A Scandalous Secret (29 page)

Sharat sat restlessly in the living room, listening to a Pandit Jasraj CD on his new Bose system, but keeping an eye on the antique glass clock to be sure he did not miss the next news bulletin.

The day had been a satisfying one, beginning with a hugely successful rally to launch ‘Saamna', an organization he had recently formed to call for an end to local government corruption. At least three thousand people had attended – thanks in part to the huge advertisements that had been running in all the broadsheets these past few days – and nearly two thousand people had signed a joint petition which was later delivered to the Prime Minister's residence. Already CNN-IBN had covered the rally in their six o'clock bulletin and Sharat's contact over at NDTV had promised that they were running their package at seven, which included a one-on-one prerecorded interview with him.

Wondering where Neha was, Sharat picked up the intercom phone and clicked on the button marked ‘Main Bedroom'. Neha's voice answered it within seconds. ‘
Haanji
, where are you?' Sharat asked. ‘Aren't you coming down to see the NDTV piece?'

‘Of course I'm coming. It's not time yet is it? Give me two minutes.'

‘What are you doing?' Sharat persisted, always unhappy to be somewhere that lacked Neha's reassuring presence.

Aware of this, Neha laughed gently, ‘
Arrey baba
, I'll be with you in two minutes. I was just thinking of trying that new meditation technique Swami Dayanand showed me but right now is obviously not the best time!'

‘That's exactly right. Come down,
na
. We'll watch it in the breakfast room. You can try all your meditation stuff later on.'

Sharat had already turned on the TV when Neha came into the breakfast room a few minutes later, settling himself on his usual wicker chair, remote control in hand. He shot a glance at her, observing the tiredness of her demeanour. It had certainly been a long day, and Neha had been firmly by his side as they handed out tea and refreshments at the rally, but, while the experience had led to a feeling of immense buoyancy in Sharat's spirits, it seemed to have had the opposite effect on Neha.

‘You okay? Tired?' he asked, patting the seat next to him.

Neha settled herself on the sofa beside Sharat and put her head on his shoulder. ‘I wonder, will you still be calling me to watch the TV news with you when you're a big politician and on the news every day?'

‘Of course! Then you'll have to not just watch with me but also bring me endless cups of tea and press my aching legs. That's what good politicians' wives do, I am told.'

Neha smacked Sharat's thigh good-naturedly but they fell silent as the newscaster appeared on screen. The story of the anti-corruption rally was the third piece on the news, and they watched carefully as Sharat's face appeared in a close-up shot while he was interviewed.

‘Very good,' Neha muttered as the interview drew to a
close. ‘You sound like a really seasoned hand, Mr Sharat Chaturvedi!'

‘I think I hesitate too much between sentences. Too much humming and hawing,' Sharat said, frowning.

‘Nonsense,' Neha dismissed. ‘You sound just fine. You don't want to be too smooth. People don't trust those silver-tongued politician types, I think.'

Sharat kissed her cheek. ‘As usual, you're probably right, my dear,' he said. Then he cupped his hands on either side of Neha's face and gently ran the balls of his thumbs on the faint purple shadows under her eyes. ‘What's this?' he asked, his voice gentle. ‘Are you not sleeping properly?'

‘I'm sleeping just fine,' Neha said, her expression suddenly defensive. Then she added, ‘Maybe we've been attending too many events recently. Muniza's iftaar, Preeti's party, Pramod's book launch at the British Council. And, of course, all the preparations for yesterday's rally. A few quiet nights in will sort me out, don't worry.'

But Sharat continued to look concerned as Neha got up from the sofa and wandered around the room, turning on all the uplighters so that the room was suddenly filled with light. ‘Will you give me an honest answer if I ask you something?' he queried suddenly.

Neha's back stiffened almost indiscernibly as she continued to face the Taiyyab mural that always looked stunning when the halogen lamps angled to highlight it were turned on. Sharat waited till she had turned round slowly to face him. ‘Of course I will, Sharat,' she replied softly.

‘Are you still grieving over Sonya?' he asked in his customary direct fashion.

Neha hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Why should I be grieving, Sharat? I mean, if anything, I should
be happy to know that she is fine and in a happy place. Shouldn't I?'

Sharat felt she was asking him a question, rather than making a statement. ‘I don't know, Neha. Should you? Maybe it's not as simple as that, you know. Maybe it was easier to cope when she was completely lost to you. But, now that that door has been opened slightly, you may feel you need to open it properly … let the light and air in to what was previously a very dark place for you …'

Neha remained silent and, because she was standing with the light behind her, Sharat could not read the expression on her face. After a pause, he said, ‘I think you should go to England to meet her properly, Neha.'

Neha's reaction was surprisingly violent, her voice harsh as she said swiftly, ‘No, sorry, that's a crazy idea, Sharat! I don't want to go to England. What would I do there anyway? I can't go chasing after her now! All these years later, and when she needs to concentrate on her new college life.' She calmed herself, her tone turning contrite as she added, ‘It's sweet of you, Sharat. I know you mean well, but it won't work. We have to think of her too. She may not want to see me again.'

‘How can you assume that? She might actually be wanting to see you too, Neha,' Sharat replied. ‘I mean, it was all left half-finished, the way in which you met and then parted. She too may be in need of some kind of … what is that American psycho-babble thing they say … closure? Yes, she might be needing closure too. But she can hardly walk in here again, given what happened when she was here last. No, I think the ball is in your court. You need to write to her, and tell her how things got resolved over here, and then ask her if you can go and see her in England.'

‘But … but her parents might mind, Sharat,' Neha said, now openly crying, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘Have you thought of that, Sharat? Her parents, who brought her up from the time she was a baby, they may not want me anywhere near her!'

‘They let her come here to Delhi, didn't they? They must be more confident about her love than that, Neha. And surely they will understand that you aren't trying to usurp them in her affections after all these years? I mean, she's a grown adult now, for heaven's sake.' After a long pause, Sharat said, his voice gentle in the silence of the room, ‘Go, Neha. Go to your daughter. Show her you care enough to do that. God knows, you both need that bit of assurance to move on. You will only need a few days in England. Go and sort this out, and then come straight home to me.'

Hello, Neha,

Thanks very much for your email. It was very welcome on a leaden grey November morning.

I too had been wondering when and how to make contact with you again, so am very glad you wrote. As you can imagine, I'd been concerned about the state you were in when we last met – I'm referring, of course, to that sudden disclosure you had to make of my existence in front of your husband. Therefore, it was with great relief that I gather all is well there. I must say, it's really kind of your husband to insist that you make contact with me again. My deepest apologies once again for having been instrumental in putting both of you through all that. What an awful lot of stress it must have caused.

Thanks too for the update on Keshav. So glad he saw the error of his ways and did not make good his threat.

Yes, I will be going home for Christmas and am looking forward to my first proper break since joining college. However, I'm in Oxford until the middle of December and it would be terrific to see you here when you visit. No, Mum and Dad will not
mind at all, please be assured of that. Of course, it took a while for Mum to understand why I needed to go to India and meet you but all that's sorted now.

Do let me know when you have a date and we can arrange a time and place. I'd better get back to my endless swotting now (Medieval Literature – gah!).

But, for now, it's very warm wishes from a freezing Oxford.

Sonya

It was a dark English morning that threatened snow, and the journey on the ten-fifteen to Oxford was going to be a slow one. But Neha did not mind that at all. The man back at the ticket counter at Paddington had referred to this train as a ‘trundler' and was clearly puzzled at Neha turning down the superfast that was due to leave only a few minutes earlier. She had agreed to meet Sonya at teatime, when her last class for the day was over, which meant that she had given herself almost a full day to get from London to Oxford! But there had been no other way to quell her restlessness and it seemed to Neha that there was little point in killing a few hours in her London hotel. She had already finished the odds and ends of shopping she had needed to do at Selfridge's: Rigby and Peller lingerie, her Crème De La Mer toiletries and a new pair of Church's shoes for Sharat.

And so she boarded the trundler, looking forward to seeing the English countryside properly, rather than in a blur from a superfast train window. Nineteen years since she had left the country in such a hurry! Taking a windowseat, Neha recalled how, off and on, Sharat had suggested holidays together in Britain and how she had always resisted, citing her fear of long-haul flights as the
reason. Poor Sharat, he had always unquestioningly accepted so many of her lies …

Even the journey out of London was slow as they passed gleaming offices and grubby council blocks and row upon row of neat white townhouses like something out of a child's toy set. A little later came the suburban sprawl of west London, windswept and grey on this winter morning. Despite the unread
Daily Telegraph
rolled up in her handbag, Neha was distracted for the most part of her journey, her mind rattling alarmingly from past to present and, of course, to her imminent meeting with Sonya. As she lost herself in her thoughts Neha suddenly realized with a start that she was now in the heart of the English countryside and that the sun had finally broken out from behind the thick cloud cover. She looked out of the window as the train drew in at yet another station. ‘Pangbourne' the board on the platform said, a name she did not remember from the past – but then she had hardly ever needed to be on a train from Oxford to London during her brief student life here.

The day outside now looked bright but cold. A pair of elderly women in long woollen coats boarded Neha's carriage, exclaiming in relief at having escaped the freezing platform as they took off their gloves and unwound colourful scarves that they stuffed into oversized carpet bags. They smiled briefly at Neha as they occupied the seats next to hers and, for a few minutes, she listened to their chatter before turning her attention to the scene outside the window again. The train was pulling slowly out of Pangbourne now and Neha gazed with pleasure at the quintessential English picture she was being treated to, almost like a caricature: red tiled roofs clustered around a small country church and sunlit rolling greens dotted with sheep. She was glad it wasn't
raining, although snow had been forecast for later at night. For that reason, Sharat had wanted her to stay over at a B&B in Oxford when he had called this morning, but Neha insisted that it would be no trouble at all getting back to London.

‘But it will be dark by four o'clock, Neha!'

‘Oh, darling, as though the streets and stations won't be full of people trying to get back from work at night. I'll be fine, don't worry.'

Of course, Neha found herself unable to tell Sharat that she preferred not to stay any longer than absolutely necessary in Oxford, partially fearing raking up painful memories and also because she worried she would become a bother to Sonya. It was hard to explain why she felt that, by staying in Oxford overnight, a burden of expectation would be placed on Sonya that Neha did not want. It was good enough to know that she was going to meet her, and this time without having to skulk around, keeping it secret from Sharat.

The railway station at Oxford was bigger and busier than Neha remembered, people scurrying to catch trains and taxis. As she stepped off the forecourt, however, things started to look a little more familiar and Neha started to walk confidently in the direction of the city centre. She remembered that it was no more than a fifteen-minute walk and, seeing how much time she had at her disposal, she did not worry about the prospect of getting a little lost.

Over the little bridge spanning the Isis, past the bus station and a new Sainsburys, Neha found her footsteps leading to Wadham College. She had not planned this at all but, before she knew it, she was standing facing the familiar old building. With all kinds of feelings heaving inside her
chest, Neha gazed at the sunlit quad, trying to recollect the emotion with which she had first laid eyes on this stirring sight. But it was gone. Try as she might, Neha could not revive any of the innocent excitement she had felt as an eighteen-year-old. This should have been unsurprising, after the passage of so many years, but Neha felt oddly disappointed and turned away to start walking around the quad.

‘Hi, I'm Simon Atkinson. I'm looking for the college office …'

‘I'm Neha from India, pleased to meet you.'

Neha could almost hear those young voices as she retraced their steps. Simon so warm and friendly. She, so formal, so stiff. Neha swallowed back the sudden bitter taste in her mouth.

Smart new sliding doors led to the college office and Neha stepped in, unable to stop herself now. A number of unfamiliar faces were sitting behind desks and computers and she approached the nearest of them, a young woman with red streaks in her hair and wearing metal studs in her nose and lower lip. She was nothing like the rather staid staff of her own time here as a student.

‘Hi,' the girl said, looking up with a wide smile.

‘Hi … I wonder whether you can help.' Neha hesitated and then started again. ‘You see, I used to be a student here many years ago and I was wondering if you could help me find a faculty member whose contact details I appear to have lost.'

‘I could certainly try,' the girl responded, adding, ‘She may well still be teaching here. Change comes slowly to Oxford.'

‘Not a she. He … the name is Henderson. Alastair Henderson. He used to teach us poetry.'

The girl's expression was blank at the mention of the name but she chewed her lip and screwed up her face, clearly keen to try and help. ‘Doesn't ring a bell rightaway, I have to say. But gimme a minute, there's someone who might know. Who almost definitely
will
know, in fact!' She picked up the phone and jabbed at a few buttons before saying, ‘Hey, Rita, you wouldn't happen to know of a tutor who worked here by any chance? Alastair Henderson. Poetry.' She waited as Neha heard a voice crackle down the line. The words were indistinguishable but the woman with the studs kept her eyes fixed on Neha's face while she nodded. As the voice continued to crackle for another few minutes, the girl before Neha rolled her eyes upwards in a friendly gesture of exasperation and formed her fingers into the shape of a quacking duck's bill. Finally she hung up and turned to Neha.

‘Blimey, never thought I'd manage to turn her off, good old Rita! But you're in luck,' she said. ‘I knew old Rita would have chapter and verse. Helps to have a few old gossips around, eh? Well, you may not be aware but Alastair Henderson went on from teaching here to fronting a BBC series on poetry. And, when that came to an end, he apparently returned here to Oxford. Fell on hard times, according to Rita – flagging poetry career, broken marriage, hit the bottle big time, that kind of thing. He eventually ended up living off the goodwill of a couple of his old students who hired permanent digs for him at a pub called Head of the River. Do you know it? Anyway, that's where he lives now, eking a living out of writing occasionally for the
Poetry Review
, you know, articles and reviews, that sort of thing. Clever chap, according to Rita. ‘Cleverer than was good for him,' to use her exact expression. But I don't need to tell you all that, I guess. He must have left
a lasting impression on you, seeing that you're in search of him so many years down the line. It sure sounds like he'd be grateful for the company of an old student too. Do you know where the Head is?'

Neha shook her head, overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of information. The girl drew a pad towards her and proceeded to draw a map with an assured hand. Neha watched dumbly as pen-pictures emerged: roads and bridges and a squiggly pond, only half-listening to the accompanying commentary: ‘If you turn left soon as you cross the river and walk down the steps, you'll find it right there, bang on the river. Tudor-style building.' As she finished, the girl tore the page out of her pad and gave it to Neha with a broad smile. ‘It's sweet, you know, when students come back here in search of their teachers. Makes me feel all warm and glowy. And determined to go in search of my crew back at the FE college I went to in Leicester. Except I never do, as it's invariably straight down to the pub with my mates! Well, happy hunting and have a lovely time with the old boy, won't you? Sounds like he might appreciate a lunchtime drink!'

Neha mumbled her thanks and fled the office, her head reeling with confusion. She took stock once she was back in the main quad again. Alastair, back here in Oxford! Fallen on hard times … broken marriage, fractured life … it ought to be music to her ears, the notion that some kind of of divine justice had been done. Instead, the information was making her feel strangely sick. Neha pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears, trying to warm her suddenly cold bones. In order to save herself from her tortured thoughts, she walked swiftly back onto the street and dived into a tearoom, blinking in confusion at the sudden warmth and the brightly lit counters filled
with scones and flapjacks and luridly coloured cupcakes. She followed a girl in uniform to a small table next to the window and sank into a metal chair with relief.

Having ordered a soup and toasted sandwich for lunch, Neha leaned her cheek against the freezing window pane next to her, trying to cool her suddenly flushed face. Outside, the day was darkening quite suddenly and Neha remembered the forecast for snow. Feeling something rustle between her fingers, she looked down and realized she was still clutching the piece of paper containing Alastair's address. Neha placed it on the table and, using her palms, straightened out the crumples to study the roads and arrows that pointed to a small oblong next to which was scrawled ‘Head of the River' … How hard she had searched for Alastair while pregnant with Sonya … and how something like this might have changed her life – and Sonya's. Neha pressed a tear back as she suddenly felt the stabbing pain of that time.

Lunch arrived and she worked her way through it, hardly able to taste a thing. Then, putting the knife and fork together, she sat back, wiping her mouth with a paper serviette while the waitress approached to clear her plate. ‘Thank you,' Neha said and, just before the girl whisked everything away on her tray, she rolled her serviette and the directions she had been given into a tight little ball and chucked them among the debris of her meal. Neha was suddenly very grateful that she had never divulged any of Alastair's details on Sonya's birth papers, nor mentioned his name when Sonya had come to Delhi. Sonya, for her part, had not seemed interested in learning more about her biological father either and Neha wondered if it was in disgust at his behaviour towards her. And thank goodness he knew nothing at all of Sonya's existence right here
in Oxford. Neha shuddered as she thought of how his presence could have so easily marred the golden life Sonya would hopefully go on to have.

Neha spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the Ashmolean, the museum that Sonya had said was not far from her college, trying to stay warm and dry while waiting for her watch to tell her that it was time to head to Balliol.

When it was at last four o'clock, Neha stepped out into the half-light of that winter afternoon. A few stray snowflakes were drifting in the yellow orbs cast by the streetlights. It was bitterly cold and most people had their heads down as they hurried down St Giles on foot and on bicycles. But Neha walked with deliberate calm in the direction of Balliol, now impervious to everything else but the knowledge that she was going to enjoy a little time in the company of the lovely and beautiful girl she could finally think of as her daughter.