The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  Since that first and only time on the train, he’s not even tried to touch me. There’s certainly been no suggestion that he might want to share my bed. Each night he simply says,

  ‘Well, goodnight Anna my dear,’ pecks me on the cheek and retires to his own room. I’m half relieved about this turn of events, because all I can remember about that night is embarrassment, awkwardness and pain. However, I do find it odd. He is my husband after all, and in Bombay and in Matheran too he seemed to be attracted to me, to show real affection for me. I can’t say he isn’t kind and caring when we are together, it’s just that he seems to be quite happy to spend each and every day, from early in the morning until late at night, out of the house and away from me.

  It’s plain to me that he is devoted to the regiment. I asked him once why he needed to work such long hours and he said,

  ‘There’s a lot of training to do, Anna. There have been riots in the district and the troops need to be ready for the next one. They could break out any time. There is a lot of unrest against British rule and it is spreading throughout India.’

  The hairs on my head rose at those words. I had not heard that before. There is nothing in the papers about it and everyone I’d spoken to both here and in Bombay were focused on gossip and trivia. But if what Donald said was true, and I don’t have any reason to doubt him, I can perhaps understand why he must spend so much time away from the house.

  Occasionally I leave the house and wander down to the club in the mornings. If Mrs Smethurst is there she always beckons me over to join her and calls for a pack of cards. Otherwise I sit on the veranda and drink tea. The other women are polite to me and ask me to join them at their tables, but I can’t escape that feeling that they’re all holding something back, that they’re watching me, and that they know something that I don’t. It makes me feel shy about speaking to them, and reticent about telling them anything about myself other than mundane details. All in all, it makes me feel lonelier than ever.

  Once or twice Charles Perry has been in the club when I’ve been there. I’ve noticed how the other women react to him; blushing and simpering. If he talks to any of them, they always flutter their eyelids and lean in close to him. I suppose he is tall and good looking. But to me his looks are slightly forbidding. He holds himself with an air of arrogance, as if he’s aware of his attraction and that the attention he receives is his of right.

  When I’ve glanced over at him at the bar, I’ve noticed that he’s been looking at me, with a steady, calculating, slightly sardonic gaze. I’ve looked away quickly, but not before a chill has gone right through my body. I’m not sure where that has come from, or what it signifies, it only leaves me confused and disconcerted and wishing he wouldn’t look at me like that.

  As well as my occasional visits to the club, each day I take the opportunity to explore the neighbourhood; to go somewhere new. Now is my chance to experience something of what I missed in Bombay. I often wander down to the maiden after lunch where my rickshaw-wallah is already awake and looking out for me. We have an understanding now. After that first time he always greets me with a broad smile, his teeth heavily stained with betel nut. I know his name now: Rajiv.

  ‘Where to today, madam?’ Rajiv asks, and I tell him where I want to go. I have visited all the Hindu temples dotted about the town, where I have removed my shoes and crept inside to watch people praying to their gods, to absorb the atmosphere and to breathe the heady incense.

  One day he took me out of town to an abandoned temple, overgrown with bamboo and creepers, where I sat and sketched for an hour, drawing the crumbling ruins, the rampant undergrowth and the broken statues. Another day he took me to a lake nestled in a valley. The water was perfectly still and reflected the hills around like a mirror. I sat on a rock and sketched the view. I have kept these sketches from Donald. Somehow, I don’t think he would approve of me travelling the area in a rickshaw, sightseeing and sketching alone as I do, my only company a rickshaw-wallah.

  One day I was at a loss as to where to go.

  ‘Take me somewhere new, Rajiv,’ I said. ‘Somewhere interesting.’

  He pedalled me out of town and along a straight dusty road in the direction of the distant snow-capped mountains. We left the cantonment and the British quarter far behind. We passed villages of native houses and shacks, where people lay in the shade of banyan trees, or herded their goats or buffalos on the dusty plain. The only vehicles we saw along the way were bullock carts, carrying vegetables towards the bazaar in Kandaipur, or hauling loads of hay to farms.

  After a few miles Rajiv turned off the road and onto a rutted side road. A little way along we passed a couple of derelict houses. Their walls and roofs were green with mould, and they were almost buried in creepers. There were bushes growing out of broken windows, and rampant bougainvillea covered the front wall. I stared at them as we passed and a chill went through me. They looked as though they had been built for British people, who had planted that bougainvillea in their front garden once upon a time. How strange that those homes had been left to be reclaimed by the jungle. Beyond the houses, around another bend in the road, a church tower suddenly rose between the vegetation. I gasped, it was such a surprise to see it there, and so incongruous to see a church here at all. It was just like one you might find in an English village, but so strange to stumble across it out in the country on the Indian plain. It had once been whitewashed, but the paint was flaking off the walls, and several of its arched mullioned windows were broken.

  ‘Old church,’ said Rajiv, gesticulating towards it and beaming broadly. ‘Madam want to look?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, getting down from the rickshaw with my sketch book and pencils.

  I found a place in the shade, sat down on a tumbledown wall, opened my sketch pad and began to draw the old church. Rajiv pulled the rickshaw off the road into some bushes and settled down for a rest.

  I was completely absorbed in my task and the time flew past. I worked quickly and cleanly. It came together easily and I was pleased with the result. I thought I’d managed to convey the atmosphere of the old place with its air of forlorn loneliness quite well. I was just holding up my work to assess it, when I heard the sound of an engine. A motor car appeared around the bend in the road. I shaded my eyes and peered at it. My heart gave a strange twist. Charles Perry was peering back at me from the rear window.

  I saw him tap his driver on the shoulder and the car skidded to an abrupt halt. He got out and came towards me.

  ‘Mrs Foster! Whatever are you doing here so far from town? First, I find you in a native bazaar and now in the middle of nowhere in front of a derelict church. Wherever next?’

  I tried to look nonchalant and calm, but probably appeared anything but.

  ‘Oh, I like to get out and see the neighbourhood,’ was all I could manage. I could feel my cheeks flaming under his gaze.

  ‘Club not good enough for you?’ he asked, with an amused smile. Then his eyes wandered to my sketch book.

  ‘Oh my! So you’re an artist too are you? Let’s take a gander.’

  Unwillingly I passed it to him, and cast my eyes down, my cheeks burning. I find it so difficult to show anyone my work, especially when I haven’t had time to perfect it. He looked at it for a moment, raised his eyebrows. Then he looked into my eyes.

  ‘It’s really beautiful! You’ve got quite a talent there.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I muttered.

  ‘Well I do! It’s astonishingly accurate. Now look, would you like a lift home? I’ve just been visiting one of the villages along the road. I’m heading back to the office for tiffin now.’

  ‘No. Thank you all the same but it’s fine. I have my rickshaw waiting.’ I pointed across to Rajiv who bowed shyly.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. You must take care you know. It’s no place for a white woman out here.’

  ‘It seems very peaceful. And I’m glad I’ve seen the old church. Why is it derelict? Do you know?’
>
  ‘Ah. Long story. It used to be a Baptist church. Thriving place a few years back. But the Baptist missionary here wasn’t well liked by the establishment, though the villagers seemed devoted to him and he had a strong following. He fell out with the Baptist authorities in Delhi too I understand and was called back to England under a bit of a cloud. They stopped funding the place after that. It fell into disrepair.’

  ‘How very sad. What on earth did he do that was so bad?’

  ‘Oh… as I said. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it one day. I’ll tell you now if you’ll ride back to town with me.’

  ‘No. It’s kind of you, but as I said, I’ve already paid for the rickshaw.’

  ‘It will have to wait then.’ He stood silently for a few seconds, his eyes on my face. Then he smiled. ‘I wonder… what would old Donald say about you being out here all alone?’

  Panic rose in me. He’d pinpointed my weak spot with astonishing accuracy. I really didn’t want Donald to find out about these jaunts. He might try to stop me, and I couldn’t bear that.

  ‘Look,’ I stammered, blushing again in my confusion. ‘I’d really prefer it if you didn’t mention it to Donald, if it’s all the same to you?’

  His eyes were still on me, assessing me. Just as they did in the club. He smiled as I raised my eyes to meet his.

  ‘Of course,’ he said evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention that you met me here. Or that time in the bazaar for that matter.’

  I looked at him confused. I was about to ask why, when he went on, ‘So, let’s keep it between ourselves shall we? Just you and me. It will be our little secret. Goodbye, Mrs Foster. Until next time.’

  He got into his car and the engine roared into life and it rumbled away in a cloud of dust.

  I sat on the wall going hot and cold at the thought of what I’d asked him to do. I was still mystified as to why he wanted my silence, but I’d asked him to hide something from my husband. It wasn’t just that, it was what it meant. It meant that this man now had some sort of hold over me.

  * * *

  Connie peers at the page, trying to make out the flowing lines, which have started to blur in front of her eyes. She looks up and realises that the light is fading. She hears the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen along the corridor. It only feels five minutes since she ate her lunch, but it must be hours and approaching supper time.

  She puts the silk ribbon from the diary down the middle of the page and closes the book. Her eyes are weary and watery. Much as she’d love to go on, she needs to rest. She shuts her eyes and drifts off to sleep, and as she does so, she is transported to a land far away, to a long-forgotten time. She is walking through a temple. Gongs are clanging, monks are chanting, and she is breathing in the exotic smells of incense and wood smoke.

  Eighteen

  Sarah

  Sarah leaves the nursing home and wanders back through the town. This morning she decided to walk the mile or so from Cedar Lodge, to get some exercise. She knows she’s been spending far too much time in the car since she left London.

  As she walks home, she thinks about Miss Burroughs. The old lady’s reaction to the news about the valuables in the cupboard had taken her by surprise. In fact, the whole encounter had felt very odd. Miss Burroughs seemed to veer from befuddled confusion to sharp perceptiveness. It was disconcerting.

  When Sarah had walked into her room with the flowers, she’d been shocked at Miss Burroughs’ appearance. The old lady appeared frail, bundled up in a colourless shawl and grey skirt, her white hair unbrushed. She seemed lonely and confused at first. But Sarah had quickly realised that there was more to the old lady than that. Behind the befuddled exterior lay a sharp intelligence, and a brooding pent-up energy. Sarah had noticed it the first time she’d seen Miss Burroughs, when Jonathan Squires was pushing her across the yard in the wheelchair. The old lady had been sharp and decisive then, as she had been at points during their conversation this afternoon. Especially when Sarah had asked if she knew why her father might have sealed up those things in the cupboard.

  Connie’s words echo in Sarah’s mind now. ‘Father didn’t seal them away. I did!’

  She’d looked almost triumphant as she said it, and Sarah had had another glimpse of the girl in the photograph, that defiant spirit in her piercing blue eyes was unmistakeable. But why? Why had she done that, and why was she so fierce about it? Sarah hadn’t liked to probe her, because as soon as she’d said it, Miss Burroughs stopped herself. She began to shake and to fiddle with a chain around her neck, to pick at her shawl and for a while she became quite withdrawn. She was silent for several minutes, and when she finally did speak, she reverted to being vague and muddled.

  Sarah had wondered about asking Miss Burroughs if she knew anything about Dad’s birth. But she’d decided against it. Yesterday evening when she and Dad had been eating supper, she’d told him that she intended to visit Connie Burroughs in the morning.

  ‘Do you want me to ask if she remembers?’ she’d asked tentatively. ‘About… well, about when you were a baby.’

  He’d put down his fork.

  ‘She’s very old, Sarah. Perhaps it wouldn’t be kind to trouble her about the distant past.’

  ‘But she might remember something. It could be your chance to find out.’

  He’d lapsed into silence then, and Sarah had begun to worry.

  ‘Are you alright, Dad?’

  ‘Yes. Quite alright,’ he said, coming out of his reverie and smiling at her. ‘Why not wait for a little while. It might be best not to spring too many things on her at once. She’ll be surprised enough about the things you found in the cupboard. It all might be too much for her in one day. You could always go back another time. She might appreciate an occasional visit.’

  When Sarah had left she’d asked if Miss Burroughs minded if she returned one day. The old lady had stared at her, blinking as if trying to understand her words.

  ‘You want to come back and see me?’ she’d asked finally.

  ‘Only if you’d like me to.’

  ‘Of course. That would be very nice. I don’t get many… well any visitors actually.’

  Sarah thinks again about the pieces in the cupboard. The ornaments are beautifully crafted out of exquisite materials. She resolves to polish them up and display them somewhere. Perhaps once the cupboard is opened up, they would look nice there on some open shelves. She’s not sure about the other things, though. The cane, the watch and the cufflinks. They must have belonged to Ezra Burroughs. She pictures him wearing them, tucking the watch inside a breast pocket, the cane under his arm. A shiver goes through her. The elephant’s foot must have been a coal scuttle. There’s something deeply disturbing about that, too. Perhaps it would be better to get rid of all those things.

  She’s wandering along the High Sreet now, approaching the town from the other direction. She finds herself opposite the bistro. Why not stop off for a bite to eat? She hasn’t done a proper supermarket shop yet and it would be good to have some hot food.

  The young waiter greets her shyly, showing no signs of having met her in the newsagents the day before. He shows her to a window seat. This time she orders steak and salad. It takes a while to come, but when it does it is done perfectly. As she tucks in, the owner approaches.

  ‘So, you did buy the house after all,’ he says, smiling broadly.

  She looks up at him and returns the smile. He looks less careworn and preoccupied than on the previous occasion.

  ‘I did. How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, word gets around. It’s a small town.’

  ‘I moved in a few days ago. But I suppose you know that too,’ she says, laughing.

  ‘Of course. Well, welcome to Weirfield.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, and apologies if the food took a bit longer than you were expecting, we’re short staffed at the moment.’

  ‘That’s no problem. I know what it’s like.’

>   She’d said it without thinking and immediately regrets it. She feels the heat in her cheeks as the man looks at her with raised eyebrows, waiting for her to go on. When she doesn’t he says, ‘Really? Are you in the trade too?’

  ‘I was. Until recently.’

  She waits for him to put two and two together. Has he remembered her name? She probably told him her surname the last time she came in. She holds her breath. How stupid of her to blurt it out like that. She really doesn’t want to discuss Alex. Not here, not now. She feels relief when the man simply says,

  ‘Well, if you’re interested, I’m looking for someone to look after the customers in the restaurant, so I can keep a better eye on the kitchen. It’s not really working out doing both.’

  ‘That must be tough. It’s very kind of you. But I need to concentrate on the house for the next few months.’

  ‘Well, if you change your mind, do let me know.’

  * * *

  Back at Cedar Lodge, Sarah continues stripping wallpaper in the study. She makes quick progress, singing along to the radio. The paper falls in great sodden curls onto the groundsheet. She’s surprised how quickly the time passes. Darkness falls, and she gets down from the chair and switches on the light so she can see to carry on. When the doorbell rings she realises with surprise that it’s after four o’ clock.

  ‘Mrs Jennings?’ The builder stands on the porch. A balding man in his fifties. She invites him in. He steps inside the hall and looks around him warily. He seems nervous. Perhaps he’s shy, Sarah wonders.