Belonging (21 page)

Then the organ struck up and I turned to watch my bride walk towards me on John’s arm. In the shadowy light from the narrow arched windows she could have been anyone – virgin, houri, demoness – and I felt my heart sink with dread. Then she was beside me and I saw that her face was as white as mine felt, and she was trembling so hard that her bouquet of cream roses had shed a trail of petals across the grey stone floor. She looked up at me timidly and I smiled and took her hand, and, as I felt it quivering in mine, I knew that I had made the right decision and that she is the only woman I shall ever want to marry.

The morning after receiving the letter I did not get up from my bed. I lay and stared at the ceiling and had no thoughts; my mind seemed to be filled with clouds or cotton wool. People came and went around me and I barely noticed them. That interlude, which lasted for several weeks, is a blur to me now. I can remember visits from a doctor, being spoon-fed soup by Mrs. Beauchamp, Aunt Mina sitting knitting in an armchair by the window and Simon trying to talk to me, but I can remember nothing of what was said. It was a comforting time – like being wrapped in a fleecy blanket that protected me from the sharp corners of the world – but gradually the world began to creep back in, despite all my attempts to block it out.

One morning I noticed that I was hungry, and, although I tried to ignore it, my body would not be denied. A couple of days later I realised that my back was aching from spending so long in bed. I got up and walked weakly to the mirror and saw Mother, pale and weak after days spent lying in a darkened room with one of her headaches. I wondered then if she had been grieving for something – why had I never thought about that before? I suppose because children do not think about their parents’ problems; they expect their parents to think
about them. And Mother never had.
Why
had she never loved me? Surely it was natural for a mother to love her child? I used to tell myself that she wasn’t really my mother, but, looking in the mirror then, there was no question that I was my mother’s daughter.

‘I hear you’re feeling a bit better.’

Simon smiled at me and I smiled back weakly. He pulled a chair up to the bedside. ‘It’s hard coming back, I know. But I’m glad you did. It was lonely without you.’

I looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t like Simon to admit to his feelings. He had been invalided out of the Army in June after being wounded in the leg at Messines, an injury that had left him with a permanent limp. Since coming home he seemed to have turned in on himself, as many men who survived the trenches did. I had been working when he came home from hospital and had only been able to visit him briefly, but I could tell he was depressed.

He reached out and took my hand. ‘I’m sorry about Jagjit.’ He saw me flinch and his hand tightened on mine. ‘It’s the worst thing, not knowing, because you can’t start getting used to it, and I’ve learnt that you can get used to anything once you accept it. But you can’t accept what you don’t know.’

‘You miss him too.’

‘Yes.’

We sat in silence for a long time. Then he stood to go, still holding my hand in his. He smiled down at me. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Lila. I’ve missed you.’ He lifted my hand and kissed it before placing it back on the cover.

Somehow, during the time that I was absent, Aunt Mina and I got used to each other. Perhaps I had just become accustomed
to seeing her sitting by the window, knitting or sewing quietly. I think she might even have read to me from time to time, though I couldn’t say what it was she read. At any rate, her being there seemed natural, so when I woke to find her sitting by my bedside I raised my head and said sleepily, ‘Hello, Aunt Mina.’

She asked me how I felt and, when I had given the usual answers, our eyes met and I saw her colour rise.

‘Lilian… Lila, I am so sorry… I know how hard it is – just to wait, not knowing, when someone you care for is in trouble.’

Her voice was shaking and I reached out and took her hand.

‘Your grandmother – my sister, Cecily – and her husband were out in India during the Mutiny. We knew they were at Cawnpore, but all the news we got was months out of date and often incorrect. I can still remember that feeling of waking each morning with a sense that something dreadful was hanging over one… the taste of fear that never went away…’

I looked into her cloudy brown eyes and wondered what she saw when she looked at the ceiling; whether all these years she too had been living in a cotton-filled world, not fully experiencing anything. How else had she managed to bear such a stifling, uneventful life?

She looked away from me. ‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be talking about this now, when you’re feeling low.’

‘It’s all right. I’m interested. Go on.’

‘There isn’t much to tell. We’d been getting her letters and then they stopped and we knew they were under siege by the rebels. We got occasional news of attacks repelled, of relief attempts – just as you have had – but no real news. What we
read in the papers was weeks out of date. We knew people were dying but we had no way of knowing if Cecily and Arthur were among them.’ She swallowed. ‘My fiancé, Peter, was with the relief column. They got there too late. He… he’d been in love with Cecily before. I think he still was. After Cawnpore he wrote to me. I could tell he was – that he would never be able to forget what he’d seen. And then he caught the cholera. He died out there. Your grandfather wrote and told me…

‘I still wake sometimes with that sick feeling, and for a moment I’m back there, wondering and waiting… before I remember it’s all over.’ She fixed her brown eyes on mine. ‘What I am really trying to say is that I’m sorry about your friend. I know what it is to care for someone and never have the chance…’ She pressed her handkerchief to her lips with a trembling hand and stood up. ‘If it’s any comfort, this is the worst time. It doesn’t get any worse… even if one’s fears are realised.’

While I was considering the implications of this, she rose and left the room. Somehow I stopped resenting her after that, and from that day there was peace between us.

‘If Jagjit is still alive he must feel pretty bitter,’ Simon said. He had been given a desk job with the War Department in London – something to do with military transport – and only came home at weekends.

It was a cold rainy day in January 1919, and Simon and I were spending it in the old playroom, as we had done so many times in our childhood. I always felt in this room that Jagjit was close to me, hovering somewhere just out of my line of vision. Sometimes I felt his presence so strongly I would turn my head, trying to catch him.

The war had ended the previous November and all prisoners-of-war had been officially released, but Christmas came and went and still neither his father nor I had received news of Jagjit. Some of the returning British officers, after treatment in hospital for dysentery, malaria and beri beri, were sent to High Elms to convalesce. They had few complaints about their treatment in prison. They had been held in comfortable conditions, with sufficient food and exercise, and had grown friendly with their guards, playing cards with them and even being allowed out on excursions to nearby towns. Their main complaint was of boredom.

My heart lifted when I heard that Indian N.C.O.s had been held in the same camps, and I eagerly enquired if anyone had encountered a Jemadar Jagjit Singh, until a captain who had been at Kut told me that the British and Indians did not mix. ‘The Turks treated us all the same to begin with, even serving our meals at the same tables. Our C.O. had to point out that in the British Army it isn’t done for British officers and Indian N.C.O.s to mess together. After that we didn’t see much of them. They kept themselves to themselves.’

It was a different story for the rank and file from Kut, already weak with starvation and many suffering from wounds, cholera and other illnesses. After their gruelling march through the desert, many dying on the way, they were held in camps where they spent twelve hours a day breaking rocks and laying railway lines with no protection from the burning sun. When the war ended, these camps were often abandoned by their guards, leaving prisoners, with no food or supplies, to make their own way hundreds of miles through the desert to the coast. Most died of thirst or hunger or were killed by the Marsh Arabs. The officers who visited the few survivors who
had made it back were shocked by their condition and their stories. I thanked God that Jagjit was an N.C.O.

I looked at Simon. ‘“If ”? Have you given up hope?’

He wiped a thin hand wearily across his eyes. ‘There’s always hope, I suppose. They say they’re still finding stragglers from some of the more remote camps, but they’re all rank and file, not officers. It doesn’t look good, Lila. We may never know what happened to him.’

I thought I could bear anything except that – never to know, always to be wondering, imagining.

‘Father says Townshend gave his Indian troops a particularly hard time,’ he went on. ‘He blamed them for everything, and now it appears that when they ran short of food at Kut he made no allowance in the rations for the fact that Indians were vegetarians. Many of them starved or developed scurvy. Everyone is disgusted with him. We lost twenty-five thousand men trying to relieve him, and since the surrender he’s been living in luxury as a guest of the Pasha while his men have been dying in the camps. And Father says his only concern seems to be to negotiate a good war settlement for his Turkish friends. Wouldn’t you be bitter if you were Jagjit?’

‘Why did you stop writing to each other?’

He sighed. ‘What does it matter now?’

I wanted to say,
If I’m never to see him again, I want to know everything
, but I could see he was upset, so I said nothing.

We sat in silence, gazing into the fire like an old married couple, and I had a sudden presentiment of us sitting there years from now, our heads filled with the husks of memories sucked dry, wondering what had happened to the future we once imagined lay before us.

I have been putting off writing to Father because I could not think what to say: how to explain my sudden decision to marry, only a month after seeing him, a woman whose existence I had failed even to mention. However, I am now obliged to ask if he is able to make me a small allowance; supporting a household is proving more expensive than I had anticipated, even with the minimum staff: a bearer, cook, gardener and watchman and, of course, Rebecca’s ayah.

Rebecca is still very wary of me. We sit on the verandah after dinner, she with her embroidery and I with my papers, pretending to be absorbed in our work, but her slightest movement, or even the rustle of her dress, distracts me and I lose the thread and have to start again. From what I have observed, her embroidery does not progress very fast either.

So far we have not found much to say to each other, for referring to our past acquaintance raises the spectre of Roland, who has tactfully kept away.

I received Father’s reply today and was surprised to find him wholly accepting of the situation. He offers his congratulations, and informs me that he forgot to tell me when I was there that I have some capital of my own: apparently the grandfather for whom I was named – Mother’s father – put some money into a trust for me after her death, to come to me on my twenty-fifth birthday. That at least makes things somewhat easier.

Since he is due some leave, he has promised to visit us next month. I wonder what he will make of us.

All my fears about Father’s visit have proved unfounded. From the start he seems to have sensed Rebecca’s fragility and addresses her with a sensitivity and gentleness I have never seen in him. It puts me in mind me of Kishan Lal’s account of him tending the bibi in her last illness.

Rebecca seems to like him too, for she behaves towards him like an affectionate daughter, pressing another serving on him at dinner and making sure his glass is full, and I can see that he likes it.

After dinner we sit on the verandah and he reminisces about his youth. Last night he talked of the death of his parents and how he and James were brought up by a bachelor uncle; it seems to have been a lonely childhood. Rebecca sat and listened while she did her embroidery, which he made a point of admiring. I had never suspected him of having the slightest artistic inclination, but he told her that he has always admired creativity, and that it was my mother’s musical and artistic ability that first attracted him to her. To my surprise,
Rebecca even talked about her own childhood: how her father adored her and made a fuss of her and called her his ‘little princess’ and told her that she looked just like her mother – ‘a real Irish colleen’ with dark curly hair and green eyes. It is like listening to a child telling a fairytale, and none of it seems to fit with the man I knew, who seemed completely indifferent to his daughter and gave her no care or protection at all.

If Father has noticed that we have separate rooms or thinks our relations odd he has shown no sign of it.

Father left yesterday, but his visit has made a great difference. I was concerned that our new ease would depart with him but last evening, when I got home, Rebecca was sitting on the verandah and smiled as though she was glad to see me. When I emerged after bathing and changing for dinner, she told the bearer he could go, and poured my sherry herself. Over dinner she asked me if anything interesting had happened in court today, and seemed interested in my answer. Later she asked if I had any objection to her making some cushions and place settings for the house. I told her that this is her home and she must do whatever she wishes to make it comfortable. Then I plucked up the courage to ask if she regrets her decision. She did not answer but simply smiled, a smile so enigmatic that I felt like a callow schoolboy faced with the Mona Lisa.

Later we sat on the verandah, each apparently absorbed in our tasks, with the scent of night jasmine heavy in the air. We hardly spoke, but at bedtime, when she rose to go, she hesitated by the door and gave me a look I have often seen her give Roland: a playful smile with a widening of the eyes
that seems to invite intimacy. She paused there a moment and, when I did nothing, smiled that smile again and withdrew. I sat, wondering if I should follow her, but then I remembered the thing Father used to say that so infuriated me – ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey, Henry’ – and I stayed where I was.

The past week has been maddening. I don’t know how she does it, but Rebecca has a sort of magnetism that makes it impossible not to be aware of her. I have seen the effect she has when she enters a room: she does not even need to speak, simply to stand there, and every man’s head turns towards her, and every woman’s lips tighten.

In the evenings, as we sit on the verandah, she sewing and I reading, I feel her presence so acutely that every nerve in my body is alive. I sometimes wonder if she is aware of the effect she is having.

When I got to bed last night, it was impossible to sleep. I was in a torment of desire, imagining her pale smooth skin, those mesmerising eyes, the smell of her hair. I finally fell asleep, only to have the dream again. I woke to find myself clutching someone and shouting, as I often did as a child, but this time it was not Father’s strong arms holding me but a woman’s. She was kneeling beside my bed, her face close to mine; in the dark I could not make out her features, but I knew her by her perfume. Embarrassed, I tried to sit up, but she pressed me back again. ‘Close your eyes.’

I closed them.

She stroked my hair. ‘Just rest now.’

I listened to her singing softly, and then I must have drifted off to sleep and when I woke in the morning she was gone.

At breakfast, Rebecca was quiet, as she usually is in the mornings. I know she finds it hard to get up, not helped by the laudanum that she was prescribed to calm her nerves after her father’s death. She was so much her usual self that I started to wonder if perhaps I had dreamt her presence in my room. Had it been her? Or had I dreamt of some other woman – my mother perhaps? At last I said, ‘I hope I didn’t disturb your rest last night?’

She smiled and asked if I often had bad dreams, so I told her something of my childhood nightmares, though not their cause, and she listened with such sympathy that I dared to say, ‘I hope
you
are feeling less unhappy now,’ and she gave that tantalising smile again.

I have been thinking about it all day, trying to interpret it, and this afternoon Hussain had to ask me something three times before I heard him.

I saw Roland at the Club today, where I was lunching with Farraday to discuss our next tour, and almost laughed in his face.

Last night Rebecca and I consummated our marriage. I did not want to leave her this morning and all the time I was talking to Farraday I was thinking about her. I was so distracted that he began to rib me and said he could see that I needed a honeymoon. I told him I had used all my leave but he said he could manage with Hussain and gave me the week off. I went home to find her resting and climbed back into bed with her. In daylight it was even more delicious. I feel as though I could spend a lifetime doing nothing but making love to her and never tire of it.

I wish I knew more about women, or had someone to advise me. All is well when we are alone – Rebecca is loving and tender and I am happier than I ever imagined it possible to be. All through the day I find myself anticipating coming home to her, to that first glimpse of her wide smile as she sees me, and the softness of her body as we embrace. Sitting across from her at the table, I wonder if the servants can see my impatience to get the meal over with so we can be alone. Later, as we sit on the verandah, I savour the anticipation, looking up from my papers to watch her slim fingers pulling the needle through the cloth, imagining how they will feel on my body later. Sometimes she meets my eyes and smiles, and I have to restrain myself from dragging her into the bedroom then and there. When we are alone she seems content; it is other people who are the cause of her unhappiness and sometimes I wish I could consign all the servants, Farraday, Hussain and the rest of the world to hell.

For the first few months after our wedding, we refused all the usual invitations issued to newlyweds, pleading her recent bereavement and subsequent illness, but we cannot continue to do this indefinitely without causing offence. Last week Farraday invited us for dinner and it seemed unwise to refuse for several reasons. I have been aware that there has been some gossip about our marrying so soon after Rebecca’s father’s death, especially as Roland’s courtship of her was well known. Shortly after our marriage, I received an anonymous letter warning me that there was talk that Rebecca was carrying Roland’s child. As five months have now passed, it seemed wise for Rebecca to appear in public to scotch this rumour.

At the dinner I could tell that everyone was curious, but the gentlemen were too polite to do more than congratulate me. Rebecca seems to have been less fortunate. When we joined the ladies after dinner, I noticed that her face was white and she was holding herself rigidly, just as she did when alone with me in those first days after our wedding. In the carriage on the way home I asked her what had happened. All she would say was that they had asked her questions designed to humiliate her. When I asked what kinds of questions she would not tell me, but I imagine they must have touched on the rumours I mentioned. When we got home she wept and wept and I could not comfort her. Eventually her ayah told me to go, and leave Rebecca to her.

The two of them are much closer than I had thought, and when Rebecca has one of her headaches – they are sadly frequent and cause her great suffering – Zainab is the only person she can bear to have near her. When I think that her ayah has cared for her from birth it is not really so surprising, but except at these times Rebecca cannot bear to have the woman near her, and is so rude to her that yesterday I felt it necessary to intervene, only for the woman to take her side against me!

Rebecca is pregnant. The doctor confirmed it yesterday. He has advised me that she will need to be weaned off the laudanum but not until the second trimester, in case it causes difficulties. I am due to go on a fortnight’s tour next week but Zainab assures me she will take every care of Rebecca in my absence.

Poor Rebecca. I was recalled from my tour last week because she has had a miscarriage. It was all over by the time the doctor came. The child was a boy. Rebecca is extremely distressed and the doctor has once more raised her dose of laudanum, which he had been gradually decreasing as it had begun to give her nightmares and stomach trouble. I wondered if it could have had any connection with her miscarriage, but he thinks not, although he deems it better that she stop taking it before risking another pregnancy.

When I went in to see her she was deeply depressed, although her concern seemed to be less about the loss of the baby and more about what others will say of her. I do not understand why it causes her such distress, but assume that to women, whose whole life revolves around home and society, the opinion of others must matter more than to men, who can lose themselves in work or other interests. Yesterday, when she came out on to the verandah for the first time, I noticed she was working on a new embroidery – a pattern of trees with intertwined branches that appear to bear, in place of fruit, what look disturbingly like babies’ hands and feet.

Last night we had dinner at the Hussains’; he has invited us several times and it seemed rude to keep deferring it. Rebecca was reluctant to accept, but I thought that being with Mrs. Hussain, who is an unusually intelligent and thoughtful woman, would put her at her ease. In the event I wish that I had left her at home, for from the moment we arrived it was
clear she did not want to be there. The Hussains came out to greet us but when Hussain offered her his hand she looked startled and stepped back without taking it. I think we both put it down to shyness, but when his wife came forward and offered hers Rebecca barely touched it. I think I was not the only one who noticed that afterwards she kept rubbing her fingers with her handkerchief as though to cleanse them, although she had the grace to blush when Hussein asked if she wished to wash her hands.

At dinner she did not say a word. When addressed by either Hussain or his wife, she looked at me as though they were speaking a language she did not understand. It was extremely awkward and I was unsure how to respond. I could hardly apologise for her behaviour, and yet her rudeness was hard to ignore. The conversation became so stilted that the Hussains eventually stopped trying to draw her out and addressed themselves exclusively to me.

On the way home, she withdrew into a corner of the tonga and barely spoke. I was angry and told her that I was ashamed of her behaviour and that she had not only insulted the Hussains, but also exposed me to an embarrassing situation at work. At first she did nothing but cry, but when I demanded an explanation she asked in a tearful and accusing voice what I expected people to think about us if we insisted on dining with natives. I was angry enough to reply that I did not much care what people thought, to which she retorted that it was obvious that I did not care about her either. This was so absurd that I refused to dignify it with a reply and we did not speak for the rest of the journey home. I can hardly believe that just yesterday I thought myself the luckiest man alive.

Rebecca has been unwell again. It started the day after the Hussains’ party, which she spent in bed, weeping. When I asked her what was wrong she said she always knew that I would be disappointed in her and would regret having married her. She was like a small child, sad at being punished. I took her in my arms and kissed her and told her I did not regret anything and that all married couples were bound to have some disagreements, but she would not be consoled. That night she developed a migraine, which lasted for five days, during which she lay in a darkened room with Zainab sitting beside her wiping her temples with cologne.