Zemindar (108 page)

Mrs Bonner gently righted the muslin cap on her head and looked a threat at Minerva, who was on the point of bursting excitedly into her narrative.

‘Well then, last night after dinner, some of the officers of the staff were enjoying a cheroot when, to their complete amazement, a strange native entered the room—wearing shoes, mind you—and seated himself, actually seated himself, on a chair in the presence of all the gentlemen. Naturally, everyone was both astonished and horrified at this … this quite extraordinary lack of manners on the part of a native, and two or three of the gentlemen tried to throw him out of the room. Even General Outram did not recognize him at first, for he was wearing a turban, you see, and tight-fitting trousers and a muslin shirt, an orange silk jacket and a cummerbund.’ Mrs Bonner, in the best tradition of Anglo-Indian womanhood, who equates a deliberate mispronunciation of Indian words and phrases with social superiority, said ‘commerband’. ‘He carried a sword and a dagger and had leaned a great embossed buffalo-hide shield against the chair.

‘Well, of course, Mrs Barry, when at last someone did see through his disguise, you can imagine the surprise! Major Bonner said he couldn’t, actually
could not
, believe his own ears when Mr Kavanagh began speaking English like an Englishman. And—oh yes!—his face, neck and hands had been coloured with lamp black and oil, so that really, the Major says, there was absolutely no telling him apart from a rowdy from the bazaars. Of course, everyone laughed and joked and the General himself wound the turban more correctly, but at last the time came for Mr Kavanagh and his native guide to leave. The most affecting moment it was, Major Bonner says, quite harrowing indeed. It suddenly struck them all that it might well be the last time they set eyes on the brave man. They shook hands and wished him luck and at the last Captain Sitwell prevailed on him to carry a loaded double-barrelled pistol—so that he could despatch himself, don’t you know, in case of capture and the sort of lingering death which would most certainly be his in such case.’

‘Oh, mama!’ Minerva covered her face with her hands and shuddered. Mrs Bonner’s many empty chins quivered with complacent pride in the effect she had produced on her daughter.

‘Quite, Minerva!’ said she. ‘Kavanagh was carrying the message and a letter of introduction to Sir Colin in his turban, and Major McIntyre was to raise a flag at midday to indicate that the hero had arrived safely in the Alum Bagh. I declare … the whole thing has truly been most romantic, wouldn’t you agree? The Major says it will constitute an epic for the example of all English young men in the future. And to think that my dear husband has had a part in it all!’

‘And he will get a decoration—and the pension that goes with it?’ I asked.

‘Certainly. And had he failed, I am sure that his grateful country would not have let his family starve.’

‘And what of the native spy? What do they say his name is?’ said Kate.

‘Kanauji Lal, I believe.’

‘I trust he has also got through safely?’

‘Oh, well, I really don’t know, but I expect he must have.’ Mrs Bonner had obviously never given the matter a thought, but I could not help wondering just how far Mr Kavanagh would have got without the help of his brown-skinned guide.

‘And will his bravery also, I wonder, constitute a shining example for our young men?’

Kate was being deliberately provocative and I loved her for it. While not wishing to denigrate the daring of Mr Kavanagh, it seemed to me that the exploits of men like Kanauji Lal, Ungud, and many others of the
cossids
or native messengers, were even more worthy of praise. Mr Kavanagh, after all, had obviously risked his life deliberately for the gain of himself and his family. The native spies had risked theirs, and repeatedly, in contradiction of all they held most dear on the natural plane, to defend an ancient and honourable but nebulous ideal—the ‘keeping of salt’.

I suppose Mrs Bonner made some reply to Kate’s acid comment, but I did not hear it, for my mind was once again on my own inner troubles. Here was I, trying to take an impartial view and coming out on the side of the Indian, more sympathetic, more truly appreciative of the Indian’s bravery than that of the white man. Would I have been capable of doing the same thing a year before? Before I had begun to know the mind and opinions of Oliver Erskine? Had he affected the direction and tenor of my inmost thoughts so radically? Or was it due more to a justice of mind that my father had always striven to inculcate in me in his eccentric and unorthodox fashion?

But, having thought once of Oliver, I continued to think of him, while our visitor, Kate and Jessie talked on, and young Minerva, sitting on her hands with inelegant eagerness, drank in every word that passed between her elders.

That evening, for the first time since he had left the Gaol for his quarters in the Farhat Baksh Palace, Oliver failed to visit us. Instead, Toddy-Bob loitered in to tell us that his master had drawn a late duty in the new mine being driven under the garden wall of the Chathar Manzil Palace, designed to unmask two batteries of our guns when the time came for us to support the incoming force of Sir Colin Campbell.

My heart sank at this intelligence. I had made up my mind while Mrs Bonner was expatiating on the heroism of Mr Kavanagh to make one final attempt at explaining my mind to Oliver. Rather, that was what I thought I intended to do, but, more accurately, I hoped that a further conversation with him would help me to know my own mind with greater thoroughness and precision. I suppose I was beginning to waver in my conviction that not even for his sake would I consent to live in the
mofussil
of India again, but as usual I was finding it difficult to not only recognize but also admit error. Perhaps what I really wished was to be persuaded to live his life; not given an ultimatum to do so—or else. A justifiable enough sentiment, no doubt, but on the other hand was it not I who had introduced the acrimony into our discussion on Germon’s roof, and I, in fact, who had invited the ultimatum?

Toddy had found us, Kate, Charles and myself, sitting at the table writing our first letters home. Jessie, having put Pearl to bed, had settled down by the lantern to her knitting, and when I had finished my own letters, I would write hers at her dictation, for she had never been to school.

I found it uncommonly difficult to compose my thoughts, and not only because they were occupied with Oliver Erskine and my own problems. England, Mount Bellew, my relatives, had all receded so far into the background of my consciousness during these last months that I could not now make them real to my imagination. With so much to tell them, so much to explain, where could I begin, and what would they most want to know? I was relieved when, after looking at a blank sheet of paper for twenty minutes, Charles thrust it away from him and exclaimed, ‘Deuce take it, I cannot go on with this! I do not know how to put it, and they will never understand my decision.’

‘What decision?’ I enquired, in order to postpone the moment of putting pen to paper.

‘I have decided not to go home with you and the baby, Laura.’

‘But, Charles, whatever else can you do? Of course you are coming home. Everyone is coming home.’

‘No, they are not, you know. The women, of course, and the men who are sick or too old or in the Civils, but most of them will be staying on. They are needed here. I … I have been trying to tell you for the last couple of days, but—well, I have volunteered to remain on. With the Army. With the Volunteer Cavalry, in fact, Lousada Barrow’s lot. I cannot turn my back on everything that has happened here, and sail home to England as though I have had no part in it and no interest in the outcome. Naturally, if Emily had lived, there would have been no option for me, and no necessity either for me to feel as I do. I have been thinking of it for some time—ever since the relief. I had to face the fact of leaving then, so I began to wonder whether I could.’

‘But, Charles, you have obligations to the living too, to Pearl and your mother, even to Emily’s father. Have you not considered your position with the firm?’

‘I know, I know. I have given it a great deal of thought. As to the baby, she will be well enough with you and Jessie and her grandparents for a year or two. And as to Hewitt, Flood & Hewitt, I believe they will keep my place open for me when they know what I am doing out here. If they don’t, well, my own income will suffice for Pearl and myself until I can find something else at home, or perhaps out here, who knows? To tell the truth, Laura, I’d be relieved to know I need not go back to the City. Never was the life for me. I believe I told you so a long time ago.’

‘But you are not a soldier, Charles, and to choose to remain out here after all you have been through …’

‘I believe I might have made a better soldier than a businessman. It was what I always wished to be when I was young and, don’t you see, it is just because of all we have been through here that I feel I must stay?’

‘To avenge Emily? That is ridiculous, Charles. A heathen conception.’

‘I do not agree with you, and it’s not only Emily … all the others too. I suppose you cannot agree with me, but I feel that the least I can do, having lost my own, is to try to make this country safe for the womenfolk that remain. And for those that will come after us, I suppose.’

‘It’s not your country, Charles. You are only a visitor. It’s not your quarrel.’

‘But the quarrel has become mine. How could it be otherwise?’

For a moment we were silent, as I thought over this new development and wondered at the extraordinary workings of the male mind. Jessie’s needles clicked comfortably on and Kate regarded Charles over the top of the steel-rimmed spectacles she wore for close work.

‘And how in the world will you ever find yourself settling down in England again, Charles, after the sort of life you’ll be living out here with the Army?’ Kate asked eventually.

‘I’ll face that when it comes. As I say, perhaps I won’t have to settle down in England again. Perhaps I’ll find something more congenial out here, in the Army—or in Calcutta with my own firm. That is a distinct possibility, after all.’

‘I see.’

Another pause; then Charles shifted on his stool and said, with his head bent, not looking at us, ‘The truth is, I cannot face going back to Mount Bellew and remembering things as they were when we left it … without Emily. And also, I’ll make no secret of it, I have found myself drawn to what is called a life of action. I’d never experienced it before, but I find I enjoy the company of likeminded men, the sensation one knows on completing a hard job well done … the companionship, I suppose. I’ve never had a real sense of purpose before, and I used to envy Oliver that when I accompanied him around his estate. It’s not something one finds behind a desk piling up money for other people’s benefit. In any event, however absurd it may seem to you or to the people at home, I have made up my mind. I’m staying here.’

Could he still be thinking of eventually becoming partner and heir to Oliver, as Emily had once wished? It seemed likely and, if so, Charles was taking a step more likely to ensure that outcome than going back to England would have done.

He took up his pen and again drew his paper towards him.

‘I will postpone writing to Mount Bellew and Dissham, but I must get a letter off to old Chalmers in Calcutta. They say mail will be despatched as soon as Colin Campbell reaches us, and I want to arrange everything possible for you, Jessie and the baby, Laura. I have already written to my bankers and ordered them to make out a draft payable to you for all expenses. Chalmers will see to it that you find berths on a good ship. I’ll leave it to him to decide whether the Cape route or overland will be better. You and Jessie are going to need clothing and so on, so I suggest you spend a few weeks with the Chalmers’s, resting and buying what you need. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you for as long as need be. Hospitable people, and after all …’

‘We will be survivors!’ I ended with a sigh.

Charles bent to his work, and I again made an effort to compose my mind to correspondence.

It would be spring, more likely early summer, in England when we arrived. I made myself remember the woods around Mount Bellew; new leaves in the chilly air, primroses spilling down the banks, bluebells in the hazel thickets and, later, summer fields starred with daisies and buttercups. Hackneyed things, however lovely—the type of memories that genteel expatriate females write poems about for inclusion in the pious pages of
The Quiver
. The reality of existence in England, even my own existence, would not return to my mind. Yet, that was what I wanted: calm, secure, prosaic England, where I could take myself, my surroundings, my way of life, all for granted. England, where there would be no need to keep my inner forces eternally mustered to battle with the climate, the language, the customs and prejudices and the cruelties of a strange place and a strange race. All I wanted was to sink back into long-accustomed, unthinking, comfortable routine.

But a strange thing happened. When I tried to remember what that accustomed routine had been, I found myself instead back in the routine, very vividly remembered, of the Hassanganj day: the early morning tea on the verandah, the rides, the Urdu lessons, overseeing, with Emily, the running of the house, meals in the stately dining-room, reading at night under the chandelier in the drawing-room with Oliver Erskine opposite me, absorbed in his book.

I pulled myself together. That had gone. The Hassanganj I had known could never now be re-experienced. And the Mount Bellew I had known? Could that be rediscovered? Would I really be able to settle down to being my aunt’s dependable right hand again—for with Emily dead, it was unlikely that I would be allowed to leave the house and find a position, as I used to tell myself I some day would. Was dull, pedestrian England, the England of small towns and kindly unimaginative people that I knew, really going to suffice me for the rest of my days? Could I ever submerge the self that had appeared in India, and become again the dutiful, grateful, philosophic poor relation that I once had been?