The Peacock Spring (33 page)

Colonel Jaiswal found clothes in the hotel shops, but not to his satisfaction. ‘They are all too exotic – made to attract tourists. However, this more simple tunic and skirt may
do,’ but, ‘I can’t wear a skirt,’ Una told Edward, ‘not to go up a plane gangway. I haven’t any underclothes,’ and Edward exploded. ‘Had you lost all
sense of decency?’

‘Have you?’ Una wanted to ask but was too heartsick and weary. Where was the humble gentle Edward of Srimati Roy’s house? Was it because he was going back – to that Delhi
life? thought Una shrinking, but it was obvious that the waiting at the hotel for these, what he deemed necessary, machinations was rasping his nerves and, ‘We have been here four hours. Four
hours!’

‘I am doing my best, sir,’ said the little hairdresser. ‘With such fine hair it is difficult not to damage . . .’

‘Damage as much as you damn well like.’ Edward wanted to say it, but turned his wrath on Una. ‘All decency!’

‘A sari is perfectly decent without underclothes.’

‘You will
not
wear a sari, have anything to do with India, ever again.’ The hotel manager’s wife produced a pair of briefs, but the skirt without a slip hung limply, the
tunic was too big. ‘It is the smallest they make, but you look a sight,’ sighed Edward. The hair had come out fluffy which seemed strange on Una; her browned skin had a pallidly grey
look; her lips were cracked, her feet were blistered. ‘You don’t walk – you shamble,’ said Edward hopelessly. It was only a wraith of Una that they brought back to Shiraz
Road.

She had made one last attempt at rebellion. ‘If I must go back to Delhi, can’t I go to Mrs Porter?’

‘In the American enclave? That’s the last thing,’ said Edward.

Back in the Shiraz Road house, Una tried not to see anything: the familiar beauty of the hall with its fountain and bougainvillaea; the drawing room beyond; the glimpse of the verandah leading
to her forsaken rooms; the garden that throbbed with memories of Ravi. Ram Chand had come to meet them; the other servants were discreetly withdrawn but Una knew there was not a pair of eyes in the
house that had not seen her brought home captive and, in their minds, disgraced. At the airport Chinaberry had averted his face so as not to look at her.

‘Well, by luck we have settled it,’ the Inspector General was saying, ‘and, by luck, hardly a soul is the wiser.’

Then don’t servants have souls? thought Una.

‘I can never thank you enough.’ Edward was fervent. ‘But you must come in, have a drink and some dinner.’

Was this an occasion for a drink? Colonel Jaiswal hesitated. ‘It is after ten o’clock,’ but Edward was already calling down the hall, ‘Alix.’

Where is Alix, Una wondered?

‘Alix.’

No answer.

‘Lady-sahib in her room, Sahib.’

‘Why doesn’t she come?’ Irritability flared again. ‘Is she ill?’

‘Lady-sahib is packing.’ Ram disappeared in haste.

‘
Packing
? What nonsense is this? Excuse me, Jaiswal.’

As Ravi had said, the policeman was kind; obviously he felt Una should not have been left in the hall like a piece of luggage. He called, ‘Koi hai? – Is anyone there?’ and Aziz
seized the excuse to come. ‘Is there no woman to see to the Miss-baba? Put her to bed?’ Aziz only shook his head.

‘You should at least sit down.’ The Inspector General came to Una and, as she did not move, he said, ‘It must be painful, after such an – adventure, to come
home.’

‘Home?’ Una spoke as if she had never heard of it. What home, she seemed to ask? Then, suddenly, ‘There is a little hut at the end of the garden,’ she told him,
‘where . . . where . . .’ No Indian can bear to see a child cry. To Colonel Jaiswal Una was a child and the big policeman went to her and smoothed the tormented hair. ‘There,
there, batchi. It will pass,’ but this was not a child and Una disengaged herself. ‘It will never pass.’

‘Lady-sahib is packing.’ It was true; a suitcase was open on the bed and Alix was filling it with feverish haste. Another stood ready on the floor. Alix, usually
alert, had not heard the car nor Edward calling her.

‘What absurdity is this?’ Startled, she slammed down the lid and stood – at bay, thought Edward. ‘Where do you think you are going?’

‘The only place I know. To Mumma in McCluskiegung. The jewels are in that box, Edward. I have only taken some money.’ Her face was ravaged so that it looked – old, thought
Edward, which, strangely, gave it more beauty; the eyes were enormous, dilated – with terror, thought Edward, puzzled? ‘My dear.’ All his anger was gone. ‘Were you as
frightened as that?’ He came round the bed. ‘You needn’t be. Una is here, safe and sound.’

Alix made a noise like a hiccup. ‘S-sound?’

‘Yes. She is with Jaiswal in the hall. We need you. She must go to bed. She is exhausted and we need a drink and food.’

‘Edward.’ Alix spoke with an effort. ‘You will want me to go.’

‘Never.’ He could feel her shaking as he held her. ‘No matter what you have committed – or I have committed – we are husband and wife.’ He tightened his arm
around her. ‘Come, cara.’

‘You call me cara now . . .’

‘I shall always call you that,’ but her lips were stiff under his kiss.

‘Edward, I have to tell you . . .’

‘Not now. Jaiswal is waiting, which isn’t right after all he has done.’

The Inspector General would not have dinner. ‘Thank you but no, Lady Gwithiam. We had sandwiches at the hotel,’ and, as Edward saw him to the car, ‘Your wife seems
stricken,’ he said ‘I hope there is no more bad news.’

‘She has been alone, most of these two days. It is the strain.’

‘Well, we could all do with a night’s sleep. Put the little girl to bed. We shall look after the boy. Sleep well.’ He put a hand on Edward’s shoulder.

‘Now,’ said Edward, back in the drawing room. ‘I have to put a call through to Aunt Frederica. Then we can have some food and all go to bed.’

‘Wait’ It was Alix who spoke. ‘Wait. Don’t speak to your aunt yet. This evening I . . . I rang up Hal.’

When Edward had telephoned that morning for Ram Chand to bring his clothes, Alix had entreated him, ‘Couldn’t you change here? Wouldn’t you come back just for
half an hour?’ and Edward had put the receiver down, leaving her smarting from the rebuff.

The day before had lacerated Alix; this one seemed interminable. She had done the few things required of her: given fresh orders for food – ‘though I have no idea if the Sahib will
want dinner,’ – checked Christopher’s accounts; spoken to Ganesh about flowers. ‘Ravi has not come back. Should I engage another chota mali?’ Ganesh had asked.

‘Perhaps you should.’ As the afternoon grew late, she remembered the horses. They will be bobbery for want of exercise, she thought and, leaving Chinaberry in case he were needed for
the airport, had driven to the parade ground. She had met Vikram. ‘What! All alone?’ He was his usual mocking self. ‘Where is Una?’

‘Away with Edward on . . . on a short trip.’

‘Away? He has gone already!’ He had been as impertinent as she had feared he would be and she rode hastily away. A tussle with Maxim had made her feel better, as had a gallop on
Mouse, and she was grateful to be soaked with sweat – an excuse for another bath, which took more time.

‘The Sahib has come? He has telephoned?’ She had asked it as soon as she came in; again after her bath. The answer was the same: ‘No, Lady-sahib.’

She had tried playing the piano, tried walking in the garden, reading the paper. If only there were something I could do. It was at nine o’clock that she had thought of Hal – perhaps
because of meeting Vikram. Hal! She might know something. Una wrote to her almost every day.

‘But, Lady Gwithiam, Halcyon is in bed,’ said Sister Anthony at the other end of the line.

‘Then get her out of bed,’ but Alix had had to wait ten minutes before she heard Hal, her voice lively with curiosity.

‘Una run away!’ Hal sounded thrilled. ‘Oh Alix! Who with?’

‘Why do you ask “who”?’

A momentary silence. ‘Hal!’

‘Well, she wouldn’t run away alone, would she?’ It had sounded lame and, ‘You know something about this.’ Alix was breathing sharply. ‘Hal, you must tell.
Edward is out of his mind.’

‘You won’t be cross with Una?’

‘We are too worried to be cross. Hal, you
must
tell. What do you know?’

‘I knew she had a lover.’

‘A lover?’

‘Yes. He must have been that.’

‘How did you know?’

‘She told me, when she and Edward were here. I think she had to tell somebody, but she wouldn’t tell me who.’

‘I’ll tell you.’ Alix was grim. ‘It was Ravi, the young gardener.’

‘The gardener?
Our
gardener? Oh no!’ Hal’s shocked incredulity came over the telephone. ‘I thought it must be somebody like Vik, but . . . a servant! How could
she? And how can she have his baby?’ wailed Hal.

‘Hal!
What
did you say? Hal!’ but Hal had burst into tears.

‘I rang up Hal,’ Alix said now, her eyes on Una. ‘Then, remembering what Professor Asutosh had told us, I went to see Hem Sharma.’

Hem had been released. ‘There was no evidence,’ Colonel Jaiswal had said. ‘Of course we are watching him,’ and Alix had found him in his room. ‘Mr Sharma,’
said Alix, ‘please tell me . . . is what Hal – Una’s sister – told me of Una, true? That she is . . . pregnant. It cannot be true.’

‘It is. A test was made, under another name, of course, at the medical centre.’

‘Made – by you.’

‘Through – my offices.’

‘And you didn’t tell Sir Edward when he came to see you about Una?’

‘Why should I be an informer?’

‘Nor the police?’

‘I had the police last night,’ said Hem, ‘and all this morning. You may know what they do to you, but no . . .’ and Hem had said with the utmost insolence, ‘I am
sure, with your expertise, you have managed to elude them – but to answer your question, I succeeded not to tell the police.’

‘You rang Hal,’ said Edward now. ‘You saw Hem Sharma . . . about what? Can’t you speak, woman?’ He was too far spent for courtesy. ‘What
is
all this
about?’

‘Una knows.’

‘Well, Una? Is this more torture?’ he asked desperately.

‘Tell Edward,’ said Alix and hid her face in her hands.

Una stood up. ‘I think Alix has found out that Ravi and I are having a baby. At least, it was Ravi and I. Now – I can guess it is only I.’

‘Poor little Una,’ said Alix. She had taken her hands down, but Edward made no movement, did not say a word.

‘Shouldn’t . . .’ Una looked at him beseechingly, ‘shouldn’t one be glad about a baby? I am.’

He did not answer but looked at her – as if I were repellent, thought Una. All his tenderness was gone. Oh, why does he make it so ugly? She backed away from him.

At last, ‘How long?’ asked Edward.

‘Perhaps six, or seven, weeks. He will be born in December.’

‘He won’t.’ Edward had been white before; now he was ashen. ‘Alix, go and ring up Doctor Gottlieb. We can trust him. Ask him to come straight away.’

Alix had risen too. ‘Edward, a test has been made. It was positive. I will ring up Doctor Gottlieb but – for what?’

‘You know very well for what. He will take Una to a nursing home tonight.’

‘No.’ For the first time Una shrieked, ‘No!’ ‘Be quiet,’ said Edward roughly. ‘Alix, do as I say.’

‘I can’t.’

‘
You
can’t.’ Edward was dazed; it was the first time Alix had opposed him and Una saw that her hands were clenched, her back rigid as she braced herself. ‘What has
this to do with you?’ asked Edward witheringly.

‘Everything. You told me just now we were husband and wife – then it is everything to do with me and, Edward, this is too cruel.’

‘
Cruel?
’

‘Yes. You are so great, Edward,’ pleaded Alix, ‘but what is the use of being great if you are cruel?’

‘I’m not great – but cruel . . .’ He seemed to have to say it again to make it believable. Srimati Roy’s words were in his ears – ‘Aie! Why make dirt,
Sir Edward?’ – and for a moment he seemed to hear the serene lapping of the river. ‘But what are we to do?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘What else can I do?’

‘Wait.’

‘Then it may be too late.’

‘If it is . . . my mother would say,’ said Alix, ‘that to interfere with this is sin.’

‘Your
mother
!’ The momentary softening had stopped abruptly and the contempt in his voice made Alix’s temper flare.

‘How dare you speak of Mumma like that? She knows things you don’t, things I had forgotten.’

‘Only what you were taught.’

‘Taught and believed.’

‘Mumbo-jumbo.’ Edward almost shouted it but Alix was suddenly quiet and dignified as she said, ‘Mumbo-jumbo is what you hear from outside and do not believe. What you feel in
you is true. My God, I ought to know.’

‘Oh Alix!’ Una stole to her and Alix put an arm round her.

‘It’s difficult for you to understand, Edward,’ Alix went on, ‘because you have never been what they call “bad”.’

‘Nonsense. Of course I have.’

‘You haven’t. I know – and that is what makes you so harsh.’

‘Harsh? Cruel? What other epithets have you for me?’ But Alix was steady.

‘Not harsh with other people, but Una is you.’

That touched him. ‘I thought she was,’ he said slowly, ‘but not now. Not for a long time – only I hadn’t the wit to see it. I don’t know whose fault that
is.’ As Edward said it, he remembered his own admission to Srimati Roy, ‘I have made Una suffer.’ Yet it was the very sight of her suffering, so worn, tormented and dishevelled,
that pushed him into harshness again as he turned on Alix: ‘Are you trying to tell me I should let a child, an unfortunate misguided child, bear a half-caste bastard?’

‘You’re not to call him that.’ It was another shriek from Una.

‘That’s what it would be – another little unwanted.’

‘He isn’t unwanted. I want him. I want him.’

‘Don’t scream at me.’

‘I will!’ But Una lowered her tone in helpless misery. ‘Hem said you would do this.’

‘Hem was right.’

‘That’s why we upset all our plans. We had meant to tell you everything, after the Tagore Prize, when Ravi had won it. We had it all planned . . . then we knew this . . . Hem advised
us to hide, that’s why we ran away, but I still didn’t dream you would—’