Thursday's Child (9 page)

‘Singh, do you realise what you are saying? Peggie, is this true?'

‘It is true, Father,' I said, ‘and I am very happy about it.'

I went over to him, sat on the arm of his chair and put my arm round his neck. He looked up at me. His eyes were moist and he was shaking. He was not angry, I realised, but only shocked.

‘I want you to be happy about it, too,' I said.

Ajit saw that he had wounded my father deeply, and his voice was concerned as he said: ‘Sir, do not fear for Peggie's life with me. It will not be the same as in your beautiful home here, but it will be a fairly comfortable life.' He continued, his voice very gentle, as Father held my hand tightly: ‘I cannot promise to send her home for a holiday during the first year, but probably during the second year she could come, and, as my
earning increases, she shall come as often as possible.'

Mother's featherweight brain had not taken in the full implications of Ajit's announcement: she was just pleased that I was to marry a nice man after all, even if he was brown. She saw, however, that Father was upset and she said comfortingly: ‘Now don't get upset, Tom. Ajit's a nice boy – he will make Peggie happy,' and she beamed on Ajit and me. Turning again to Father, she patted his knee: ‘There, there, my dear, Peggie will be all right, I am sure.'

Father was recovering his composure, but he held on to my hand, as he said: ‘Singh, I cannot hide from you that this is a great shock to me – a very great shock – although I should, of course, have foreseen it.' He looked anxiously at me. ‘Peggie is old enough to know what she wants, but I had hoped – hoped that she would marry someone in our own circle. She has had a lot of sorrow and I don't want her to have any more.'

‘I understand, Sir – perfectly,' said Ajit in a polite, small voice.

Father turned to Mother. ‘I would like to talk to these young people alone, Margaret, if you would not mind.'

It looked as if Mother minded very much, but she got up and said: ‘Come, Angela,' and they both left the room.

There was silence for a moment. I had not imagined that Ajit would take the responsibility of telling my parents of our plans. I had been prepared to face alone the denouncements, upbraidings and tears, and had dreaded them.

Father said in a controlled kind of voice: ‘Singh, I appreciate your coming to tell me yourself about this matter, especially as both Peggie and you are of an age to make decisions without advice from your parents.' He hesitated while he thoughtfully smoothed my fingers between his. ‘You know that mixed marriages can cause a lot of sorrow, and they bring problems that do not arise in ordinary marriages.'

‘Yes, Sir. I have given thought to this for two years – two years is a long time, Sir, to think about marriage – and I have asked Peggie to marry me because I believe that the problems of which you are thinking can be overcome.' He leaned forward, his voice earnest. ‘India is changing
rapidly, and I feel that Peggie would be able to adapt herself to the life of my people.'

‘Have you got a job? What will you do about your children?'

Ajit told him about the Shahpur post and about the prospects of better posts later on, and then said: ‘I have to speak further with Peggie about our children. I can say to you, however, that they will be considered to be of my caste and we shall save to educate them for professions. It would be easier for them if they were brought up as Hindus – if Peggie objects to this, I should not, of course, forbid a Christian upbringing.'

‘You feel that their mixed blood would not stand against them in India?'

‘No, Sir, as long as they are trained from the beginning to think of themselves as Indians, and not as people superior to or apart from Indians, there is no reason why they should not be happy. There is not much prejudice about whom one marries – as long as one's family has given its approval.'

‘Does your father approve?'

‘I have not yet told him – he will be distressed. Naturally he will wish that I marry into our own caste – but he has much wisdom and he is also benevolent – he knows that India is changing and the caste system is breaking down.'

Father told me afterwards that when Ajit said this, he immediately pictured a father in flowing robes and a turban, reading a holy book and counselling his son in a sing-song voice, using his hands in strange oriental gestures to emphasise his words. Somewhat different, he remarked ruefully, from a dry as dust civil servant like himself who lived in a Victorian house and had a garden full of daffodil bulbs.

‘What is your father like?' asked my father, his voice becoming more natural, as fear gave way to curiosity. ‘Have you a picture of your home?'

‘Why, yes, pictures of home and of Father and Mother are here in my pocket.'

He rummaged in his wallet and handed a bunch of photographs to Father. I had not seen them, so I leaned
over his shoulder to look. I had not said one word during the discussion, feeling it was better for the two men to talk without interruption.

After scrutinising them carefully, Father handed me two studio portraits, one of a plump lady whose grave expression was belied by laughter lines at the corners of the eyes. Her head was draped with a veil, and in the middle of her forehead was painted a round dot. Her carefully posed hands were small and the fingers were covered with numerous rings. On either wrist hung several bracelets. She wore also an elaborate necklace and ear-rings.

‘Your mother looks very pretty,' I said, ‘and her jewellery is exquisite.'

‘Do you like the jewellery?' asked Ajit, anxious to make a point. ‘You will have the same as soon as I am able to buy the gold and stones. Some also my parents will give you, and at Father's death he will give you gold and silver for ornaments.'

I must have looked a little incredulous and Father looked most surprised, for Ajit added: ‘Truly it will be so.' He turned to Father. ‘All jewellery given to a wife is her property – and can be her standby in time of need.'

‘Hmm,' said Father non-committally. ‘What is the dot in the middle of Mrs Singh's forehead?'

‘It shows that she is a Hindu. She paints it each day with vermilion – now it is worn mostly for fashion – I have even seen Muslim ladies wear it.'

The second portrait was that of a man of great dignity, heavily moustached and black browed. He did not wear a turban. He had on instead a round, black cap, and he was buttoned into a high-necked black jacket.

I covered the lower half of the face with my hand and looked at the eyes alone. Without the moustache to distract attention, the eyes and forehead were surprisingly benign.

There were several snaps of relations and friends, all looking untidy in an assortment of draperies, and finally there was a photograph of a large, white building, reminiscent of a tiered wedding cake.

‘What is this building?' asked Father.

‘It is my father's house.'

‘Really?' said Father. I echoed his surprise. The building had two floors and at each corner there was a tower like a minaret. There was a pillared entrance, and carved veranda rails ran the width of the house at both ground and first-floor levels. A fine sweep of steps led from a well-laid-out garden up to the front door. In a corner of the picture I could see the outline of a gardener at work.

‘What is your father, Ajit?'

‘He is a retired District Magistrate.'

Father asked many more questions, to which Ajit replied patiently. Both of them were doing well, considering their differing backgrounds.

In his youth Father had been taught, as indeed I had been at school, that Indians were natives who existed to serve the long-suffering British in return for our ‘protection'. Englishmen went to India to rule or to make money and, in either case, they returned to England, to retire in comfort to a house in Harrogate or Bath. Probably the only history of India Father had learned at school was of Clive, the relief of Cawnpore, the Black Hole of Calcutta and, possibly, of the indictment of Hastings. Fortunately he had compensated for his public school education by much reading on every conceivable subject. During the First World War, he had fought in Russia in a polyglot army sent to fight the Bolsheviks. He always said he learned more about people during that period of his life than at any other time. I knew that he had learned Japanese and Russian from his fellow soldiers. It was upon these experiences that I think he drew in trying to understand Ajit, and because he had worked, fought, lived and eaten with men from the East that he regarded them as real people, who desired, loved, quarrelled and struggled through life just as he did – only their struggle was harder. He had always taken an interest in my work amongst coloured people in the city, and he was, therefore, prepared for the possible advent of coloured friends – but it had never occurred to him that I might take a brown husband.

Gradually the conversation petered out and he was left with an uneasy feeling that although he could find no
concrete arguments against it, such an unconventional marriage should not take place. He said, with a sigh: ‘Well, think this conversation over, Singh – and you too, Peggie – before you do anything rash.'

We assented and Ajit rose, shook Father's rather limp hand, and I saw him to the door. His face had the tightly shut-off look that I had seen before when he was thinking deeply. He knew he had not really convinced Father, and I was suddenly afraid that Father might have implanted in him doubts that would make him retreat. As this fear rose in me, I knew with certainty that I did not want to lose him at any cost – not at any cost.

He kissed me gently on the lips, said he would see me the following day at the club, and walked with the flat-footed gait of a man used to loose sandals down the path, out of the gate and along the road. I stood on the steps as long as I could hear his footfalls on the pavement, and then, feeling intensely lonely, I went slowly up to bed.

I lay sleepless for a long time, remembering how each time I had imagined I was to be happily married, the man concerned had been taken from me. Would Ajit, not wishing to harm me, voluntarily leave me?

When I slept I saw in my dreams Shiva dancing his dance of death; and he was laughing at my puny efforts to escape him.

On Monday, my hours of duty at the club were from ten in the morning until six in the evening, and when they had dragged to an end, I sat by the fire in the lounge, which was empty, and waited for Ajit. I had told Mother that I would take my dinner at the club, but the thought of food nauseated me; apprehension about the future filled me. Supposing Ajit backed out of his proposal, feeling that Father was right and I should marry amongst my own
people. Supposing we did marry and it was not a success. What should I do?

A hand came over the back of my chair and lifted my chin. Ajit leaned over and kissed me. My fears left me; just by the assured touch of his fingers, I knew we would be married, and the rest would be what we made of it.

We announced our engagement, and Mother had a fine time preparing for a wedding. Father was sadly silent; he barely spoke to me, although he expressed his pleasure at my joy over the first presents which Ajit gave me – a red silk sari embroidered in gold, and a thick, gold bracelet. With the exception of the two engagement rings which lay in cotton wool in my dressing-table drawer, they were the most beautiful gifts I had ever received, and it was with some pride that I exhibited them to my friends.

The engagement announcement caused a fuss amongst Ajit's Indian fellow students, and arguments for and against the union raged in many cheap digs, but Ajit went steadily on with his arrangements, despite the dismal prophecies of his friends. All he hoped was that no one would write and tell his father, before he could get home and tell him himself. It was not possible for me to fly with him to India as passages were hard to obtain and, furthermore, I wished to give the McShane Club a month's notice of my intention to leave. It was, therefore, arranged that I should travel by sea, arriving in India about the middle of May.

‘It will be very hot at that time,' said Ajit.

‘Never mind, the sea voyage will give me plenty of rest, so that I shall be better able to cope with the heat,' I said cheerfully. ‘Besides, to come by plane with you would be so expensive.'

‘Miser,' he said, but he was pleased. Long afterwards he told me that he would not have dared to marry me, if it had not been apparent that I was careful with money. In India, he would not earn so much that he could risk having an extravagant wife.

The question of guests at our wedding was a difficult one. Grandma – my mother's mother – who was a product of a strict Victorian upbringing, thought it was a tremendous
lark, she said she only wished she was young enough to kick over the traces too, and promptly spent hours putting fine stiches into petticoats for me. Her single daughters, Mother's elder sisters, were horrified, and refused to associate themselves with the marriage at all, regarding Grandma as someone who had suddenly lost her senses. Father had one younger brother, living in London with his numerous family, and in reply to the invitation sent him, he wrote that he was sorry he could not come but he could not approve of such a union, to which his wife, Louise, had added a postscript that I should not take any notice of him – he just could not afford to come – but if things went wrong in India their home would always be open to me, and she and the children sent their good wishes with the enclosed. The enclosed proved to be two Benares brass vases made in Sheffield.

My friends' attitude generally was that sorrow had turned my brain, but that it was not their responsibility to interfere; and those I asked to the wedding accepted and were cordial to Ajit. A few, bless them, saw the calibre of the man I was to marry and congratulated me with enthusiasm.

Ajit asked a peculiar assortment of people, all sharply different from each other, but all with one interest in common – Ajit.

There was his Professor, who afterwards became a close friend of Father's; there was the riproaring Chundabhai and his Sheila Ferguson; there was a precise, quietly spoken English physicist with a plump, untidy wife, and an Indian physician with his English wife who impressed my parents greatly by her serene manner. There was also a large, important-looking business man with an equally large, important-looking wife, and although petrol was rationed, they arrived in a car which matched them – big and sleek. This man was the Production Director of a firm with whom Ajit had at various times done some practical work on instruments. Both he and his wife did much to make the reception a success – they moved amongst the other guests, talking politely all the time and being most helpful to my hard-pressed parents. They met Dr Gantry
and Bessie and eventually became Committee members of the McShane.

Lastly, there was Dr Wu, who, encased in a new, dark suit for the occasion, was the best man. Although his hair had been carefully combed, it hung down over his forehead like a shaggy dog's, nearly touching the narrow eyes which crinkled up in laughter every few minutes. That same laughter softened his thin face, giving a kindly curve to the wide mouth and exposing unusually small, perfect teeth.

He greeted Angela as if she were an old friend although he had not met her before. He was acquainted with her work through the papers which she had published since the war, and she in turn knew about his work, so they had plenty to talk about in between discharging their respective duties at the wedding.

We were married before the law with a garble of words intoned over us by a disapproving Registrar; and with a flow of tender understanding between us we were married before the Creator.

The reception, which I had expected to be cold and stiff, was, on the contrary, a merry affair. Mother had opened up our big dining-room and lounge, and had asked a firm of caterers to supply the wedding breakfast. With prewar opulence, fires roared in both rooms, and the last of Grandfather's wine cellar flowed in our honour. Angela worked like a honey bee to make the party a success.

Father was much relieved when Ajit's Professor, warmed by several glasses of port, confided to him that his sister had married a Bengali Brahmin some twenty years before, that it had caused a near scandal but it had proved a great success – she was most happy – had come home on a visit only the previous year bringing two shy, adolescent sons – the elder boy was going to attend his lectures next year. He went on: ‘Fine young man – this Singh – will make a name for himself one day.'

Father expanded, and when it was time for us to go, he came over to Ajit and wrung his hand.

‘Take care of her,' he said.

‘I will, Sir.'

A taxi was waiting and Ajit was calling. I was kissed by
everybody. James whispered: ‘Good luck, old girl,' and then I was really alone with my husband for the first time since he had proposed to me – the taxi driver being kind enough not to turn round during the whole eight miles of the drive to the small inn where we were to spend three precious days together.

During the war, Angela and I had sometimes come out to this inn in order to get a night's sleep free of air raids, so I knew its clean, cold bedrooms well, and they did not inspire romance. I was astounded, therefore, when the Polish maid opened the door of our bedroom.

The brass bedstead had been pushed back, and a wood fire blazed in the hearth. In front of it was a table laid for a meal. A bottle of wine glowed warmly on a side table, which held also a basket of fruit and a bowl of flowers which looked as if it had been arranged by an artist. A box of chocolates, its lid alluringly half off, sat on the dressing-table. Some parcels tied with coloured ribbon lay on the bed.

‘Ajit,' I cried, ‘what have you been doing?'

Ajit grinned shyly.

‘Chinese gentleman – he come this morning and see all is right – he make flowers in bowl,' the Polish girl said.

‘I asked Wu to arrange for me, as Mother is not here to make ready for you,' said Ajit.

I looked with gratitude at the room and went and lovingly touched the flower arrangement. Two men had done all this! How could they have guessed at the shyness, the innermost fears of a not very young woman, and know how to divert her?

‘You like dinner now?' asked the girl.

‘In about three-quarters of an hour,' said Ajit, taking off his overcoat.

He helped me to remove my outdoor clothes and I kissed him. I had never done so before – he had always kissed me. He led me to an easy chair by the fire and sat down with me on his knee. I laid my head on his shoulder. I could feel his heart pattering furiously. He stroked my cheek with one finger. ‘Rani,' he said.

There was a knock on the door. I sprang up. Mrs Samson, the innkeeper's wife, had come herself to serve
our dinner. She pottered about the room, congratulating Ajit and at the same time serving us with roast chicken. She was fat and full of jokes, pressing us to eat more and telling anecdotes of her own youthful days in service. Finally, she added some logs to the fire and, taking the dishes with her, she left us to our port and ourselves.

Ajit took his port and climbed on to the bed and seated himself cross-legged as if he was on a divan. I curled up by him. While I sipped my port, he made me open the parcels. There was a pearl necklace, some nylon stockings, some embroidered handkerchiefs and some perfume. He watched me intently while I exclaimed over the various gifts, but gradually silence fell between us. He put down his glass on the side table and took mine and placed it beside his own. He lay down close to me and the slender fingers caressed my throat.

As we sipped our early morning tea and gossiped lazily, Ajit asked me if I did not find his brown skin ugly in comparison with my exquisite whiteness.

I stopped drinking tea. In the three days that we had been together it had never occurred to me that he was a different colour. All I could remember was a feeling of admiration that a man could look so handsome. I told him this, and his teeth sparkled in a grin and the eyes with their incredibly long lashes crinkled up wickedly.