In the Shadow of a Dream (27 page)

‘Hush now, someone’s coming. I’m sorry about making a scene.’

‘I’m not. I’ll cherish this moment, forever; and the trench coat that…’

She seemed not to hear, turned her wrist and looked at her watch. ‘It’s time we went,’ she sniffed. He offered his kerchief, she shook her head and took hers out from under her bra. He tried not to smile. ‘You see, I’m an independent woman.’

They were quiet in the bus, which moved off shortly. Kitty kept her face turned away from his and looked out of the window. Dusty waited awhile, then ventured: ‘Was Fern Cottage visible from where we stood?’

‘No. It is beyond Mohan Singh’s place and behind a ridge,’ she spoke softly. ‘Did I tell you that Fern Cottage was their home? Emma died there…and Sandy, the same day. They were so deeply in love. They lie side by side buried in the graveyard of an old chapel, which is now within the school premises.’

‘The school where you taught?’

‘Part-time teacher and not for long. When I first came here, I stayed at the Nurpur Mission, but then Miss Das, who was in charge of the Mission, resigned and left for Delhi. It all turned out ugly and when Shalini, also a part-time colleague, moved to a house in Pathankot, she left. I resigned too and went to live in Fern Cottage.’

Once again she gazed out of the window. ‘Sam,’ she suddenly asked, ‘don’t you think Pritee looked unwell when they left?’

‘I scarcely noticed. They were hardly at the table much of the time.’

‘Thank goodness. Jaswal is a chain smoker. I noticed you don’t. Have you been a smoker?’

‘I was a teenager before I could afford cigarettes. Mind you I did in my wild childhood, mostly to keep company. I didn’t like it. And you, did you ever?’

‘Yes, my father too. But we both gave up. I, before I came to India. He, after my grandmother Edith died.’

‘And what are your plans for the future? I mean, now that you’re…’

‘I like the South, Cochin, Goa…there’re schools I’d love to teach…’ She paused. He noted how she often interrupted herself, trailing off mid-sentences. ‘My father is coming over at the end of February. He’ll holiday here. For a fortnight, before we go back to England.’

‘Two months! Gosh, Kitty! I’ll have to work fast to make you change your mind, about going back to England. When may I see you again. My week-ends are free.’

‘Sam, surely you have better things to do?’

‘No, and I’m going to be frank…’

‘You’ve been nothing but that, since we met.’

‘I want to marry you. I must marry you. Tell me, there’s a chance. There’s hope, or do I mean scope.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, Sam, you can’t be serious? Don’t tell me you are.’

‘Deadly earnest. At forty-four I may be old for you? Do I have a rival?’

‘You’re not too old. You don’t have a rival. I’ve always liked older men. Whether you’ve the slightest chance, I really don’t know. It’s far too early to say. I refuse to be rushed. Sam, I hardly know you!’

‘Then, get to know me. Like me enough to let me woo you and win you over? I know I can, if we spend time together. I won’t ask for much, only whatever time you can spare. Let me build you an altar. Let me adore you for the rest of time. The die is cast. There’s no escape.’

She studied his face. ‘I do believe you’re serious. I’ve never met anyone so bold, so determined, so confident…or is this some game you’re playing?’

‘You ask,’ he said in Churchillian tones, ‘what is your aim, I answer Marrriage.’

She giggled; took a deep breath, and shook her head.

‘Do I have to win your father’s consent, as well?’

‘My father has never denied me anything…that been part of my/our problem.’

‘Then I won’t take no for an answer.’

She looked out of the window. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

He sat back in his seat and stretched his legs. ‘Say yes. Yes, you’ll marry me.’

She did not speak. He sat up and turned to her. ‘Kitty, don’t do this to me.’

She sighed. ‘Sam, I do like you enough to want to see you again and that’ll have to be sufficient for the time being. I can’t promise more.’

He caught her hand firmly. ‘You will find me, as plain as you see me. I’m alone. I have no family. Your consent is the only obstacle I have to contend with.’

The sincerity in the tone of his voice stirred her. She looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh Sam, I’ve never had a greater compliment. But I wouldn’t want you to waste your time. I’m not sure I want to marry again. Yes Sam, you dear sweet man. I’m divorced and there have been other men in my life.’

‘I don’t care. If there aren’t any men now, now is where we are…where I begin.’

‘True, there’s no man, because I’ve been avoiding men. You must understand that. Because I remember what I suffered in the past.’

‘Kitty, you and I don’t need our pasts. We have a future, our future.’

‘Sam, I feel as if I’m being smothered…rushed into committing myself…I give up. I’ve said you can see me.’

‘Good. I’ve stormed the Bastille. Resistance is futile. Say you’ll see me but don’t say you can’t promise me more. Tell me how and when we can meet. I’ll arrange to hire a pony.’

‘I can lend you a pony from our paddock. Can you handle one?’

‘Kitty, I’ve been a polo player. You said “our”?’

‘It’s not my cottage, as I said. Dinesh owns the estate. He’s in Bombay. Mohan manages it but I know he’d like to buy it. It’s not just cottage and garden. There’s land also.’

‘When you say Dinesh, the nephew, was also Sandy’s ward, do you mean he was like a son to Sandy…and to Emma I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now, is he single or married?’

‘Married to Shanti, the only daughter of the Seth, the business tycoon who owns that sprawling house I pointed to, the one with the high walls and Mughal gate.’

‘Then Dinesh is rolling in it. And Shanti, is she with him in Bombay?’

‘No, she’s in Pathankot, with her father in that big house. Therein lies a tale and a scandal involving a child. Dinesh denies he’s the father. Poor Dinesh, I fear for him. But right now I’m selfishly thinking of myself and our little quandary. Sam, it will have to be Sundays. In broad daylight.’ She laughed. ‘This is India. Village India.’

‘Grateful for any crumb you throw to me. Ever your grovelling, Spaniel Sam.’

‘You’re no spaniel. Sunday then, and as it’s the first time, we’ll meet at St John’s. A landmark you can’t miss…’ She turned away and shuddered involuntarily.

‘Kitty? What’s wrong.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used seeing those poor coolies.’

‘You should by now.’

She shook her head. ‘The impossible loads they carry on their backs as they trudge uphill! I’ve seen one of them bent double, carrying a teak desk. He had a canvas strap tied to it and looped round his poor forehead. I think it’s inhuman! Don’t you?’

‘One day you will employ a coolie to carry a cupboard or shelf or sack of coal and he’ll thank you for hiring him. Other coolies will envy his luck.’

‘I’ll point to the Church as we pass it. We’ll meet there on Sunday and I’ll take you to the Cottage by a short but rather steep route. It avoids the Tibetan quarter.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled. She had ignored his remarks about the coolies but he had not missed the defiance. The determined chin of that perfect profile was eloquent.

‘There are conditions. Whatever we do, I’m going to England shortly, and when I return, I intend to take up a teaching job in Southern India.’

‘I never interfere with job decisions. Always I placed a high value on work. Also I could be with you, help you settle. You see, I’m due to retire any time next year. So, I’ll dog your footsteps, if you’ll let me.’

‘Retire? Oh, of course, retirement is early in the army.’

‘It’s a fine pony, Kitty; quite the size of a mule.’ Dusty patted the pony’s neck.

‘Sandy got it for Bill Clayton, but Bill’s feet still touched the ground. Bill was a missionary and Sandy’s dearest friend. My father knew him too…Sam don’t look at me like that.’

‘Your breathtakingly beautiful. I can see why you choose to wear
salwar kameez
.’

‘Talking to you is like playing chess. I never know what your next move will be. Now, when you come on Sunday, you’ll probably meet Ransingh and Sona. They do spend Sunday, or part of Sunday, at the Cottage. And maybe Mohan Singh…what on earth are you doing with your fingers?’

‘I’m counting the number of times left when we can meet. Not many, alas.’

‘There’s still much of February and the whole of March.’

‘But sometime in February and March we have our Brigade Exercises. That will swallow three Sundays at least.’

She chuckled. ‘For a brief moment you looked like a boy who’d dropped his ice-lolly. I can’t make it any easier.’ She smiled, and her eyes twinkled.

‘When we are apart, I’ll write love letters straight from the heart. Although I don’t think I’ll be good at that, so I’ll end each letter with a plea and a proposal.’

‘We’re too old for that sort of stuff.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. We ought to recapture that first fine careless rapture…’

‘Honestly Sam, you’re behaving…You must surely have had a crush before you met me, or even saw Emma?’

He looked at her uneasily and said nothing.

‘Tell me, Sam. Was she beautiful, your first fine careless rapture? I assume she was Indian. Indian women are beautiful…I’m sure she was.’

‘I can’t say, Kitty. It was so long ago. I can’t think, ’cos I only have eyes for you. Too dazzled by your radiant, almost cruel beauty, to think of anyone else. Blinded.’

Her chin turned petulant. ‘Remind me, who said it, that “careless rapture” bit.’

‘Browning. Robert of that ilk.’

‘I was thinking Shelley or Keats. But you have to be right. Vikram told me about your immense reading and prodigious memory. Bear that in mind. I could be a bore.’

She was holding the reins of a patient chestnut pony. He reached out to touch her hands, hesitated, and withdrew them. ‘Kitty, don’t discourage me.’

‘Sam, I find you increasingly attractive. One of us has to be pragmatic.’

‘I’m not looking for a scholarly rival.’

‘Remember, looks don’t last.’

‘You said, I’ve a good memory. I’ll remember you like you are now for the rest of my life. When I was a boy, I fell in love with the Pre-Raphaelites. My father, I mean Sam, my guardian, had books of their paintings. I used to wonder if there were really such women, or were they fairy tale figments of male imagination.’

‘Just that. Figments.’

‘Then you and Emma are of some golden land that Burne-Jones peeped into.’

‘I thought you were a down to earth sort of a chap. Forget the Pre-Raphaelites.’

‘How can I? “Here’s looking at you kid” as Bogart would say’

‘I said you were incorrigible.’

Chapter Twelve
 

‘S
am, I insist on calling you Sam because I don’t like Dusty? Why Dusty?’

‘Everyone calls me Dusty, Kitty. It’s short for Dustoor.’

‘I think it’s unkind, cruel.’

‘Is it? If I don’t mind it, why is it cruel?

‘No one, particularly one as handsome as you, deserves such a tag.’ She looked at him hard and long; sighed and looked away.

‘Tell me why, why is it cruel?’

‘Because…how can I put it…because it obviously refers to your colour.’

He shook his head. ‘How can it be insulting? All or nearly everyone in India is a dusky brown. It’s not a great nickname, I’ll grant you that, but I’ve lived with it for what seems like forever.’

‘How did you acquire it?’

‘Orphans are named after foster parents. Dustoor is what my School certificate says. By the way the Army likes giving nicknames. I already had one.’

‘But Dustoor is a Parsee name. And you’re not Parsee. You’re a light brown, not pale, like Parsees are. You could be Anglo-Indian.’

‘These things don’t count. Whatever my beginnings, what I am now matters. I’m happy to be Sam Dustoor, to honour my kind foster father. He was a teacher, and by taking his name I got free admission into one of the best schools in Bombay. He was an authority on English History and Literature. And he made me the man I am.’