by Rumer Godden
‘Kokil, where is Don?’
‘The Memsahib says I’m not to tell you.’
The answer had been so unexpected that at first they did not take it in. Then Emily’s heart and Emily’s face went still, but Binnie asked gaily, ‘Why? What is the matter with him?’ No one answered. Kokil’s stillness, like Emily’s, penetrated even to Binnie. ‘What is the matter?’ she asked again, but this time it was a real question. ‘Is he ill? Is he hurt?’ Kokil was silent, moving the dust with his toe, not looking at them, and Binnie gave a sharp anguished howl. ‘He’s dead. Emily! Emily. He’s dead!’
Kokil looked at them, quite haggard with distress. ‘My orders are not to tell you. I’m not to tell you, but – Don dog is dead.’
‘No, he is not,’ said Emily crisply, She could not have told why she said it, but she said it clearly and loudly. ‘Don dog will never die,’ and she walked straight upstairs to Louise. Outside Louise’s door she jerked Binnie to a stand.
‘You always like to do what I tell you, don’t you, Bin?’
‘Y – es.’
‘You always will do what I say?’
Binnie nodded. Her eyes, wet and blue, were fixed steadily on Emily.
‘Then, listen,’ said Emily austerely. ‘Whatever they tell you, whatever they say, Don is not dead. He – is – not – dead.’
Binnie seldom asked questions in words, but she had a singular power of making her whole body ask them for her.
‘—?’ said Binnie.
‘He met us just now when we came in.’
‘—?’
‘He is here now and he is always with us. Don! Down, Don!’ Emily brushed down her dress. ‘Do you see? Come out of that corner, Don. He thinks there’s a rat. Come out, you naughty dog. You can’t dig there. Come out, I say.’
‘—?’
‘He’s invisible now, you see,’ said Emily.
Light began to break on Binnie’s face.
‘Say, “Hullo, Don.”’
‘H – hullo.’
‘Louder.’
‘Hullo – Don.’
‘And if you want to be any help to me,’ said Emily, ‘you will go on saying that whenever you can remember. We have to give him all the encouragement we can while he’s invisible, you see.’
Louise was sitting at her dressing-table, picking up the brushes and putting them down again, taking the tops of her jars and bottles off and putting them back unused. She said in her careful voice, ‘Is that you, children? Did you have a nice time? Emily, I hope you were careful what you ate.’
There were bright patches on her cheeks and in her voice, and a dead cold weight sank in Emily. Up to that moment she had had a little hope that it was not to be true; up to that time there was even a feeling that it could not be true, there would be – must be – a miracle – It was not to be true. Now that died. It was dead as soon as she saw Louise.
‘Emily, come here.’
Her track across the room came to a full stop at the back of a chair. She stood there waiting, her eyes on Louise, and she put her arms up defensively on the chair back.
‘Emily – and Binnie, there is something I have to tell you. You must be brave.’
They did not answer. They only stared.
‘Emily – Don was killed – this morning.’
‘No he was not.’
‘We did everything we could. The vet came – but he died.’
‘He didn’t. He met us just now as we came in.’
‘Emily, you have just heard me say he is dead.’
‘You say it, but it isn’t true.’ She and Louise exchanged stares. ‘Go on,’ said Emily. ‘Tell us how he died.’
‘He – was very badly bitten – by another dog.’
‘In a fight?’
‘Yes. In a fight.’
‘Don doesn’t fight,’ said Emily scornfully. ‘He never fights, he always runs away. He’s one of the greatest cowards that have ever been’ – and she asked desperately: ‘Where is Charles?’
‘He is out.’ And there was a hesitating, painful pause.
‘Stand up and don’t fidget with your mouth,’ said Louise sharply. ‘Emily—’ she controlled her voice – ‘I tell you – Don is dead. I am very very sorry about it, more sorry than I can say, but it’s no use being angry—’
‘Wouldn’t you be angry if someone said that about one of your dogs?’ demanded Emily, and suddenly her anger choked her; but it was not only anger, it was the soup as well, come back at this most inconvenient hour.
There was no hiding that bout of sickness. She was most mortally sick; she knew that point was reached when everyone gave in to her, when Louise ceased to scold or cajole and became suspiciously reasonable.
Emily did not know then what she was saying, but they told her she had cried all the time, ‘I want – Don – by my bed. Tell – them – to bring his bed – and – put it – by mine.’
‘Very well, darling. We will. We will.’
‘So that – I can touch him.’ And, ‘Where is Charles? I want him – badly.’
‘Yes – yes. But don’t talk now.’
And so the day went on until the evening, dragging through the familiar misery of all such days: the bursting pain in her head and eyes, the thick yellow taste of her mouth and the burning unhealthiness of her body; even her skin hurt. There was the smell of eau de cologne, the basin beside her, the towel spread under her … But the misery then was not as bad as the misery now. All the time she was so sick she was numb … And, wrote Emily, it was days before I could feel again and I am not sure that I can feel properly now, I still have the feeling in my head of being sick and very tired and still not feeling properly. So one day I shall feel it even worse than this, probably.
At the beginning, in the first shock, she was laid low – and she came very near then to an armistice with Louise.
I woke from a doze … And there was Louise sewing by her bed, with her needle glinting in and out of a thread of light that came from a chink in the shutters; Louise looked up and caught her eyes; Louise was pale, hollowed with pity, and her eyes as they met Emily’s were anxious, almost timid.
‘If you sew in that light,’ croaked Emily, ‘you will hurt your eyes.’
It was a terrible effort to say that and it was not wise; at once she began miserably to retch again. Louise held her head as she leant over the side of the bed, and Louise’s hands were cool and slim and their skin was faintly scented. Luxuriously Emily let them put her back on the pillow and smooth her hair and stroke her forehead. ‘Poor – little girl,’ said Louise. ‘Poor little girl.’
Emily gave a small fluttering sigh and pressed Louise’s fingers under her own. (‘Why can’t you always be like this?’ asked Louise’s fingers as clearly as if they had spoken. ‘Why can’t you?’ And Emily’s answered, ‘I can. I can.’) And immediately and clearly she said aloud, ‘Mother, if you put your hands round Don’s chest from behind you can feel his heart beating. It’s like a little engine.’
After that she lay alone.
She closed her eyes and presently she was sick again, but this time she had to manage by herself.
While she was retching over the side of the bed, Charles came in and stood there looking at her …
Charles came in and looked at me …
Again Emily dug and twisted her thumb in the earth. What had she expected of Charles? She did not quite know, but she had waited all day for him to come in, reaching out for that moment, certain of relief, and then … The tomatoes were hanging absolutely still but they seemed to be swaying and shimmering dangerously.
Charles came in to see her after he had changed, not straight up; she heard him ride in and waited for the curtain to lift and for him to appear, but she went on waiting. He came upstairs, she heard his voice, he was talking to Louise and then he went downstairs again. When at last he did come to her he walked up to her bed, and did not speak. He looked ashamed. Emily lay there dumbly, looking at him, and he still looked ashamed, and sh
e, at once, became embarrassed, almost prim. It was a pity – after all that waiting there did not seem anything to say. Why did he look ashamed?
She made an effort. ‘Charles—’ but she could not go on. Tears of weakness filled her eyes; she closed them trying to prevent the tears escaping under her lids; she succeeded and presently she asked the question she wanted to ask. ‘How do – you – say Don died?’
He did not answer at once but she felt him change and he said, as if he were angry, ‘Your mother has told you – he was killed in a fight.’ Emily knew he was not angry with her.
Charles did not lie – if you asked him a question he answered it; he did not lie. Charles said, ‘Your mother has told you – he was killed in a fight.’ Charles did not say, ‘He was killed in a fight.’
She looked at him. ‘Don didn’t fight. He ran away.’
Charles did not answer.
‘Don isn’t dead,’ she said.
‘Yes he is,’ answered Charles promptly, and suddenly he added, ‘Emily, if I were you, I should be quiet over this. Don’t worry Louise.’
Emily turned over and lay with her back to him. He knew it was a lie?… Charles does not tell lies, but he is going to be with Louise against me, in this. Why? I don’t know … What mysterious power had Louise over Charles to make him join in a lie with her like this – to make him uphold her?…
I don’t care. I don’t care, – wrote Emily, proudly, though her lids were smarting, – I will be by myself.
She knew now that was going to be true for her. She was to be alone – not even with Binnie. Binnie and Emily were sisters, children of Charles and Louise, but there was something in Binnie that made her especial to them, something that left Emily out.
Binnie was loyal, but Binnie was no one’s ally. Binnie was like a sea-anemone, she took in as much as she could digest and spat out the rest into life; she made no attempt to retain anything more than she comfortably could. She will help me just as far as she can, and then leave off helping; but she is a help. I met her on the stairs just now with Louise. ‘Hullo Don, Don,’ said Binnie as I passed and I saw Louise set her lips. Binnie was useful as a machine gun, she sent in a stream of identical little bullets all on the same spot.
And mark you, Louise, wrote Emily and liked it, mark you, I shall get what I want in the end … There is no escape for you. This time I shall win. I am learning to pay attention. I am thinking of this even in my sleep. You think I shall forget, but I shall not forget and I shall not give up even if am alone … And she thought of the Jerusalem song that Charles sang on the steps in the morning. I have no bows and arrows, I have no sword or a spear, but I shall not cease from mental fight till I have found out everything, Louise.
The next page was headed: Inoculations!
Now this was a very curious part of the affair, and that it was a part of the affair Emily was convinced. The children had been inoculated before, on board ship for typhoid fever; they had been vaccinated; now it seemed that there was a new disease and they were to be inoculated for that.
‘What is it?’
‘You would not understand.’
They would not understand but they were to have seven ghastly inoculations that were done in the side of the stomach.
Even Charles protested. ‘But are they necessary, Louise?’
‘Dare you take the risk?’
‘If we examine them carefully for bites and scratches …’ What could bites and scratches have to do with a disease?
‘It doesn’t harm you if they are done. Especially,’ she said with an edge of resentment in her voice, ‘as they can be done here. It isn’t worth the risk, just for a few little pricks.’
Little pricks. As Emily thought of them the whole of her seemed to recede leaving only her stomach, and her stomach seemed round and flat like the side of a tambourine with a brittle, stretched, thin skin across it. The Doctor Babu was frightened of the needle himself, he approached it towards them with his hand trembling and once he missed and had to start again; and then there was the long moment to stand with the needle quivering in and out, the plunger going down before he started all over again on the other side.
‘O Mother, let me take the risk,’ begged Emily.
‘Emily, how can you be such a coward? Think of Binnie. It isn’t as terrible as all that.’
‘It is. It’s simply dreadful,’ cried Emily, ‘and it isn’t necessary, either.’
‘Would I ask you to have it done if it were not necessary?’
‘Yes, you would. Don’t you believe anything she says, Binnie!’ shouted Emily, and from an overheard tag she cried: ‘It’s just a form of propaganda.’
Charles walked hastily away. If the disease were so bad, why was Charles not done? Emily counted up the people. Louise, she herself, Binnie, Kokil the sweeper, and the Pekingese. Such a curious and peculiar choice.
‘Shah, will you be done?’
‘Not I!’ said Shah, and laughed.
‘Why not?’
Shah was evasive. He shrugged.
‘Have you ever been inoculated?’
‘Inoculated? Wah! When I was a soldier – for plague, for typhoid – and langwana – vaccination.’
‘But dogs can’t get any of those diseases, can they, Shah?’
That was the most mysterious of all. Why were the Pekingese inoculated? She had discovered that they were done – only by accident. Every morning, very early, they left with Kokil in the car. Where to go? To Dr Das’s house and Dr Das was the vet. He was in the telephone book, the only Dr Das. Dr N.C. Das, Vet. Surgeon.
‘Charles, why do Picotee and Sun go to the vet?’
‘To be inoculated,’ said Charles incautiously.
‘Like us?’ pounced Emily.
‘Yes.’ And then he added sharply, ‘What did you say? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, like you.’
‘For the same thing?’
Charles stared at her, but under his scrutiny she kept a bland, inquiring face.
‘Yes, for the same thing,’ said Charles. ‘And I’m too busy to answer any more questions.’
What diseases do people and dogs get? … I have to find out that.
Can people get distemper? Can dogs get malaria? What disease do dogs and people get?…
All these things Emily wrote down and conned over in the tomato bed, and every day she held a session there and every day she had garnered a little and achieved a little more; the sessions grew longer and longer.
‘Emily, what have you been doing to your knees?’
‘Kneeling on them.’
‘Kneeling on them? They are filthy and stained with something green. Kneeling? Why?’
‘To pray,’ said Emily pertly.
‘For whom?’
‘Not for whom? – for what?’ said Emily, and she fixed her eyes on Louise. Their ordinary hazel glowed with a yellow-green light and she looked like a young tiger cat. ‘I’m praying for something I mean to have, and I shall get it. I shall get it soon,’ said Emily.
War had opened between Emily and Louise.
‘Kokil,’ said Emily in the evening, ‘why haven’t you brought Don’s food?’
‘Don’s food?’
‘Yes. Don’s food. He’s hungry. Go and get it at once. Bring it.’
Kokil hesitated, looking at her. ‘Emily baba, the Memsahib told you. Don dog is dead.’
‘She says he is dead but he is not.’
‘With my own eyes I saw him dead, Emily baba.’
‘With my own eyes I see him alive. Don’t talk to me. Go and fetch his food.’
He did not know whether to go or to stay. Emily’s nerve broke and she screamed, ‘Fetch it! Fetch it at once!’
To placate her he brought it, and Louise, coming down the stairs, saw three empty bowls where only the two Pekingese had fed.
‘Why three?’
She could not understand his answer. ‘Why three?’ she asked again.
‘Don dog,’ said Kokil simply.
‘Don�
��t be so stupid!’ cried Louise angrily, but next day they were there again.
(‘Mother, don’t you think Don’s sweet? Do you know what he did …?’)
(‘Hullo, Don. Hullo, Don. Hullo, Don.’)
(‘Good night, Mother. Good night, Binnie. Good night, Don.’)
‘Emily. Stop it!’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know very well.’
‘I don’t. What do you mean?’
‘Emily, once and for all, will you stop this clowning?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I forbid you – either of you – to mention Don’s name again.’
Silence. They were lying on their backs looking at her.
‘Why?’ said Emily.
‘Don is dead, Emily. This – this – play-acting is senseless and – horrid.’
‘Not as horrid as being dead,’ said Emily.
Louise caught her breath. She was standing between them and in front of her was Don’s small empty charpoy, its rug folded, a bowl of drinking water beside it, and his lead coiled on the bed.
‘You are not to say it. Not to. Understand! You are not to say his name again.’
‘We shall have to learn to whistle then,’ said Emily.
After Louise had gone and Binnie was asleep she had another fit of crying; as she lay exhausted after it she looked up at the sky through her net and wondered for the first time where Don had really gone … Where did he go? I know they put him away somewhere; buried him; but where is he, the breathing part of him? That made a gap of terror in her, and she hastily put a thought over it, an anodyne. ‘There has been so much dying lately,’ she said, ‘that anyhow he won’t be lonely.’ But the stars all slid together in the blur of tears.
VII
‘Charles, I must speak to you.’
Louise was standing by the piano looking out of the window as he came in. He thought she must have been standing there for a long time, she looked so strained and white and her handkerchief was twisted into a string in her hand. There was only one lamp lit in the room, a lamp with a deep shade that made a circle of light on the floor round it and left the rest of the room in dusk; only the flaky shapes of the pigeons in Charles’s picture shone on a background that had sunk away into the wall. The sky outside the windows in relief was a clear blue, the blue of blue flowers; the stars were still small and fresh in the sky, and the tops of palms showed indistinct and feathery in their blackness. A chatter of sounds came from the bazaar, not loud but shrill and never ceasing, and with it nearer, in the garden, were a dozen indescribable sounds of an Indian night: lizards, crickets and an owl, a flute from the servants’ houses, but more than anything else Louise listened to the tom-toms and the cymbals from the temple in the bazaar and beyond them – somewhere, the sharp yapping of a dog.
