Somewhere, far away, a pariah dog yelped shrilly, and within the room a captive cicada iterated its maddening click from a cranny in the woodwork.
CHAPTER 12
Oliver was so long returning with Moti that I began to wonder whether he had been unable to persuade her to come. When I realized we might still be left without help, I prayed for her presence, forgetting, not caring for her position in his household; all I prayed was that the woman forget her dislike of me sufficiently to be of assistance to my cousin. Why had she disliked me in the first place, I who had never set eyes on her before? And what was it that Oliver had said when I had told him of her dislike? Something like ‘She has no reason to dislike Emily,’ which implied that she did have a reason to dislike me, despite the fact that our first encounter, on that afternoon when Yasmina had led me to the old tower, had also been our last.
Of course, I suppose I understood him immediately, but women being as they are, I had decided to withhold recognition of my own understanding until I was able to analyse it, and, as it were, throw up a guard. Oliver had implied, though now I was inclined to think it too delicate a term, that his mistress was jealous of me. There could be no other interpretation, knowing what I knew. So then, having dragged the matter into the light and dissected it as I sponged poor Emily’s head, I became angry. I raged at Oliver Erskine, at his mistress, at his unwarrantable conceit; but chiefly at his unpardonable breach of all decency in bracketing the two of us (however nebulously) together.
But below the sound and fury and all the stinging eloquence of my dumb anger, I was conscious of a strange small singing in my heart whose meaning I could not decipher and whose origin I would not trace. Perhaps, left to myself then, I might have reached the source of that secret, uninvited joy but, even as I first felt it, the door opened and Moti entered quickly in a swirl of satin and a scent of musk, so inappropriate in that dark and pain-filled room.
The ayahs greeted her with twitters of relief. She threw me one brief look, discarded her veil of gauze, and set to work.
It was a strange night we spent, a night that seemed at times to have no ending. I soon realized that there was nothing I could do of practical assistance but, being reluctant to leave Emily alone among strangers, I withdrew only as far as a chair in the corner of the room where she could see me plainly, and I could watch the three dark women at their work: the ayahs attentive and obedient to every gesture of Moti’s, and Moti authoritative and decided, working and waiting with a calm assurance which did much to make the hours endurable for me at least. But sometimes I cringed with my eyes closed and my hands clapped over my ears, and prayed and half cried for an end that would not come.
And then at last, and quite abruptly, it was over. Emily lay at last quiet on the wreckage of her bed in a stupor of exhaustion, and at her feet Moti crouched, drenched in perspiration, with a small pink fragment of humanity in her lap and a look of purest triumph on her face.
An hour later, unable to believe that I had ever been tired, ever been frightened and sickened by the sights and sounds of childbirth, I carried my little cousin downstairs to make the acquaintance of her father.
The brothers were in the library, Charles hunched on a chair and Oliver spread out comfortably on the long sofa that had held Ungud. The sun had been up some time, but lamps still burned, lending the room an air of desolation, augmented by the remains of a meal and empty glasses and decanters on a table, and many cigar butts scattered on the hearth. Charles, I saw at a glance, was very drunk indeed and fast asleep.
Oliver got to his feet leisurely as I entered and politely wished me ‘Good morning.’ For answer I held the baby out to him. He advanced cautiously and poked her with his forefinger. ‘Hmph! Devil of a lot of trouble you’ve caused, sir,’ was his greeting to his niece.
‘Miss,’ I corrected.
‘Oh, girl, is it? No way of telling when you see ’em like this. Is Emily all right?’
‘I think she will be. She’s very tired now. Exhausted.’
‘And—this—is quite strong?’
‘A very bonny child indeed,’ I assured him—that being a useful phrase I had heard on similar occasions.
‘Nothing wrong with it, then?’
‘Well, of course, she is rather small—please don’t call her “it”—but small babies are often more healthy than large ones, so we must hope for the best.’
‘Good! Well, young woman, your father’s no credit to you at the moment. Doubt whether he’d even know what you were. I think we had better let him sleep it off before making the introduction, Laura.’ And he looked aside at Charles’s heavily recumbent form.
I had not seen Charles drunk before. He was an unlovely sight, lying in a shaft of all-revealing morning sunlight, with his shirt unbuttoned, his boots off, his mouth hanging open and his moustache stained with claret and tobacco. My disgust must have shown on my face, and Oliver, calmly getting into his alpaca jacket, laughed.
‘Don’t look so damning,’ he said. ‘He’s only drunk. He has every reason for becoming so, and I encouraged him.’
‘I’m sure you did!’ I retorted, and was immediately sorry for the censorious note in my voice.
He buttoned his jacket and passed a hand over his hair.
‘Come now, Laura, let’s swear a truce. You have discovered all my iniquities and I have admitted all your excellences. Is that not enough to form the basis of a more—cordial—relationship?’
‘Oh, I’m too worn out to quarrel with you this morning.’ And, with the realization that the first exhilaration of holding the baby in my arms had worn off, I was glad to seat myself in Old Adam’s great leather-covered chair. ‘You are the most exasperating man. I never know where I am with you.’
‘Hmph! Because your ideas, regarding me anyway, are preconceived ones,’ he announced blandly. ‘And you are a trifle too fond of making judgements.’ He looked again at Charles, who was snoring horribly. ‘He’s your hero, I’m your villain. And regardless of any indications to the contrary, so we must remain. You want us both to stay neatly labelled, as you have labelled us, and either of us deviating an iota throws you into a panic or a temper. Poor Charles has slipped badly in your eyes this morning by looking so like a … a besotted tramp. Not your idea at all of what an English gentleman should look like, is he? So I suppose it will, take you days to work him back into his favoured niche in your affections. You’ll have to think up a fine set of apologies, explanations and excuses, instead of just admitting that your Beau Ideal is capable of becoming blind, stinking drunk. Like any other man.’
He was smiling as he spoke, but this was no jesting matter.
‘You’re talking nonsense!’ I got up to go.
‘No, I’m not. I just want a little fair play. But now, last night I did you something of a favour, didn’t I?’
‘A favour?’
‘In bringing you … Moti?’
‘I would hardly call it a favour. Least of all to me. If it was a favour, and I see it as no more than your Christian duty, it was to Emily. However, I had meant to thank you.’
‘Spare me your thanks—for that! What you should be thanking me for is realizing that you would have the good sense … the … the intelligence to accept her services. That is what I meant by my favour to you; that I trusted you to behave like a human being rather than like an English, er … maiden lady.’
‘And you accuse me of preconceived ideas!’
‘Oh, come now! Let’s not spar. However you may consider it, I paid you a compliment, don’t you see that? So, as a result, don’t you think I could go up a step in your estimation, just as poor old Charles, for getting drunk, has gone down one?’
‘But you behaved no better than I expected,’ I assured him. He regarded me suspiciously for a moment, but before he could speak, I went on: ‘You behaved just as I knew you would. I was sure you would do all you could for Emily, and me, in spite of your growls.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘Yes, and
though you may be right in thinking me too critical and too fond of my own opinions, I am capable of changing them, and I hope I am honest enough to do so whenever I see that I am wrong.’
‘Well, I’m damned! The woman is admitting that she can be wrong!’
‘Don’t be caustic. I’m doing my best, and it was you who just said we should be friends.’
‘I certainly did not! God forbid!’
‘Well there you are, you see. We don’t even speak the same language.’ I shrugged and turned to the door. ‘I must go and find something for this child to sleep in.’
‘Oh, but we do!’ he said with decision, his eyes on my face. ‘We speak just the same language—but, however, for the moment, you choose not to understand me. Very well, then. But would you be good enough to find Toddy and tell him to come and help me to put our hero here to bed?’
‘Certainly, and I suppose I should congratulate you on remaining sober yourself?’
‘No need at all. I was under no strain. After all, it was not my baby!’
When I got back to Emily’s room, she was sleeping soundly. The ayahs had washed and changed her and put fresh linen on the bed, but she looked as frail as a crushed rosebud, with deep shadows under her eyes, and cheeks and lips still drained of colour. The ayahs, tired but willing, moved about putting the room to rights, but of Moti there was no sign. At their suggestion I constructed a makeshift cradle from the bottom drawer of a tallboy, fitted with a pillow and the tiny sheets and shawls Emily and I had sewn. I placed the baby in it with some ceremony, but she, instead of settling to sleep, elected to open her unfocused eyes and bawl. I wanted to wake Emily to perform her maternal function but, when I asked her ayah, the woman smiled pityingly at my ignorance, then dipped the corner of a clean handkerchief into a mixture of tepid water and sugar she had been preparing, and popped it into the infant’s mouth. Within seconds, she was sucking contentedly, and within minutes she was asleep.
BOOK III
MOFUSSIL
‘Consider how much more pain
is brought on us by the anger
and vexation caused by ill acts
than by the acts themselves …’
Marcus Aurelius
CHAPTER 1
The small girl survived her unorthodox arrival and flourished under the ministrations of the two old ayahs and a third employed solely for her benefit.
Her mother responded less quickly to the attention with which she was surrounded, and for a week or so I knew great anxiety on Emily’s behalf. She seemed unable to rally her energies, but lay quietly all day, her eyes closed, uninterested in anything, even the infant in its absurd drawer-bed beside her.
Charles remained invisible throughout the day of his daughter’s birth, the 14th of April. Emily never asked for him, and I was grateful that I did not have to lie to explain his absence. When that night he entered her bedroom as I was spoon-feeding her with chicken broth, he looked both shamefaced and ill. His eyes met mine briefly as he approached and I saw in them not only awareness of the condition in which I had found him at dawn, but a memory of what had passed between us on the previous night. He stood at the end of the bed looking down at his wife and child.
‘Emily? Emmie? How are you?’
‘All right,’ she replied in a whisper.
‘The baby? I have not seen it yet.’
‘Over here, it’s a girl.’ Emily opened her mouth for another spoonful of soup and refused to look as her husband came around the bed and bent over the drawer.
‘She’s nice!’ said the infant’s father. Her mother did not disagree.
‘Very nice! Very small, though, don’t you think?’
‘They are always small.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.’
There was a pause as the new father cast around for something to say, while Emily continued to sip stolidly at the soup.
‘Emmie, is there anything you want? Anything I can get you?’
‘No.’
‘Cannot I do anything for you? Would you like me to … to read to you?’ Obviously a sudden inspiration.
She shook her head.
‘Nothing at all I can do? Anything? I’d like…’
‘No, nothing!’ And she turned her head away as though the interview was at an end.
‘I’ll … I’ll come in again later, then.’
Charles tiptoed out of the room and Emily continued silently with her meal. My heart ached for her, and for him, but there was nothing I could do to right matters between them.
Dinner that night was a depressing affair of long silences punctuated by heavy sighs from Charles and brief bursts of pointless conversation between Oliver and myself. Once, after a particularly deep sigh, Oliver caught my eye and made a moue of mock despair. I frowned heavily to reduce him to order, whereupon he fetched a huge sigh from his boots, compelling me to smile hastily into my napkin. Charles excused himself directly he had eaten and went to his own room; Oliver settled down to his port and I went out and walked up and down the dark verandah to try to cool myself in the open air. I enjoyed the freedom of strolling in the warm darkness unencumbered by shawls and wraps. It reminded me of the sociable, comfortable Italian nights of my childhood, when the villagers promenaded the little square below our villa, laughing and gossiping by yellow lamplight, and the scent of camellias and orange blossom mingled with the salt sea air. Here it was great bushes of pale hibiscus that glimmered through the dark and the scent came from fronds of pink and white quisqualis cascading over the verandah rail. There were crickets in the grass, the sudden moo-like moaning of a conch shell and the inevitable pi-dog barking in the servants’ quarters. So different, but because of the warmth and the southern sense of freedom, so much the same.
‘So, Laura, it appears that his wife has not yet forgiven poor old Charles. I hope you have?’
‘Oh, she knows nothing of what happened last night.’ I turned to face Oliver as he joined me.
‘No? Then it must have been alcoholic remorse.’
‘Remorse of some sort, certainly. Must you be flippant?’
‘But why the sighing? What else has happened—or should I not know?’
‘You already know. As you have said yourself, they do not love each other.’
‘Ah, I see. Poor little creature.’
‘Whom do you mean—the baby?’
‘Emily. Isn’t she happy, then, at least about the infant?’
‘I don’t know. She has scarcely looked at her. And refused to look at Charles either.’
‘Poor little woman; that’s too bad. Can I see her?’
‘Why not?’
‘Come with me then—now!’ And he walked with his quick light stride into the house, followed by me.
Emily did not open her eyes when we entered her room, but I knew she was not asleep. The ayah, who had been fanning her, gave me the fan and I sat down on the bed.
‘Emmie, you’ve a visitor,’ I began softly. ‘Oliver has come to see how you are and inspect the baby. Isn’t that kind of him?’
‘Oliver?’ She opened her eyes and smiled at him where he stood, looking quite at home, at the end of the bed. ‘Oliver’s always kind,’ she whispered and put out her hand. He took it and sat down without ceremony on the opposite side of the bed to me.
‘Are you feeling better now?’
She nodded, still smiling.
‘Good. And the baby? I haven’t really seen her yet. Can I have a look?’
A shadow crossed Emily’s face, and she turned her head away from the drawer. ‘If you want,’ she said.
Oliver bent over the drawer and pulled open the shawl with one finger.
‘Good heavens, it’s tiny! Here, young woman, let’s have a closer look at you.’
Before I could stop him, he had scooped the baby out of the drawer and was holding her up to examine her. Her milky eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again tranquilly as Oliver cradled her in his arms and in a most professional manner. I almost expec
ted him to say ‘Diddums!’, and watched with astonishment, the fan idle on my lap, as he continued his scrutiny.
‘She’s going to have very fair hair,’ he said after an appreciable pause. ‘Look, Emily, there’s a little yellow curl at the back of her neck.’ Without turning her head, Emily slid her eyes around and threw a resentful look at her daughter. ‘And her eyes—well, difficult to say as she won’t open ’em, but her eyelashes are as dark as yours already, so I’ll wager her eyes are going to be blue like yours too. What would you like them to be—blue or brown?’
‘Don’t care!’ returned Emily coldly.
‘They’ll be blue—not a doubt of it—and her nose is certainly yours. Not much of it yet, but what there is is yours. And, look, her chin too, and the way her eyebrows arch. Quite extraordinary! You must have noticed the resemblance yourself, Emily? There’s no mistaking it.’
‘No … she just looks like a baby to me. Any baby!’
‘But you’re wrong. Isn’t she, Laura? This infant is exactly what you must have been at the same age. Quite enchanting.’
I gritted my teeth and threw him a warning look. He was overplaying his hand. But Emily did not realize it. For the first time her expression betrayed a flicker of interest.
‘You’re joking,’ she said doubtfully. ‘She’s not really like me … is she?’
‘The image! I don’t see how you can have missed it. Here, have a closer look yourself.’ And he held the baby towards her mother. Emily hesitated, then pulled herself up against the pillows, and took the white bundle from him. Oliver watched her gravely as she settled the child in the crook of her arm and looked down on it.
I watched Oliver. I had begun to think I knew him well, but I had never seen his face so serious, so earnest, so understanding. Just in time I remembered what an excellent actor he was, or I might myself have melted. He bent over and placed his finger under the baby’s chin.
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