The Letter (17 page)

Yours
faithfully

Margaret
Atrey

She sealed the envelope with a flourish. India had taught Margaret many things including how to effectively slice through bureaucracy and deal with paper tigers.

The letter wasn’t a lie, more a convenient distortion of the facts and gave her something to do. She was bored with her own company, besides which she felt useless lazing around with so many injured men flooding the military hospital. Ben’s plan that she should train as a nurse held some appeal. The only drawback was leaving Rajeev with his ayah for long periods, but at least they would be together. She resumed voluntary work to see how things went.

*  *  *  *  *

The ayah was doing a splendid job but Pavia and Saurabh were rebelling against the restrictions of school. Margaret was requested to meet the Mother Superior on more than one occasion to discuss their behaviour. This made no impression on the arrogant children who claimed, in their defence, that the other pupils taunted them. Saurabh said fiercely, “They say we are British. We’re not. We’re Indian.”

“And they won’t do what we tell them so Saurabh beats them up.”

Margaret tried to explain that, unlike Aakesh, at school the pupils were equal. This reasoning was nonsense to Saurabh and Pavia.

Reverend Mother’s patience was sorely tried but the children’s charm saved them. She had a soft spot for Saurabh with his exceptional intellect and appealing smile. What would become of him and his sister if the Japanese invaded India or the British left? Their mother would be in a perilous position. The Irish nun was impressed by the charity of this woman who found good in people, irrespective of their race or religious belief. The children attended mass as if they were good Catholics. It was possible their souls would be saved, but their mother lacked contrition and without it she was damned.

The nun tried to dissuade Margaret from seeing troops unaccompanied while undertaking welfare work. She cautioned that this might put temptation in the way of young men who had been away from home for so long. Margaret scoffed at the possibility. She was simply doing her duty.

The soldiers nicknamed Margaret ‘Scottie’ and were grateful for the unstinting work she did in supporting them. Some men had left for India missing the birth of their youngest child. One asked what she missed about Scotland, “Not the children” she said, “mine are with me but lots of things, the smell of the sea carried on the cold wind, the soft rain of spring and the stinging whipped rain of winter. Most of all I miss the sound of my mother’s voice and the touch of her hand on my forehead.” Married or single, child-free or parent, the general assent of the men drew them together.

*  *  *  *  *

A soldier wounded in Burma arrived on the ward. Margaret asked if he’d come across a Sergeant Waters. “Have I? . . . I almost stood on him lying in the undergrowth. He gave me a poke in the ribs with his rifle. Pardon me nurse but I nearly shot my lot. Then I made out the whites of his eyes and stupid grin. Poor sods, they’ve got their work cut out. I don’t think they’ll all come back, but I hope he bloody does. I’ve got to get my own back on that bugger!”

Margaret’s worries were insignificant compared to the increased suffering she witnessed daily. Off duty she dropped in at the mess. It was good to have some light-hearted contact with adults. A group of squaddies loitering outside made lewd comments, offering ‘to see she was alright’, nudging and winking at each other. Their leering made her blush so they did it all the more. They’d be posted out pretty soon so it wasn’t worth making a fuss, but she stopped going.

The majority of her spare time was spent amusing Rajeev and helping Pavia and Saurabh with their homework. The lively twosome easily achieved academically and fellow pupils were attracted to their company. Although popular in school, the children were rarely asked to the homes of their classmates. Margaret issued lots of invitations to tea but few were taken up.

She hoped Ben would return from Egypt before she put Saurabh’s name down for Sherwood, a boarding school with a lengthy waiting list. He would need to use his influence to get his son in. Pavia would change school first but not as a boarder. She was Margaret’s rock, an extension of herself, the much-cuddled Edinburgh bear propped up on the pillow, a reminder of Scottish love. Three year old Rajeev continued to contract every childhood ailment and was often curled up in some corner of the bungalow with his head in a picture book. It was difficult to separate the children but schooling was too important to let sentiment rule.

Once the children were in bed Margaret faced another night alone. She was having problems getting to sleep and after the servants retired relaxed with a late night tot of whiskey. It would never do to let them see her sipping the golden liquid.

She was roused from a deep sleep by a noise but the bungalow was quiet except for the creaking and settling noises made by the building as night passed and the temperature changed. Drowsy from the whiskey, she heard a man persistently repeating her name. Something must have happened to Ben! Where was the night door servant? She’d forgotten he’d been unwell and been sent to the servants’ quarter. She unlocked the door.

A man burst in, dragging her into the hallway forcing her against the wall. Margaret tried to scream but the hand violently slapped across her mouth choked the cry. Blood trickled down her throat. Sour breath filled her nostrils.

He panted in her face, “You’ve not had an English man, just a bloody Indian… Well what’s he got we haven’t? I’ll make you shout. You’ll be begging for more. One at a time, or all at once “ He fumbled with his trouser buttons. The hand viciously keeping her quiet hampered the unfastening.

Paralysed with fear she realised he was not alone. A second assailant fell to his knees, tearing at her nightgown. She was no match for his strength.

A third man moved out of the darkness into the lamp lit hallway. Oh God! They’re soldiers! How many more? Margaret’s eyes beseeched him for help.

“I’m off,” he said, “I was looking for a bit of comfort. I don’t want any part of this.”

His so-called friends swore at him and forced Margaret onto the floor. She implored God to keep her conscious.

Out of the darkness, screaming like a banshee, Saurabh launched himself at the soldiers. They kicked him to one side but the noise woke the servants, who gave chase. Once inside the barracks it was impossible for them to follow and identify the drunken louts. There was nothing to be done until daylight. The house was locked and a door servant posted.

Margaret shook from head to foot. It wouldn’t matter that she fought the fiends who abused her. She would be portrayed as having enticed them. There were plenty of witnesses to testify seeing her drinking unaccompanied in the mess. British soldiers would not be blamed for offences against such a woman, especially one married to an Indian. No one must ever know, especially Ben. There would be no mercy shown for allowing such a thing to take place.

She staunched the blood pouring from Saurabh’s nose and washed his cut hands. Six years old, fearless in defence of his mother, he began to cry. She calmed him, made him warm milk and put him in her bed.

The rancid smell of the men made Margaret vomit. In the bathroom buckets of water were lined up ready to be heated for morning baths. Tearing off the remains of her nightdress she poured them over her head, cleansing herself, ferociously scrubbing her body, purifying and absolving it from the men’s vile touch. Climbing into bed she spent the endless night next to the innocent warmth of her son.

At daybreak the servants opened the house. She went out onto the veranda. The birds sang and the world went on as before, but she was silently screaming.

The postman brought a letter. On seeing the Memsahib’s bruised and swollen face he enquired if everything was all right. Margaret said it was nothing: a tumble from a horse. Within the hour the gossip would circulate Nainital. She gambled that sober, the assailants would be grateful not to be reported, and leave her alone.

She turned her attention to the post, recognising with dismay Hiten’s precise handwriting on the envelope. Enclosed was a letter from her father:

My
Dear
Maggie,

I
am
sorry
to
tell
you
that
by
the
time
you
receive
this
letter
we
will
have
buried
your
beloved
mother.
She
died
suddenly,
in
her
bed,
from
a
thickening
of
the
heart.
God
keep
you
safe.
I
remember
you
in
my
prayers.

The light was going out on Margaret’s world.

Chapter 23
 

Margaret vainly attempted to claw back some semblance of normality, for the sake of the children. Notes were despatched. One to the hospital claiming that a fall from a horse meant she would be absent from duty for a few days, and another to the children’s school saying they had a minor stomach upset. She silenced the servants by threatening that the Sahib would blame them if, on his return, he found they had failed to protect his family. Naturally Saurabh told his big sister but Margaret made them swear to keep the secret so ‘the bad men’ would not return.

Then she set about ensuring they enjoyed a fun filled holiday, recounting stories of brave knights fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in distress. “Just like Saurabh” Pavia said, then put her finger over her lips. “Yes my darling just like Saurabh.” Margaret replied, imitating the child and covering her lips.

The bearer made wooden swords and the children acted out imaginary scenarios, stabbing bushes, servants and each other with great gusto. Rajeev clapped and cheered. Saurabh was their champion. Pavia gave him a scarf, which he fastened to his sword, flourishing it triumphantly, galloping round the garden on a pretend steed. Most of the daring boy’s cuts and bruises were concealed by his clothes. Those visible by the end of the week looked as if they were the result of adventurous play.

Margaret scarcely ate, compulsively scrubbing her defiled body and weeping in the bathroom. The day the children returned to school she escaped into the bedroom. For years she’d expected to die, killed by the climate, childbirth or Hiten’s ambition, but God had spared her, taking her virtuous mother. What right had she to live on?

She took the scissors from the workbasket and slid the razor-like blades across her white wrists, drawing blood… Once more deeper. Rajeev’s crying infiltrated the curtain of despair. She hesitated… turned the scissors… mercilessly hacking her hair. It rained down on and on until the weapon clattered to the floor.

Margaret must have slept for she was woken by a man’s voice rising above the children’s chatter. Manically brushing at the hairs stuck to her face she was unaware that Pavia and Saurabh were in the room. They were swiftly removed by their bearer.

A maid entered. Margaret said distractedly, “Muni… Is that you? Muni…” but the nameless maid continued to sweep, gathering the golden crop and throwing it on the fire where it hissed and was gone.

A sliver of lamplight crept under the door. Margaret overheard Pavia trying to explain to Rajeev that mama was ill and sleeping but he kept asking, “Where is she? Where is she? I want to see mama
now
 . . .”

“She’s in the bedroom,”

“Mama, mama” Rajeev wailed, rattling the door, “Let me in.”

Margaret opened the door. Rajeev flung himself at her, banging his head. She kissed it better while he patted the shorn tufts of her hair.

Pavia searched for a hair brush but Saurabh stared sullenly at his mother, “Mama you don’t look like you. You are an English Memsahib.”

Margaret gasped at his perception. It was true. It was time to put aside the saris.

*  *  *  *  *

Training to qualify and juggling the children was demanding, but it left no time to brood. Margaret successfully passed the first batch of exams. The consequence would almost certainly be a posting to Kohat on India’s North West Frontier, hundreds of miles away. What on earth was she to do with the children? The history of the area was steeped in bloody rebellion. Fierce tribal resistance and inhospitable mountainous terrain had repelled invaders over centuries. The straggling border touched China, Jammu and Kashmir in the north and Afghanistan in the west. It was a world of lawlessness and intrigue. The British maintained a strong presence overseeing movement through the Khyber Pass, the legendary gateway to South Asia. Sick at heart, it was futile of Margaret to think of taking the children there.

Coincidentally a friend of Ben’s family, a hydro electrical engineer on business in Nainital looked her up; from him she learned that Ben’s mother was unwell. Margaret wrote to Hiten: