The Letter (23 page)

Margaret had been worried that she might be sent to Europe, alternating how she would tell the children with the fact that there might not be an opportunity to say goodbye. In saner moments she realised this was extremely unlikely for the Japanese were in a pole position to strike India. She asked her commanding officer to try to find out where Tommy was. He said that the British attitude was she was not a relative, and there was a war on, so it was unlikely that he would find out anything. The fighting and possibility of invasion was heating up, a rationale for his absence.

She strove harder to become indispensable, working more unsociable hours than anyone else. In between she packed a trunk to send to Suleka. There were soft hanks of purple, blue and pink wool to make cardigans for the girls, mouth warming cinnamon, nuts, dried fruits, almond-nougat with cherries, and delicious sweets for the boys. In addition she put in bolts of fine grey and brown woven cloth and embroidered shawls, bought from Jammu salesmen in Peshawar’s bazaar. Suleka could please herself what she did with the material.

Pavia was nine, Saurabh seven and Rajeev four. She’d missed their birthdays. Their father had got what he wanted and was in no hurry to involve expensive lawyers. Margaret decided to temporarily leave things as they were in exchange for trying to get his agreement for a Christmas visit to the children.

Suleka telephoned. Margaret was thrilled, “I’ve embroidered names on the children’s Christmas stockings… It took an age. I’m glad you chose short names for your girls. We can hang the stockings on the bed head like we used to…”

“Charuni…” How ever it was said Suleka knew the effect would be disastrous, “You’re not invited.”

“Who says so?”

“My brother… He tore up your letter.”

“I’ll telephone.”

“I’m not supposed to tell you…”

“Don’t cry Suleka… it’s not your fault…”

“Friends .?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“For ever…”

Margaret put down the phone. She didn’t feel the hot red wax blistering her hand when she sealed the string on the parcel.

In church on Christmas Eve, surrounded by colleagues carolling their hearts out, she visualised Pavia and Saurabh caught up in the excitement of bedtime; sweetly singing
Away
in
the
Manger.
They might be too old for Father Christmas but would play along for Rajeev. A chilling thought struck Margaret: without her there would be no need to celebrate Christmas at Aakesh.

*  *  *  *  *

Winter had penetrated Margaret’s bones, increasing her dark mood. In nearby Kashmir the melting snows changed the peaceful rivers to torrents sending them tumbling down to the thirsty plains, making the passes relatively snow free. She joined some nurses on an expedition to see the renowned pink blossom of the almond trees.

April was a delightful month for an adventure. The merry band missed some of the first flush of blossom but the air was filled with the fragrance of a million spring flowers blooming on trees, shrubs and creepers. The nurses made their way to the ancient city of Srinagar where they hired a luxurious wooden houseboat moored on the river Jhelum. They followed its course through the heart of the city, past willow-shaded channels, canals and under curvaceous low bridges. Deep green rice fields, water lilies, lotus and intricate Mughal gardens littered the riverbanks. Lines of doongas, the floating homes of the river people, swayed in unison. Women, seated at the prow, pounded grain and called to one another across the tranquil water.

The crew of the houseboat tied up at regular intervals and Margaret and her friends explored the labyrinth lanes of rich red brick and carved wooden houses that stretched into the town.

There was a constant flow of activity between the water and the land. Homes, schools, shops and mosques jostled for position along the crowded banks. Endless roof gardens and orchards tumbled down towards the river; lattice carved windows of buildings added a touch of timelessness.

In the evenings the boatmen lit small bukharis. The smoke from these wood-burning stoves perfumed the air like incense. Servants brought bowls of rose scented water for hand washing, cinnamon tea and delicately spiced food; apricot stuffed lamb, fish in coconut, saffron rice, breads and fruits, relics of their Persian ancestry, washed down with sherbet.

The party relaxed on luxurious carpets or reclined on cushioned couches. The moon on the water and the reflection of the light from hundreds of lanterns, suspended from innumerable shadowy boats, shut out unhappiness.

*  *  *  *  *

Kashmir with its glimpse of paradise had been a haven of healing from which to draw the strength Margaret would need. Her father wrote with bad news: Nan’s husband Davey was dead, killed by a sniper in Burma while serving with Wingate’s Chindits. The remote jungle and nature of the mission meant his body lay where it fell. Nan was left with five young children. The last, like so many others, would not know her father. Willie was right, only this moment is certain.

The Japanese, building up their reserves to attack India, had cut the road link between Imphal and Kohima. Residents caught in the fighting were either killed or interned. Planes flew day and night supplying and evacuating troops or bombing the enemy. Willie was up there, and although Margaret didn’t want another dead brother-in-law at least she knew where he was.

She’d wheedled out of headquarters that Mike Calvert, and his group of Special Forces were with the Chindits. Tommy must be with them. These men were engaged in hand to hand combat with the enemy, suffering terrible casualties. Horrific stories of soldiers captured by the Japanese were well known. Those who escaped were often mentally and physically scarred beyond healing.

Men living on the edge of death seldom made commitments, but Tommy had given his word and Margaret trusted him to keep it. She shut her ears to the rumble of aircraft and the possibility that he was dead. Somehow he’d find her, even in Kohat.

May brought a letter from Suleka,

My
Dearest
Charuni,

Your
replacement,
Sandyia,
has
returned
to
her
brother
and
is
running
their
school.
She
has
taken
Pavia
with
her.
Don’t
be
upset
my
dear
friend
but
my
brother
has
another
son.
If
he
wants
to
see
him
he
will
have
to
go
there.
Saurabh
and
Rajeev
remain
here
 . . .

I
remain
your
sister.
No
one
will
ever
take
your
place
in
my
affection.

Sandyia hadn’t settled for rural life with its lack of intellectual company, sick mother-in-law and persistent interference from Vartika and Hiten. Why hadn’t Margaret done the same, taken the children, taken control, forced Ben into fighting for them?

A son posed a threat but Hiten would protect Saurabh and Rajeev’s interests, so tightly bound up with his own. Pavia gone with Sandyia was a death blow.

What to do? What to do? If Margaret had someone to help… but she didn’t even know where Sandyia lived. She sent letter after letter to Ben beseeching him to return their daughter.

*  *  *  *  *

Depression is a poor companion. Afraid to be alone in this melancholy state Margaret took refuge in the mess where the wireless underpinned conversation. A huge cheer roared throughout the room bursting out into the night. Hundreds of voices began singing, shouting, whistling sending the noise echoing through the mountains. Berets and caps were thrown in the air. Men swung each other round, slapping backs, pumping hands and kissing every woman in sight. Giddy from dancing she asked her partner what was happening.

“What’s happening… ? We’ve landed in Normandy! The Jerries are on the run. The whole bloody world has landed on the beaches, Yanks, Canadians, the whole caboodle.”

Drinks were poured, toasts were drunk and Vera Lynn transmitted at full volume. Margaret was nearly late on duty.

The disinfected wards with dimmed night-lights were
at odds with the festivities. A soldier groaned. The surgical pain from his amputated leg and the unusual racket outside had got the better of him. “Nurse… What’s going on?”

Margaret told him. The ward erupted into a symphony of waving limbs, towels, pillows, bedclothes, toothbrushes
and anything to hand.
One by one critically ill men asked, “Does this mean we can go home?”

“Soon,” she reassured them, but where would she go when it was over?

Chapter 29
 

June and July passed with more allied victories in Europe. Margaret was half listening to Victor Sylvester’s big band concert in the mess when the popular wireless programme was interrupted by an announcement, “Yesterday our brave boys were honoured by Field Marshall Montgomery in a Normandy quarry…” Boos and cat calls drowned the rest.

“Get him off. We want news of the Japs! There’s a war on here you know!”

“My brother’s over there…”

“Somebody shut him up!”

The volume was turned up until it crackled. In standard BBC English a list of decorated men was read out, “ . . . Fifth Parachute Brigade, Airborne Signals Section, Corporal Thomas Waters…”

Margaret said, “Corporal Thomas Waters… Did he say
Corporal
Thomas
Waters?”

“Got the Military Medal…”

“He’s my fiancé! But he’s a sergeant? “

“He’s a hero!”

The mess toasted Tommy and his comrades until the rafters rang with his name.

Secrecy was paramount throughout Tommy’s missions
in The East but to be transferred to Europe… perhaps when they last met he had an inkling of what lay ahead? Margaret wished she’d asked him more, but he wouldn’t have told her. He might be half way across the world but he was alive; being together was just a matter of time.

*  *  *  *  *

She dreamt of making their home in India. It would have to be a city, probably Delhi. They’d have a summer home in Nainital; she’d put the children in school. They’d ride through the hills… honeymoon in Kashmir… the war couldn’t last much longer.

France

My
Darling
Girl,

It’s
been
pretty
hectic
here
one
way
and
another
and
impossible
to
write.
Unfortunately
the
action
isn’t
over.
I
am
still
on
active
service
and
expect
to
be
on
the
move
any
day.

I
hope
you
and
the
children
are
well
and
that
you
think
of
me
often.
I
know
it’s
selfish
but
wait
for
me.
Nothing’s
changed.
I
meant
every
word
I
said
when
we
last
met,

Well
sweetheart
I
promise
I’ll
get
back
to
you
but
it
looks
as
if
we’ll
have
to
wait
for
the
end
of
this
bash.
Try
to
get
a
letter
to
me
if
you
can.
I
had
to
drop
rank
but
I’m
due
for
promotion.
I
might
make
it
to
Officer
and
give
you
the
life
you
deserve.