The Peacock Spring (16 page)

From Crackers that had been supreme praise and Una reproduced those schoolmistress phrases now. ‘It is seldom,’ she said, ‘that one is completely satisfied, but I am satisfied
now. I congratulate you, Ravi.’

He was radiant. ‘Read them again, I command you. No one else,’ he informed the room, ‘no one but Una is ever to read my poems. But wait,’ he told her. ‘I must give
you a drink, some fruits before you go on. This is more hard work than maths.’

He brought her milk in a tumbler of brass, a slice of papaya. She read his poems through again, then they began to talk them over. When Una reached her room it was past two o’clock.

‘Ravi Bhattacharya? There are so many Ravis,’ said Lady Srinevesan.

‘Only one,’ Una wanted to contradict her but, ‘I remember a Ravi,’ said Mrs Mehta. ‘So do you, Amina. Yes, Ravi Bhattacharya. He was a St Thomas’s College
boy, one of the few worthwhile ones.’ For Mrs Mehta to say that was worth having, thought Una. Mrs Mehta had opened vistas for Una far beyond Lady Srinevesan’s amateur poetry evenings.
Poets, musicians, artists from over the world came to stay with the Mehtas and, ‘Sophia is particularly kind to the young,’ said Lady Srinevesan. Una herself had found that; though she
was a failure at the flower-arranging. Mrs Mehta had singled her out, taken her to concerts, lent her books.

‘Perhaps she thinks I’m a charity,’ said Una, but secretly she was pleased. Mrs Mehta –
the
Mrs Mehta – thinks me worthwhile; so does Lady Srinevesan –
and not because I am Edward’s daughter – they don’t take much notice of Hal. Mrs Porter seems to like me. Bulbul does too. That perhaps was oddest of all. I should have thought
Bulbul would have liked Hal, but it was Una Bulbul invited, and Una had made friends with Bulbul’s husband Som, ‘And Som is not easy to please,’ said Bulbul.

‘Ravi, do you think I am very plain?’ Una had asked him.

‘Plain?’ He did not know what she meant and, ‘Not pretty,’ said Una.

‘You are not pretty,’ he said certainly, ‘but you have such a white skin – most white people are not white, they are yellow, yellow-pink. You are white. I like that
– and your funny eyes.’

‘Una is much happier,’ Hal told Edward.

‘Has she been unhappy?’

‘Didn’t you know
that
?’ asked Hal.

‘How did you come across this Ravi Bhattacharya?’ Lady Srinevesan asked Una now.

‘I . . . read some of his poems.’

‘I didn’t know they had been published.’ The bright birdlike eyes were alert and, Be careful, thought Una; she said aloud. ‘They were not published. I found them in a St
Thomas’s College book,’ which was not wholly untruthful; Ravi made his notes in his old college exercise books.

‘He wrote a poem that I remember,’ said Mrs Mehta. ‘It was about a river. I liked it so much I learnt it.

‘Yes,’ said Una and, almost unconsciously, went on until:

She finished it.

‘You know it as well as that?’

Una blushed. ‘I . . . I learn easily by heart.’

‘You say poetry well,’ was Mrs Mehta’s only comment, but Una knew Lady Srinevesan was studying her.

‘I remember him now,’ and Lady Srinevesan said, ‘Ravi Bhattacharya ought to have tried for the Tagore Prize.’

‘What is that?’

‘Sophia, as usual, started it. Many a young musician’s first concert is given with Mehta money,’ Edward had told Una. ‘Many a young poet supported while he is writing his
book.’ Ravi wouldn’t take money, thought Una proudly, he works, but she wanted to test out her swan and if, thought Una, if . . .

‘The Tagore Prize is awarded every year in memory of Rabindranath Tagore,’ said Mrs Mehta, ‘by the Institute of Fine Arts of which Amina is President.’

‘It was once for Bengal only,’ said Mrs Mehta. ‘Now I am glad to say it is for all India. It carries a grant of five thousand rupees – and publication, of course –
so it is our most important poetry award.’

‘I couldn’t have won the Tagore Prize,’ said Ravi when Una, excited, talked to him.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I . . .’ then Ravi stopped. ‘I didn’t go in for it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Mrs Mehta said.

‘I don’t want prizes,’ said Ravi. ‘Nor five thousand rupees, nor fifty thousand. I have enough with fifty.’

‘But you want to be published.’

‘I shall be in time.’ No one, thought Una with gratification, could call Ravi expedient, or even adaptable, over poetry – with his poems he was like a rock. ‘Don’t
be meddlesome,’ said Ravi and teased, ‘That’s the Westerner.’

‘Indians want to get on too.’

‘Only when they are Westernized, like Hem. You can’t leave anything alone. “Get busy, Ravi,” “Get a typewriter, see how fast you can click,” “Get
stamps, forms, envelopes.”’ He was not altogether teasing. ‘You will get me a secretary next.’

‘I will be your secretary,’ said Una.

‘Then I shall run away from you, you and your Ma Mehta. Oh, don’t be so serious, Una, laugh . . .’ and Una laughed. She could not help it. If anyone, these days, had looked at
Una they might have seen a smile that lurked at the corners of her mouth where it had been ‘So serious and prim,’ said Hal; but no one looked at Una. They were too busy looking at
Hal.

As soon as they heard Edward come up the steps from the car Una knew that something was wrong; he did not bid his usual courteous goodnight to Chinaberry or say any word to Ram
Chand waiting to take his briefcase; instead he came into the drawing room and demanded, ‘Where is Hal?’

‘On the telephone as usual. Why, Edward?’ Alix was concerned. His forehead was furrowed with worry, the back of his hair on end. ‘Read this,’ said Edward. ‘Just
read it.’ ‘This’ was a thick-papered typewritten letter in a long envelope with American airmail stamps.

‘What is it?’

‘All I worked and fought for, five years of it, to be undone in a few weeks!’ Edward was walking up and down. ‘Una, you had better go away.’

‘If it concerns Hal, I had better stay. What is it, Edward?’ Una had gone to him, taken his arm, but he shook her off.

‘A letter from Louise’s lawyers. Some busybody,’ said Edward in wrath, ‘some infernal busybody gossipmonger has written Louise a cock-and-bull story about Hal leading a
rackety life here in Delhi, going to dances, going to clubs and races and having an infatuation with a young rajah.’

‘Vikram,’ said Una, ‘but it couldn’t be Vikram. Besides, he isn’t a rajah.’

‘Of course he isn’t.’

‘And this isn’t true.’ Alix, bewildered, had finished the letter. ‘It simply isn’t true.’

‘It may not be, but it’s enough.’ Edward was bitter. ‘As Hal is only twelve it makes succulent reading and gives Louise just the handle she wants. They are questioning my
custody.’ For the first time he turned on Alix. ‘I trusted you,’ said Edward, ‘yet you let Hal have this – this friendship with young Paralampur.’

Alix seemed unable to speak and Una came to her rescue. ‘It was all our friendships and you knew about it, Edward. You knew we went to the Paralampurs.’ Her calmness seemed to calm
him, but why was Alix so cowed? She sat, apparently stricken dumb and raising piteous eyes to Edward. Tell him, Una was urging silently. Tell him it’s you Vik is after and put him out of his
misery – or would that be worse misery? And then Una knew why Alix was afraid: I might tell him, thought Una. Shall I? It was a titillating thought but she only repeated ‘You knew about
the Paralampurs.’

‘I didn’t know this . . . this!’

‘You couldn’t, because it doesn’t exist. Vikram likes Hal; she amuses him.’

‘But she’s a little schoolgirl.’ Alix, with a grateful glance at Una, had recovered her speech. ‘Hardly of interest to a young man about town like Vikram Singh. Besides,
he has far too much respect for you and your position – and his – to abuse it. Una is right. There’s no harm in it. This letter is a distortion.’ But Edward was too shaken
to be soothed.

‘Have they ever been alone?’

‘Only when they were dancing or riding and even then you or I or someone were not far away. For the rest. Una, Sushila and her friends were always with Hal. The Maharani, or I, or their
hostesses were always there. What are you suggesting, Edward?’ Alix had risen and now was almost as angry as he. ‘Do you mean I haven’t taken care of Hal?’

‘Of course you have.’ She had given Edward pause. ‘I apologize, Alix.’

‘If it would help you to know,’ Alix was still angry, ‘the fact is that this silly boy, Vikram, has – notions – about me.’

‘
You!
’ Edward swung round. ‘How dare he?’

‘I told you, he is a silly boy; an empty-headed charmer.’

Cheat! thought Una. You cheat – sacrificing Vikram without a word when you and he . . . Cheat! Una knew she had only to say that and, in his shaken state, Edward would probably believe
her. ‘I am disgusted with you. Alix,’ Una wanted to fling at her. Then why don’t I speak? Because . . . I have seen, thought Una, seen deep into you. You are not in love with
Edward. How could you be? But you and Vikram are two alike . . . She could still see the Vikram of that moonlit night in his scarlet and white and gold. How can I blame you, Alix? thought Una and
held her peace.

‘But who could have written this?’ Edward was still holding the letter.

‘Mrs Porter? She is American.’

‘Gussie wouldn’t embroider; besides, she doesn’t know Louise. No, it’s some highly coloured interfering mischief maker. Who?’ He was walking up and down again.
‘Who wrote it?’

‘I did,’ said Hal, stepping into the room.

‘
You!
’

‘Yes. I thought Louise ought to know,’ said Hal. ‘She
is
my mother.’

‘So you wrote this . . . this balderdash?’

‘It isn’t balderdash. That lawyer person is quite right. I am in love with Vik, head over heels.’

‘But why make him a rajah? Say you are going to dances and races?’

‘I thought it would make it more interesting for Louise.’

‘Interesting! Good God.’

‘Vik should have been a rajah,’ argued Hal. ‘We did go to Sushila’s fancy-dress party; we do dance on the verandah and polo is very like racing.’

‘God almighty!’ said Edward. Una had to laugh but, for the first time in all these weeks, thought Una, he really looked at Hal and, ‘Since when have you been wearing all those
gewgaws?’ he demanded. ‘Go and take them off – at once, do you hear? – and that stuff on your nails. Why the hell, Alix, have you been letting her go about bedizened like
this?’

Alix palpably did not think Hal was bedizened. ‘It’s only a few bangles, Edward. Girls grow up more quickly now – besides, it’s only in the house. I don’t let her
go out in them.’

Una opened her mouth – and thought it wiser to shut it again.

‘Go and take them off,’ said Edward to Hal, ‘and wash your face. Wait. Has Vikram Singh ever . . . er . . . kissed you?’

‘No,’ said Hal. ‘But he will. Unless you’re so horribly mean you won’t give me a dowry I shall marry Vikram. Sushila thinks you can probably talk the Maharajah
Sahib round.’

‘Oh, can I? May I remind you that you are only twelve years old?’

‘Sushila says plenty of girls are betrothed at twelve . . . I should have thought you would be glad to get a daughter settled.’ Hal was near to tears. ‘Sushila says it’s
quite a business.’

‘Miss Sushila seems to be running our affairs. Well, you can tell her,’ said Edward, ‘that, as soon as I can arrange things, you are going back to England where Aunt Frederica
will find you another and stricter school.’

Hal stared at him, burst into sobs and ran to Alix.

‘It’s no use crying,’ said Edward who, as they all knew, could not bear to see Hal in tears. ‘No use, do you hear?’ He was still walking up and down when Ram
appeared. ‘Telephone, Captain Singh, Sahib.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Hal, the tears miraculously dried.

‘No,’ thundered Edward, but Hal had broken from Alix and gone.

Edward flung up his arms in despair. Then he, too, had to laugh. ‘But seriously,’ he said and stopped laughing. ‘This is serious. Louise lives to make trouble.’

‘Edward,’ said Alix. ‘I have been thinking and I believe you needn’t be quite so extreme. Sushila goes back to school at the end of this month. It isn’t a
“school for princesses”, as Hal likes to think; Paralampur cannot afford even the girls’ school at Gwalior and Sushila goes to the convent in Darjeeling – a humdrum but good
convent school. Why not send Hal there for the summer? If you return her to England, it might make these lawyers imagine there is something in this, whereas if she goes with Sushila it will seem
natural and you can tell them it is all schoolgirl romanticism, that you are friends with all the Paralampurs, dispossessed rajahs who lead a quiet family life in Delhi, and you send your daughter
to the same convent boarding school. That ought to silence any lawyer.’

‘It would solve it,’ said Edward slowly.

‘Then have a word with Paralampur himself. I understand arrangements are going on now for Vikram’s marriage; it should be easy to agree that he shouldn’t visit Darjeeling or
the little girls.’

‘Cara, you think of everything!’

Cara! Edward always seemed embarrassed at using English endearments; he had never called Una or Hal as much as ‘dear’, but Una’s heart sank as she remembered how he used to
call Louise ‘bambolina’ – little doll. No one could call Alix little doll, but cara . . . He had, too, put his hand on Alix’s shoulder – even with Una in the room.
‘It seems no harm has been done.’

‘What could have been done?’ Alix’s eyes were wide, theatrical. ‘I swear to you, Edward, it would be impossible for either of the girls to be alone with a young man for
half an hour without my knowing it.’