two women moved to the hearth and Elizabeth opened the letter from India.
Mrs Macquarie listened intently and without interruption as Elizabeth read aloud to her.
When Elizabeth had finished reading, Mrs Macquarie sat with her brow furrowed as she ruminated on her son's words. ‘He seems cheerful,' she said. ‘Verra cheerful.’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth agreed.
‘Too cheerful.’ Mrs Macquarie sat in meditative thought. ‘Ye know the way people sometimes put on a show of cheerfulness because it's expected of them? Well that's what I think he's doing in that letter.’
Elizabeth couldn’t see it. She looked quizzically at the letter, then at Mrs Macquarie. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘I think he's verra lonely meself. I think he wants to come home.’
Elizabeth looked at her with dubious misgiving. ‘I see no evidence of that in his writing.’
Again Mrs Macquarie sat silent in reflective thought, and then blinked her eyes. ‘Aye, that's true … Maybe I'm hearing things written between the lines that are nae there at all.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Aye, I suppose it's just the yearns of maternal love … an old woman craving for the sight of her long-lost son again. Murdoch is right. He'll no’ come back from his beloved India. Not in my lifetime. So I must try to forget him, I must, aye.’
Elizabeth looked at the grieving old lady with pity. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘perhaps if you were to write to him, through Murdoch, reminding him of his duties to his family at home – ‘
‘Oh! I couldna do that! It wouldna do at all! It would serve only resentment.’ Mrs Macquarie shook her head. ‘Nae, I couldna force him with reproaches. If he wants to bide in India then let him bide. But if he wants to come home to Scotland, then let him come willingly, or not at all.’
*
The thoughts of his home in the West had stayed with him. Through August and September he had allowed them to toy around in his mind; and by October the thoughts had developed into an uncomfortable yearning. A yearning to see the morning mists over the hills of Scotland again; to see his mother again; to see the beautiful islands of Mull and Ulva, and all his cousins and kin again.
At the end of October he confessed to General Balfour that he was having serious thoughts about returning home.
‘Indeed?’ The confession seemed not only to have surprised Balfour, but also upset him. They were dining at the San Souci Club, sitting on the shaded veranda, overlooking the lawns.
Lachlan said quietly. ‘It's been eleven years since I left home for India, and since then I have never once gone back.’
Balfour knew, only too well, the truth of that. For a long moment he was oddly silent, then he said in a slow voice, ‘Well … I suppose your wish to return is quite reasonable, after such a long absence.’
Balfour sipped his drink. ‘I won't stand in your way. If you wish to transfer to a regiment in England or Scotland, I shall of course recommend your request to the Commander-in-Chief.’
‘Thank you.’
Again Balfour was oddly silent. A khidmatgar appeared to clear the table. It was only after he had cleared it and moved away that Balfour suddenly blurted, ‘You know you do surprise me, I must say! I thought that you, of all people, Macquarie, had no intentions of ever deserting India.’
‘I'm not deserting India.’
‘Yes you are.’
Balfour shook his head as if the whole business was a great disappointment to him. ‘Of course, I quite understand you wishing to see your mother, but I've always thought that since Jane – ‘
‘My mother is old,’ Lachlan said, ‘almost seventy years old now. And while she is still alive, and before she dies, I would like to see her again.’
‘Yes, yes...’ Balfour squinted thoughtfully at his glass. ‘Is that the only reason you wish to return?’
‘No, I have several reasons. But mainly I just have a soldier's natural longing to return home.’
‘After such a long absence it is, I suppose, reasonable,’ Balfour said again, then sat gazing silently over the lawns, his blue eyes thoughtful.
Eventually, Balfour stirred and sighed heavily. ‘Yes, well, to be honest, I do know what you mean. Somewhat coincidentally … I have been having a little itch to see the old country again myself.’
*
By the end of December Lachlan's passage to England was booked, his baggage packed, his household arrangements completed, and new employment for his servants secured. He had, during the various parties of the Christmas season, made his farewells to his friends.
Now came the last farewell.
Jane's grave was enclosed in its own private little garden in Bombay's British cemetery, a very lovely and peaceful spot, surrounded by white-stuccoed walls. An oasis of fragrant and warm serenity with Persian roses planted around the inner walls of the garden. Beside it a kikar tree was drooping with scented yellow blossoms.
Inside the garden Lachlan sat down on a small wooden bench, while at the arched entrance George Jarvis sat in a cross-legged lotus position and waited in silence. He waited for hours, keeping watch like a young guardian angel, just as he had done in Macao.
But in Macao, George recalled, Lachlan had been paralysed in mind and soul with a dark and terrible grief, a blindness that saw no tomorrow. And there had been a thousand sad and lonely tomorrows in the long years since then, before the dawning of acceptance.
Now, George thought, now he has learned that what is written is written. Now he has learned the wisdom of the East.
A little gust of soft wind blew through the warm silence of the garden, carrying with it a vapour of salt air from the sea. Lachlan looked up and saw that the sun was preparing to dip towards the horizon.
It was time to go.
He made no move, not until the reflected glow of the sunset had turned the white walls around the garden into a muted pink. And even then, he waited until the glow faded, and the birds in the kikar tree stopped their flutterings and singing and settled down to rest.
*
In Bombay harbour, on the morning of 6th January, the Sir Edward Hughes, a coppered and fast-sailing Indiaman, complete with round-house and a balcony over her stern, prepared to set sail.
Bappoo, who was now employed in the household of John Forbes, wept profusely as he hugged George Jarvis tightly, and said farewell.
‘Khudaa hafiz,’ Bappoo sobbed. God protect you.
George straightened and took a deep breath. ‘Khudaa hafiz, Bappoo,’ he said quietly, defying tears, then abruptly turned towards the small-boat.
The crowds on the dockside watched the stream of boats carrying their passengers out to the ship from where, only a minute after they had boarded, Bappoo saw the figure of young George Jarvis waving to him excitedly.
Bappoo sighed, and wiped a big hand over his wet face, knowing that for George Jarvis this journey to Belait was not a sad departure, but a glorious adventure.
Lachlan was also waving to the distant crowd. All his friends, British and Indian, had come to wave him farewell. Many had given him letters for their families at home.