Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  When she was ready, she looked down at the swirling water. She blew out her cheeks and lit the first wick, cupping her hand to protect it from the wind.

  The fisherman steadied the boat as she leant out and lowered the first leaf over the side. Cold air rose from the depths. The sea, falling away beneath her, smelt of salt and of decay. The leaf swirled in the current and the flame flickered, battered by the breeze, then again raised its head.

  ‘May the gods bless Sanjay Krishna.’

  She bowed her head. Pictures came to her. Of the handsome youth who saved her in the chaos of the parliament attack. Of the charismatic man who sheltered and cared for her in his uncle’s home. She blinked, remembering. The flame shimmered more faintly in the darkness as it travelled from her on its journey into nothingness. Of the fighter who had faced death alone, sending her from him, back into the world. She wiped her eyes with her scarf, then strained to search for the point of light. It had already disappeared.

  She breathed evenly and waited until her hands were steady enough to light the second wick. She lowered that leaf into the water, to follow the first.

  ‘May the gods bless my dear baba.’

  The water took this leaf at once. It turned softly, finding its path on the swell.

  She seemed to feel again her baba at her side, lying against her for comfort as he did when she was a child, his heavy arm round her, keeping her safe, his breath warm in her hair, her neck.

  She sat, hunched, for a long time, gazing into the night, afraid of losing sight of the leaf as the low wind drew it from her. The tiny flame shuddered and vanished at last into the vast ocean, into the great darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Isabel

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor?’ She lifted her head from the cot.

  ‘Your father.’

  She closed her eyes. She hadn’t expected the news to reach her parents so soon. She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  The guard’s footsteps crossed the cell towards her. ‘He says he’s come a long way.’

  He fastened a cuff to Isabel’s wrist and drew her out along the corridor without another word. It was the first time she had left the cell since sentence was pronounced. The shouts and moans of other prisoners drifted down the corridor. The smell of bodily filth, roughly covered with disinfectant, pressed in on her, making her dizzy.

  She was taken to a small room, bare apart from two chairs and the table between them, all bolted to the floor. The guard attached the chain to a ring in the table and took up a position behind her. Isabel lifted her wrist and felt the weight of the metal drag it down again. She didn’t want her father to see her tethered.

  She twisted to appeal to the guard but already the door was opening.

  Edward, broad and solid in the doorway. She blinked. Her mouth dried. His expression was solemn as he strode in. He was a man built for the natural world and he seemed too large for the small room. His eyes ran across her face, reading everything there, then ranged over her crumpled prison clothes. She tried to struggle to her feet to greet him, tugged back by the chains.

  ‘They said it was my father.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Your lawyer, Mr Scott. He said you wouldn’t see me.’

  She slumped back into the chair. Her eyes fell to her hands, gathered now in her lap. Her nails were unkempt and rimmed with dirt and she hid them from him.

  He took a seat opposite her and motioned to the guard to leave them.

  The guard shuffled, hesitated.

  Edward said sharply: ‘Haven’t I paid you enough?’

  The guard withdrew. The bolt scraped shut as he fastened the door behind him, leaving them alone. Isabel bit her lip. For a moment, the silence pressed down.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ Her fingers twisted in her lap. She couldn’t raise her eyes to him.

  ‘I’ve appointed a new lawyer. A private fellow. He’s already looked over the papers.’ Edward sat forward. His manner was businesslike. ‘He plans to appeal. First, we retract your confession. Did they force you to write it? Did they threaten you?’

  She shook her head, wretched.

  Edward’s hands twitched. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one free and lit it. He reached across the table and held it to her mouth. Her lips trembled and she pulled away.

  ‘You know what really happened?’ She struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Asha poisoned him. Asha, my maid. She told me. She wanted revenge.’

  He straightened up. ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Jonathan hanged her father. And my parents wronged her. A long time ago. I was just a child.’

  ‘Can we prove it?’ He seemed galvanised. ‘Even introducing an element of credible doubt—’

  ‘We can’t prove a thing.’ Isabel sighed. ‘She’s too clever.’

  He sat for a moment, thoughtful, and drew on his cigarette. He exhaled and the smoke filled the space between them.

  When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

  ‘The lawyer wants to go after Bimal. If he agreed to testify that Jonathan’ – he hesitated – ‘that he behaved indecently, it would show you told the truth.’ He paused. ‘It might even loosen someone else’s tongue.’

  She considered this but didn’t reply.

  ‘If we could arrange for Bimal to see you, could you persuade him? It would mean contradicting his earlier statement.’

  He was such a frightened boy, a child who cowered in corners to cry. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Try to find a way.’

  He drew on his cigarette, blew out smoke. The smell took her back to the beach on Car Nicobar, smoking together after a bathe, the sun warm on her skin. She blinked hard.

  ‘So why did you confess?’ Edward’s eyes were on her face. ‘If you knew it was Asha.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  He frowned. ‘We’ll argue it was a moment of insanity, that’s all.’

  She bowed her head and breathed hard. There was so much she wanted to say.

  ‘Go back to the island.’ Her words came in a rush. ‘Whatever happens, you mustn’t testify, Edward. They’ll ruin you.’

  The guard called through from the corridor. ‘Time is finished, sahib.’

  Edward shouted: ‘In a minute.’ He turned back to her. ‘I may have to testify. Anyway, that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does.’ Her mouth twisted.

  Behind him, the door opened. ‘Sahib. Please be coming.’

  He scraped back his chair. ‘I must go. Don’t cry, Isabel.’ He paused, looking down at her. ‘God be with you.’

  She bowed her head and felt him leave her. The door slammed shut. She held on to the sound of his footsteps as they slowly faded down the corridor and waited for the guard to return, to take her back to her cell.

  She didn’t know how they persuaded Bimal to enter the prison but he did come.

  When the guard closed the door behind him, he stood with his back pressed against it. He looked round the peeling walls with eyes full of terror.

  ‘Bimal. Are you well?’

  She took his arm and led him to the chair. She sat on the edge of the cot and bent forward to him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bimal.’ She spoke in a low, steady voice. ‘I’ve thought about you a great deal.’ She gestured round the walls, which pressed in on them both. ‘I’ve had plenty of time, I suppose.’

  He wouldn’t raise his eyes to look at her.

  ‘I wanted to apologise.’ She thought of his silent shadow around the house. ‘My husband hurt you terribly. I failed to protect you. I’m sorry.’

  His mouth trembled. He opened his mouth and for a moment, he seemed about to speak but no words came.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Bimal. I know that. I want to make peace with you before’ – she paused, feeling her way to the right words – ‘before I go.’

  He looked stricken. He didn’t respond.

  She went on: �
�I want to leave you something. I don’t have a great deal but I’ll leave instructions. Do you understand? You mustn’t be afraid to take it.’

  His face twitched but still his eyes stayed fixed on the edge of the cot.

  ‘It might be enough to buy an apprenticeship, perhaps, or a small shop. When you’re older, you can take a wife and have a proper home.’

  She got to her feet and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. It was hard with tension. ‘Take it with my blessing. Please.’

  He sat with his shoulders hunched.

  She walked across the cell towards the window.

  ‘It’s a peculiar thing, to face death.’ She spoke quietly. ‘It forces a person to assess their life, you see. To weigh their sins.’ It was bright outside. When she tilted her head back, the sky between the bars was clear. ‘The day of reckoning comes for us all, in the end, Bimal. I know that now.’

  A shudder. She looked round. Bimal had sunk his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ She crossed at once and reached an arm round him. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  He resisted at first, then finally yielded as she pulled him towards her. She knelt there for some time, his head against her side, stroking his hair as he sobbed.

  When he recovered, he wiped off his swollen eyes and, when the guard returned, he left her without a word.

  Afterwards, she lay on the cot as the daylight slowly faded to night. Her eyes ran back and forth, tracing the dark stains across the ceiling until the cell became too dark and they disappeared from sight.

  Days passed. There was no word from Edward.

  Isabel spent the long hours sitting in a corner of the cell, with her knees raised and her arms, thin now, wrapped round them, and looked up at the small window on the sky. The daily passage of the sun seemed extraordinary to witness. The subtle shifting light of morning and evening, the shrill whiteness of noon. She sat alone and stared, watching with reddened eyes, thinking.

  A steady toc-toc-toc drifted in from outside, from the courtyard below. A scaffold was being erected, she knew it without being told. It took her thoughts back to Asha’s father’s death. She lived it all again, imagining herself in his place. The blackness of the hangman’s hood. The coarse rope of the noose, rough against her skin. The sudden bang of the trapdoor. The frantic flailing legs as her body fell away into nothingness, into eternity.

  The good ladies of Port Blair would be discussing what to wear for the hanging. Mrs Copeland and Mrs Allen would make reservations at The Club for luncheon so they could raise a glass together as her body cooled.

  She was too nauseous to eat. In her mind, she rehearsed every detail of her meeting with Edward. His manner was so stern. Was he angry with her? Perhaps he thought her capable of murder. She tried to feel his presence in her cell, as she had felt it so strongly when it filled the room. Always, she heard again his final words as he rose to leave. God be with you. They had an air of finality, of an ultimate goodbye.

  Sometimes a bird wheeled, high and broad-winged, riding the rising currents of air as another afternoon moved towards its close.

  Gradually, day by day, she became weaker. She took to her cot and spent hours lying there, her cheek pitted by the rough blanket. Shards of bright light reflected off the wall. Her body scratched with heat. A fly buzzed close to her ear but she didn’t have the strength to sit up, to wave it away. Her head ached.

  She didn’t have the will or the appetite to eat the food they brought. The sounds of sawing, of hammering, in the courtyard below gave way to silence. The scaffold must be finished. The time had almost come.

  Her thoughts drifted, unanchored. She was on Car Nicobar again, the waves booming on the sand. Edward was there, sun-warm and safe. Day and night merged to become a grey shapelessness of fitful dozing, half-dreaming and half-remembering.

  ‘Isabel.’ A woman’s voice, urgent. ‘Wake up.’

  Her mind stirred, struggled to free itself, swam up at last to the surface.

  Someone was talking, there in the cell. ‘She’s coming round.’

  They had come for her, then. This was the moment. She had thought herself prepared, at peace with the world. Now, as she faced the prospect of dying, panic seized her. Not now. One more day. One more hour. I beg you.

  A hand clasped hers. A soft hand. She tried to open her eyes. Lady Lyons loomed over her, her powdered face all concern.

  ‘Isabel, can you hear me?’ Her breath was sweet. ‘It’s alright, Isabel. You’re safe. Do you understand?’

  She shook her head. A dream, then. Others were there too, crowding the cell, absorbing its light. She twisted her head. Men with solemn faces gazed down at her.

  ‘Mrs Whyte. I have just signed the papers for your release.’ Sir Philip’s patrician voice. She managed to move her head, to look. There he was, ruddy-cheeked, flanked by guards.

  Her eyes moved slowly back to Lady Lyons’ face. It swam.

  ‘It’s true, my dear.’ Lady Lyons’ face showed Isabel how pitiful she must look. ‘Bimal told Sir Philip everything. That dreadful maid made him buy the poison. She dressed up in your clothes to fool the pharmacist.’

  ‘Poor Bimal.’ She thought of the boy’s wretchedness when she played on his conscience.

  ‘Try to sit up.’ Mrs Lyons lifted her shoulders from the cot and helped her to sit. Her clothes smelt of rosewater. ‘I’ve brought you a little tea.’

  A silver tea tray sat on the grimy floor, with a china teapot and matching milk jug and a lidded sugar bowl.

  ‘Just a dash of milk, isn’t it?’ Mrs Lyons stooped to lift the jug and pour. ‘I always remember how people take their tea.’

  She steadied Isabel’s hands as they raised the cup to her lips. The rim juddered against her teeth.

  ‘You must stay with us for a little while, at the Residence,’ she said.

  Behind her, Sir Philip shuffled his feet.

  Isabel looked more closely at the men clustered round him in the cell. She recognised some. An Anglo-Indian warder. Two of Sir Philip’s officers. A guard. There was no sign of Edward.

  Lady Lyons took the cup and saucer from her hands and set it down.

  ‘We need to build you up. Heaven knows, it’s all been quite a business, hasn’t it?’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Isabel rejoined the world slowly, gaining appetite and strength each day. Government House was spacious and well-appointed and her hosts were generous. Lady Lyons was often occupied with social functions. Isabel found herself left to her own devices for long periods and she was grateful.

  In the mornings and evenings, when the sun was less fierce, she sat often in a planter in a small pagoda in the west corner of the garden. It gave striking views out over the sloping lawns and splendid gardens of the Residence towards the sharply glistening stretch of water far below, which separated Ross Island from Port Blair.

  In the mornings, as she sipped her tea, her spirits were seized by a fluttering lightness. It will be today. Edward will come today. In the evenings, the lengthening shadows and mellowing light reflected her brooding disappointment that another day was ending without sight of him.

  She thought often, even as her eyes travelled over the page of some book on gardens from Lady Lyons’ library, of her last meeting with him inside the prison. She knew how wretched she looked then, how dirty and unkempt and utterly without hope. He had saved her. He appointed the lawyer who won her appeal and directed him. The fact Edward had taken such trouble on her behalf gave her cause to hope. But his manner had been so businesslike, so impersonal. And now she was free, why didn’t he come?

  When she allowed herself to lift her eyes, they ranged over the distant bustle of the waterfront. It was too great a distance to make out even a vehicle but she imagined sometimes that she saw him striding there, head high, arms loose at his sides.

  Eventually her eyes always crept higher, rising above the terraced roofs of Port Blair to the black blot of the Cellular Jail
, which crouched on the hillside with its reaching arms. I was imprisoned there, she thought. In that dark, desperate world from which there seemed no hope of escape.

  At times, when she lay in bed, hovering in the half-world between sleep and waking, she felt herself still there, and, overwhelmed by panic, sat upright, eyes staring, blood loud in her ears.

  ‘Mrs Whyte, how marvellous to see you!’

  Mrs Copeland bustled into the sitting room at Government House, her arms outstretched. Her lipstick made a thick, bright smear across her mouth.

  ‘Gracious, you lucky thing, even black suits you.’

  Isabel rose to greet the new arrivals and Mrs Copeland took the opportunity to look her up and down.

  ‘A little thin, perhaps, but Cook will soon see to that, won’t he, Lady Lyons?’

  Mrs Allen, a few steps behind, gave a shrill laugh.

  ‘Mrs Whyte! We’ve been so worried. You simply must write your memoirs.’ Mrs Allen inclined her head in appeal to their hostess, Lady Lyons. ‘They might publish it in that new women’s magazine.’

  Isabel settled back in her chair beside Lady Lyons and let the women talk on. She had no desire to see them but Lady Lyons had insisted. She looked now at Mrs Copeland’s waving hand, sparkling with diamonds. The summer heat was intense and her round cheeks were flushed. Last time they saw each other, Mrs Copeland had been on the witness stand, trying to send her to the gallows. She remembered the spite in her eyes.

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Copeland, of course.’ She assisted Lady Lyons by handing out cups of tea. ‘Lady Lyons’ cook is beyond compare.’

  Mrs Copeland reached for a jam tartlet. ‘Everyone has quite forgotten those dreadful rumours. The ones about you and Mr Johnston.’

  ‘Such an unpleasant business.’ Mrs Allen nodded. ‘Your reputation seemed quite ruined.’ She leant forward. ‘I heard that the gossip reached the Bishop of Rangoon himself. Imagine. His own missionary.’