Belonging (13 page)

A painful lump formed in my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. I thought of Father saying goodbye to me before one of his missions with Uncle Gavin: his airy manner, dismissive of the idea that something might happen to him, his refusal to see how terrified I was at the thought that I might be left alone with Mother forever. I pressed my lips together to stop them quivering and stood up, rocking my chair backwards.

‘Lila, my dear, what is it?’ Mrs. Beauchamp said, as I stumbled towards the french windows.

Familiar thoughts drilled through my head:
You can’t trust anyone. They always leave. In the end you’re alone. Stupid, stupid! How could you have forgotten that you don’t matter… that there’s always something more important? Surely Father should have taught you that lesson?

As I crossed the garden, tears streamed down my face. I dashed them away furiously.
You fool, you fool, what are you crying for? What did you expect? That he would sacrifice a chance to be a hero for you? Idiot! But I don’t care. I don’t need anyone. He can go to hell!

I was ripping at my skirts, which had caught in the brambles by the fence, when his deep voice said, ‘Stand still.’ His long fingers reached around me and freed the cloth from the thorns. ‘I’m afraid you’ve torn it.’

I waved my hand without turning.

He took my arm and pulled me round. ‘Lila, what is it?’

I stared at his suit lapels. Close to, the navy blue fabric was patterned with fine pink stripes made up of thin dashes of red and white.

He bent to look in my face. ‘What is it? Why are you so upset? Is it something I’ve done?’

I looked away.

‘Won’t you even speak to me? Why did you run off like that? You don’t know how much I’ve looked forward to seeing you.’

He reached for my hand but I jerked it away. I wanted to shout at him but the jagged lump in my throat choked me. I swallowed hard and managed to jerk out in a shaking voice, ‘Stupid… So s-stupid…’

‘Who’s stupid? Do you mean me?’

I looked up at his bewildered face. ‘Yes, you…
stupid
!’ I said, and reached up and slapped him.

He stepped back, and I turned and ran all the way back to High Elms.

Aunt Mina was out in the garden with her cream parasol, dead-heading the roses in her white gardening gloves. She turned in astonishment as I rushed past her. I went up the stairs at a run, sobbing loudly, and slammed the door of my room behind me. I threw myself on to the bed. My whole body felt light, as though I might float away. There was a painful pressure in my chest, a buzzing in my head, and the sour-tasting lump in my throat was strangling me. I was sick with rage, with the desire to break something, to tear this room, this house, the whole world apart. I felt like that six-armed black statue of Kali I once visited with Father, the floor around her awash with the blood of sacrificed goats, whose heads lay piled at her feet. I understood her dance of destruction; I too wanted to trample and slay and burn, to rend limb from limb, to leave nothing standing.

I curled up on the bed and wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to hold my anger in, contain it where it could hurt no one but me. My heart felt like a stone in my chest.
‘I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care,’
I chanted, but the words turned to sobs and then I lost all sense of where I was. Far away I could hear someone wailing and screaming, ‘Fa-a-ther… Fa-a-ther…’ in an absurd histrionic way.

When I came round, Jagjit was sitting on the bed beside me, stroking my hair and talking to me softly. I sat up and looked around me. We were alone.

He smiled at my surprised face.

‘Your aunt sent me up. No, she hasn’t had a change of heart; she’s outside. You frightened her. You frightened me too.’

I put my hand to my head. My hair had come loose on one side and was hanging in tangles. My eyes and throat felt swollen and my head ached.

‘Am I ill?’

‘Upset, I think.’

I looked at him blankly.

‘Don’t you remember? I think it might be because I told you I was going to join up.’

I turned my back on him and stared at the wallpaper, a pattern of oranges made of dots, with interwoven branches and green pointed leaves. The lump started to form in my throat again but this time the tears flowed freely. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him but I pulled away and lay down, hiding my face in my arm.

I felt his weight shift on the bed and then he lay down behind me and his arms went around me, gathering me into his chest. One hand smoothed the hair away from my ear. He whispered into it, ‘Lila, don’t be angry with me. I’ve missed you. I loved reading your letters, every one of them. I wanted to write back but I’d given my word. All I could think of was when I could see you again.’

‘And you thought the best way was to get yourself killed!’

‘Come on, Lila. It won’t be forever. They say the war won’t last long.’

His tone was indulgent, as though I was making a fuss over nothing. It was the first time I’d ever heard him do it – assume that false bravado that boys use to cover up their gentleness, vulnerability and fear. His truthfulness was what had always set him apart from Simon and other boys.

‘It really doesn’t change anything,’ he added. ‘And afterwards I can come back and finish my I.C.S. training. Will you wait for me, Lila?’

‘No, because you’ll be dead!’ I did not add,
and I’ll be alone again.

‘Sshshshsh.’ He laughed softly and began to rock me. His body was strong and warm around me. I wanted to hate him but I can’t remember, even now, a time when I felt safer or more loved. ‘I’ll come back. I promise.
Will
you wait?’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Go away
!
’
I shrieked.

He said admiringly, ‘I never knew you were such a virago!’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘Not as much as I’d like to, but then I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you.’

‘Not long, then.’

He sat up and pulled me round to face him. ‘I have no intention of dying, Lila. Now, I think we should let your aunt in, before she gets really worried. But you haven’t answered my ques– ’

I put my hand over his mouth and called, ‘Come in!’ Then I knelt up and kissed him hard. We were still kissing when Aunt Mina opened the door.

A few days later I accompanied the Beauchamps to Southampton to see him off. Aunt Mina made no attempt to stop me; she was still shocked by my outburst and must have comforted herself with the reflection that Jagjit would soon be nearly five thousand miles away.

In the carriage I sat between Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp, with Jagjit and Simon on the seat opposite.

‘I’m going to miss it all,’ Jagjit said, gazing out of the window. ‘All the different seasons – the first snowdrops, followed by the apple and cherry blossom, and the bluebells in May, and then poppies, and bringing the hay in, and the
falling leaves, and the snow. We don’t have all this variety where I live.’

‘What is it like there?’ Mrs. Beauchamp asked.

He smiled. ‘Very different. We have just three seasons in northern India. The hot season, which lasts for months, where everything is baking hot and dusty, until we long for the rains. Then the monsoon, which is always welcome – it was my brother Baljit’s and my favourite season. Everything is washed clean after all those months of dust, and the fields all fill up with water and reflect the sky. And then there’s the cold season, which is nothing like as cold as here, but the evenings are beautiful.’

He paused and I remembered that first time when he had come over to High Elms alone to see me and talked of those winter sunsets when the ground mist rose as the villagers were making their way home from the fields. We shared something that no one else could understand.

My eyes filled with tears. I wanted to beg him to take me with him.

Once aboard the ship we admired the saloons and state rooms, then stood around awkwardly, waiting for the warning bells. Jagjit stood head and shoulders above everyone else and I noticed people surreptitiously glance at him and then at us, wondering what we were to each other. As always, he seemed indifferent to the curiosity he aroused.

Simon offered to help him carry his cases down to his cabin, which he was sharing with another Indian. They seemed to be gone for an age, and when they came back Simon looked pale and upset. I tried to catch Jagjit’s eye but I could tell he was preoccupied, his mind travelling ahead of him. Mrs. Beauchamp tried to make conversation but
eventually gave up. The minutes stretched out as we waited for the warning whistle and I wished I hadn’t come, that I had said goodbye at the Beauchamps’ instead of here, with all these people watching and him already gone from me.

Then the first whistle blew and people around us began to take leave of each other. Jagjit shook hands with the Beauchamps and thanked them for all their kindness. He turned to Simon and hesitated, then moved to embrace him, but Simon stepped back. He put his hand out, avoiding Jagjit’s eyes. Jagjit took it and said, ‘You will write from wherever you’re posted? I’d like to know how you’re getting on.’

‘Of course.’ He turned to his parents. ‘Shall we wait on deck?’

Mr. Beauchamp looked puzzled. Mrs. Beauchamp grasped his arm and steered him away, with Simon following.

Jagjit turned to me and took my hands in his, ignoring the stares. He said softly, ‘I’ll come back for you when it’s all over. And if I’m sent to Europe – as I hope I shall be – I’ll use my leaves to visit.’

‘I still don’t see why you have to join up… It’s nothing to do with you. Please…’

‘Don’t, Lila. I don’t have time to explain; it’s just something I have to do.’ He lifted my hand to his lips. ‘Goodbye, my darling.’

‘Wait.’ I unbuttoned the high neck of my blouse and pulled out my lucky Sussex stone. ‘I want you to have this. To bring you back safely. It was Father’s.’

‘Lila, I couldn’t possibly…’

‘He would want you to have it. Bend down.’

He bent and I placed it round his neck, just as I used to do with Father. He tucked it inside his collar and smiled at me. ‘I promise I’ll keep it safe till I can return it to you myself.’

I stood on tiptoe and raised my face to his. He hesitated, then bent his head and kissed me. The conversation around us died for a moment and in the silence the second whistle went and it was time to go.

That night I dreamt Father was alive again. I was back in the bungalow in Peshawar, with the white muslin curtains lifting in the breeze, but this time there was a figure half-concealed behind them, silhouetted by the moonlight. A thrill of fear went through me but I found myself compelled to move closer. Then, as the curtains lifted again, I recognised her. Mother, in a white dress, smiling, but her eyes were as clear and empty of life as chips of green sea-glass. I turned and ran and found myself standing outside Father’s study door, which was outlined in a glaring white light. With a feeling of dread I put my hand on the smooth brass doorknob and turned it. The door opened and there was Father, sitting behind his desk, with the statue of the dancing Shiva on the shelf behind him.

‘Hello, Lila,’ he said, as though nothing had happened.

I said, ‘But it can’t be you.’

He looked amused. ‘Why can’t it be me?’

‘Because you’re dead,’ I blurted, and then realised that he didn’t know.

He laughed. ‘You can see I’m not!’

‘But I was here. I saw it…’ I looked up the wall behind him but it was clear of stains. Had I dreamt it? ‘Then where have you been? Why did you go away?’

He looked surprised.

‘I was with Gavin… on one of our missions. You know I would never leave you. Why didn’t you wait? You must have known I would come back.’

I shook my head. ‘I thought… But you were… I saw…’ I swallowed hard, tears coming to my eyes, thinking of all those years wasted.

He smiled indulgently. ‘O ye of little faith! You still don’t believe me, do you?’ He pushed his sleeve up and held his arm out across the desk. ‘Here, touch me. I’m real. You know you can’t feel things in dreams.’

I reached out and took his arm between my hands, feeling its weight and warmth, smelling the sun-warmed skin, seeing the skin wrinkle under the pressure of my fingers. It was real. Tears welled up in my eyes. He was alive! Joy flooded through me.

Then I woke up.

Taking over as acting magistrate from Thornton has proven to be more challenging than I expected. On my arrival here I went to introduce myself to him at his house, since he was unwell. Even as I greeted him, it was apparent what the cause of his ‘illness’ is, for over the course of the evening he consumed almost a whole bottle of whisky. His briefing consisted of a rambling complaint that India was a ‘hellhole’, the job ‘thankless and deadly boring’ and that he would be glad to quit it. His exact words were, ‘You don’t want to believe a word those native sewers tell you. Pigs and liars, the lot of them. Doesn’t really make any difference whose favour you find in. Hindu, Mussulman, Christian – they’re all as bad as each other.’

I met his deputy magistrate, a Bengali Muslim called Hussain, the next day. Indian DMs are very rare so I knew he must be a man of considerable ability. He showed me a huge backlog of cases awaiting trial or sentencing. He did not need to tell me that Thornton has not shown much interest in his job: he had invited me to watch a session of the court that morning and I have never seen a man look more bored; it
was worse than watching Father when he was forced to attend a social event. He yawned loudly, whacked about himself with his fly swat and even sang to himself once or twice, while the lawyers were speaking. After lunch he fell asleep, but the lawyers carried on unperturbed, as though used to it. I wondered how Thornton would cope when it came to the summing up and verdict, but when both parties had finished presenting their cases Hussain woke him and there was a brief adjournment while they went into another room. When they returned, Thornton gave his verdict, which seemed a sensible one.

It is apparent to me that Hussain is the magistrate in all but name and would make a useful ally. He seems – on first inspection anyway – to be an honest man and reminds me of Mr. Mukherjee. Since it is clear that he has extensive experience and has actually been running the show, I wonder if he resents my being promoted over him. I hope not, as I shall be quite reliant on him until I develop an ear for the local dialect. It looks as though the work is going to be rather more challenging than I had expected. I am expected to tour the area for at least ten days a month, but this territory is so large that Hussain says some of the remoter areas have never been visited by Thornton, and justice is administered by the police without trial, often by a beating. This is something I am determined to remedy.

With the help of Hussain, I have worked my way though most of the backlog of files. I have found his knowledge of local conditions invaluable: he knows the history of many of the disputes, and my fears that he might be biased in favour of one
or other party have proved to be unfounded. It is undoubtedly due to his competence and integrity that Thornton has been able to continue in his role for so long. I feared Hussain might see me as a usurper and resent the demands I am making on his time, for we work late into the night and I have extended the court hours so that we can begin to clear the backlog of cases, some of which have been waiting for years to be heard. But he seems pleased that I am taking an interest and that I value his opinion.

One embarrassing episode occurred on my first day in court. I had already noticed that Hussain always refused my invitation to sit down when we were working together, saying he preferred to stand, but now I understand why. One of the local landowners came to my office to see me during the lunch break to introduce himself and I offered him a chair. He stood hesitating, and to my astonishment the chaprassi pulled away the chair facing my desk and fetched another from against the wall – an ancient broken-down wreck of a thing. When the landowner had left I asked the chaprassi what he thought he was doing. He didn’t understand at first but then explained, as though puzzled that I was unfamiliar with the concept, that it was the ‘babu’ chair. I looked at Hussain, not quite believing my ears. He said, ‘Mr. Thornton kept a special chair for Indian visitors.’

I could not think of anything to say, except to order the chaprassi to get rid of it. ‘Sit down, Hussain,’ I said, indicating the remaining chair.

He demurred.

‘For God’s sake sit down, man!’

He sat.

I thought afterwards that perhaps I should not have been so sharp, but the next morning he asked if I would care to
take lunch with him and his wife, and seemed delighted when I accepted. I was surprised that his wife sat with us, which is unusual for a Muslim woman. She is an educated woman from Bengal and, like her husband, speaks Hindustani, Bengali and English. She is also an avid reader, so we conversed a little about literature. Her ambition is to open a girls’ school in Calcutta one day.

Over lunch I asked Hussain why he chose to join the civil service, and he told me that he had been inspired by a story he read in a book when he was at college, about the magistrate at Delhi, a man called Metcalfe. The story goes that during the Mutiny he was escaping along a road on foot, pursued by mutineers, when he stumbled upon a holy man sitting by the roadside. The sadhu, sizing up his situation, indicated a cave in the hillside and advised Metcalfe to hide in it. Having little choice, he entered it with misgiving, knowing he would be trapped if the sadhu betrayed him. When the mutineers arrived, they demanded of the sadhu whether he had seen anyone. The sadhu said he had not, but the mutineers, seeing the cave, proposed searching it. The sadhu told them in a loud voice, designed to reach Metcalfe’s ears, that there was a red demon that lived in the cave, which liked to decapitate men before eating them. Upon hearing this, Metcalfe took up a position, sword in hand, just inside the entrance to the cave and, as the first man stooped to enter, he decapitated him with one blow of his sword. The head rolled down the hill and the mutineers fled in terror. Later, Metcalfe thanked the sadhu and asked why he had saved his life. The sadhu replied, ‘I was up in front of you once and I know you are an honest man.’ ‘I must have found in your favour, then,’ Metcalfe replied. ‘No,’ the sadhu said. ‘You found against me. But you were right.’

Hussain smiled at me.

‘For some reason that story inspired me.’

I laughed. ‘Do you think it true?’

He chuckled. ‘Unfortunately not. I did some research into Sir Theophilus Metcalfe later. He was magistrate at Delhi during the rebellion and his life was apparently saved by a nawab of his acquaintance, who sheltered him and whom he subsequently rewarded. But after the recapture of Delhi he was so maddened by revenge and so bloodthirsty in his reprisals that the Commissioner removed him from the city, saying that the sooner the power of granting life or death was removed from him, the better.’

Something came to my mind:

‘Mir,’ he said. ‘How do you come to know that?’

‘I had a Bengali tutor when I was a child.’ I’m not sure why I didn’t mention the bibi; perhaps I was afraid that he would think less of Father.

Hussain told me that when he joined the I.C.S. he was warned by one of his tutors that he would never reach the highest echelons of the service because there would always be junior Europeans promoted above him. ‘I have a verse for you too,’ he said.

He smiled. ‘But please do not imagine, Mr. Langdon, that I am comparing myself to a lion, or you to a crow.’

It is certainly true that as deputy magistrate, if he had been a white man, he would have been promoted to the job that I have now; but we both know that no European would submit to being judged by a native. It is also clear to me that Hussain is not in awe of Englishmen and that I shall have to win his respect.

In the meantime I have had practical matters to deal with, like finding somewhere to live. I cannot afford, on an assistant magistrate’s salary, to continue living at the Club, nor to take over Thornton’s bungalow. Fortunately, I have made the acquaintance of a ‘Yellow Boy’, a newly arrived member of the 1st Bengal Cavalry – otherwise known as ‘Skinner’s Horse’ – who has suggested I share quarters with him and a fellow officer, as they have a spare room. Roland Sutcliffe is everything I am not – tall, blond, handsome, and a favourite with the ladies – and he appears to great advantage in his regimental uniform with its long yellow tunic and blue and gold striped puggree.

He has undertaken to educate me and advises me that flirting with unmarried European girls is unacceptable because it raises their hopes, but that married women are fair game as long as one is discreet. Eurasians are the best bet of all, he tells me: because a man knows they are using all their wiles to trap him into marriage, he need feel no guilt about seeing how far he can get without committing himself. Roland is already carrying on a flirtation with the wife of an officer who is out of station, and the cynical part of me cannot help wondering whether he has befriended me because I offer no competition in the looks department.

From what I can see, there is not much to do in Bhagalpur except attend the various dances and balls, and I have been
warned that it is a full-time occupation to avoid being trapped into matrimony with the hundreds of young girls who flock out every year, and are known as the Fishing Fleet. Civil servants are not bound by the same restrictions as Army officers, who are discouraged from marrying young, so despite my lack of charm I am actually more eligible than Roland, even though, having no private means, I could not support a wife on my pay.

I have been here almost nine months now and I feel at last that I am making progress. Hussain and I work well together and I am beginning to acquire a sounder grasp of the local conditions and to understand the dialect. I enjoy the tours especially – they remind me of the manoeuvres on which I used to accompany Father as a child. In some places we stay in dak bungalows, in others we camp in airy and comfortable ‘Swiss cottage’ tents, and during the day we hear cases. Where there is no building available, we hold court in the open air, sitting under the trees. Since there are no roads, reaching the further places on horseback can take several days, so I am often away for two or three weeks.

Before I left on my last trip, Roland told me he had met a girl at a dance. Her name is Rebecca Ramsay and she is the daughter of a ‘boxwallah’, as he insists on calling people in trade. He says she is the most exquisite creature he has ever set eyes on and promises that when I meet her I shall fall head over heels in love with her. I told him that in that case it might be better not to meet her, since he is so obviously in love with her himself. In the event, she went off to the hills with her ayah for the hot season before I had a chance to make her
acquaintance. She must be special, since he still speaks of her almost three months later, and looks forward to her return when the rains start. However, I notice it has not stopped him from flirting with the Eurasian girls who attend the hot season balls, now that all the Englishwomen are in the hills.

I have met Miss Ramsay at last and she lives up to Roland’s description. I have never seen anyone as exquisite as she. She is very slender and has a cloud of curly dark hair and pale skin. The most fascinating thing about her is her eyes. They are slightly different shades of blue-green, and the greener one has a splash of brown on one edge of the iris, an imperfection that, strangely, adds to her beauty. I felt when I met her as though I was meeting a creature from another world – a sprite, or water nymph. There is something fragile and vulnerable about her that makes one long to protect her.

Roland introduced us and almost immediately left us alone together while he went to fetch her some fruit punch. At times like that I envy him his ease with ladies. I stood there tongue-tied until she smiled and suggested we take some air. I followed her out on to the verandah, feeling awkward and foolish. Standing there in the moonlight, with the smell of night jasmine wafting in from the garden and her pale face glimmering in the moonlight, I felt for a moment as though I was in a tale from the
Arabian Nights.

‘Roland tells me you’re an assistant magistrate,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Then I launched into an account of some of the mishaps I had encountered in my open-air trials. I had just made her laugh by telling her about the time when a cow lifted a file of papers from a table placed under a tree and
wandered off with it, and the poor court clerk had to run after her to retrieve it, when Roland came back with the drinks. Although she tries not to show it, I can tell from the way she looks at him that she is in love with him.

Back at the bungalow, I reminded Roland about what he had said about not flirting with unmarried girls but he just grinned at me. ‘There’s always an exception to every rule. Don’t you think she’s the most delectable creature you’ve ever set eyes on? She’s almost worth losing one’s commission for.’

‘Do you mean you’d consider marrying her?’

He laughed. ‘If I were to consider marrying anyone it would be her, but the C.O. would never give his permission, and I’m not cut out for any other work. I’m not clever like you, Henry, and I have only a small private income. No, I was always destined to be cannon-fodder. I know I shouldn’t raise her hopes, but you must admit she’s enchanting. If only that ayah of hers would leave us alone sometimes, I could at least snatch a kiss.’

I laughed. ‘She obviously doesn’t trust you. And if Miss Ramsay has no mother to watch out for her…’

‘Yes, but the woman’s insufferable. If we’re on the verandah, she hovers nearby in the garden shrouded in her veil, like some sort of ghoul or banshee.’

‘I didn’t notice her. What about Miss Ramsay’s father?’