Oriental Hotel (25 page)

‘You decided to join me, then?'

‘It's true I have seen nothing of Bombay and I couldn't go alone.'

‘So at least I know where I stand.' She looked at him, confused, and he went on smoothly, ‘It's my strong arm you want, not my company. Well, you shall have that. I won't let anything happen to you.'

‘I wish you had said that when we thought we might be attacked by the raider,' she said, trying to salvage her composure.

‘I don't make promises I cannot keep. An Indian trying to white-slave you, I could probably handle. An enemy ship with all guns blazing would be another matter.' He straightened. ‘Right, shall we go before your friends descend and carry you off to the Turf Club or somewhere equally revoltingly fashionable?'

The quick flush rose in her cheeks. Gordon had taken her to the Turf Club when they had been in Bombay. Society weddings were held there beneath the decorated trees, the food laid out on tables covered with banana leaves. She had thought it a lovely place then; why should Brit now make her feel ashamed of having been there? It was almost as if she was the member of an influential and wealthy family, not him, and he was determined to make her feel guilty about it.

The Taj had been built on Apollo Bunder at the Gateway of India; from there motor launches ferried visitors across to the Elephanta Island. There were other boats too on the sparkling blue water – high-prowed fishing sail-boats moved lazily; flatter craft for tending the nets in the harbour bobbed and bowed.

Elise was surprised by the number of tourists making the crossing, and surprised that Brit should want to visit a place that was so obviously a tourist attraction. She had thought he was very much a loner, not at all the type to go where the crowds were, and it was only when they stood at the entrance to the main cave that she began to understand the awesome attraction that drew him here time and again.

A columned verandah faced her, thirty feet wide and six feet deep, approached by a flight of steps flanked on either side by sculptured elephants which had given the island its name. At each end, on perpetual and silent guard, stood two stone doorkeepers, carved from the projecting pillars. The relentless sunshine, beating down on the ancient stone, revealed every chisel mark, every facet, so that they stood erect and proud, their sightless eyes gazing back at the visitors who stopped awestruck before them.

A guide was waiting near the foot of the steps – a thin Indian dressed in a dhoti and carrying a large heavy flashlight.

‘You know the history of the carvings?' Brit asked him and when the man nodded eagerly, lips drawn back from his teeth in a skeletal smile, Brit engaged him.

‘Please to come this way, there is much to see …' His patter was clearly learned by heart, repeated constantly throughout the tourist season. He was, Elise supposed, one of the lucky ones who could expect to take home enough to feed his family during the winter months at least.

Once inside the caves the purpose of the flashlight became clear. After the bright sunlight, here it was cool and so dim as to be almost dark, even in the main temple, and Elise strained her eyes to see the carvings that seemed almost buried in the dark halls as she listened to the guide's chanted soliloquy.

‘These carvings, you will see, represent the all-powerful – love, strength and greatest of all, spiritual peace …'

I can't see anything, Elise thought, vaguely disappointed, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she found herself gazing riveted. It wasn't possible that the carvings could be growing in size, detaching themselves from the walls that had given them birth, yet oddly that was the impression they gave, standing out from the surrounding gloom in sharp relief, the only primaries in a secondary world.

She moved her head slightly and they moved with her, encompassing her in a panorama of living, breathing stone. Dimly she was aware of the parrot-voice of the guide, droning on, but the words floated over her like petals on the breeze. It was no longer necessary to have the meaning of the sculptures explained verbally – she was becoming attuned to them on another plane altogether.

Emotions she scarcely recognised were taking hold of her – haunting nostalgia for things long forgotten, longing for something beyond the reach of her conscious mind, and a sense of tinglingly inviting anticipation. And at the centre of it all a core of peace so deep and so still that she felt she was drowning in it.

The guide moved slowly on but she hung back, reluctant to leave this strange, magical place. The dim temple had woven a spell about her, drawing her into another dimension where suffering was bearable because somehow it was mysteriously a part of the whole, shared and not borne alone. And the carvings on the walls, powerful as they were, seemed a part of herself that she had not known existed.

A light touch on her arm made her start. Brit: she had almost forgotten he was there. Now as she turned sharply she caught sight of his profile, as strong and craggy in the half-light as the carvings themselves.

Breath caught in her throat and a sharp thrill erupted like forked lightning from the deep sense of peace. For a split second, it seemed, it illuminated every part of her, giving a tantalising glimpse of the caverns of her mind just as the guide's torch had lit the corners of the temple. Then, as quickly, it was gone.

As if in a dream her feet obeyed the urging of his hand to follow him outside. When they emerged, the bright sunlight hurt her eyes, but there was none of the sense of loss she had expected. Instead, the peace seemed to accompany her and there was a dreamlike feeling about the greensward hills, swarming with tourists though they were, and the deep blue straits beneath, dotted with the bobbing sail-boats.

In silence they followed the well-worn path leading to the high point of the island – to have spoken too soon would have been sacrilege. Then Brit pointed across the expanse of water.

‘That's Bombay City you can see.'

‘Yes, I suppose it would be.' She still felt strangely unreal. He threw himself down on the turf, taking out his cigarette case and offering it to Elise.

‘Do you?'

‘No. Not really. But perhaps …'

Her hand hovered and she took one. He lit it for her, shielding the lighter flare from the slight warm breeze, and she almost coughed at the unfamiliar aromatic taste.

‘You can't get European cigarettes in Bombay. I should have brought more with me.' He drew deeply himself, not looking at her. ‘So what did you think of the Caves? Were they worth the trouble?'

‘They were fantastic' There were no words to describe what she had felt, and if there had been she would not have used them. It was too personal – and too deep an emotional experience to discuss casually.

He nodded but said nothing and she wondered if he felt the same.

The silence which at first had seemed an extension of the spell cast by the caves began to be less comfortable, though oddly Elise felt that Brit was almost unaware of it.

To combat her own awkwardness she asked, ‘If we sail tomorrow, how much longer will it be before we get home?'

He half closed his eyes, calculating.

‘Eight days to Calcutta, four or five to Rangoon, a couple more to Penang, then Singapore … oh, the best part of four weeks, I should think.'

‘That long?'

‘It's bound to be. One thing's very sure – you'll miss Chinese New Year.'

A wave of homesickness caught her unawares. Chinese New Year, when the children were given ‘ang pours' – the lucky money in its cheery red packets. Mandarin oranges were exchanged as symbols of love and happiness and almost every family had a traditional Peach Tree.

Each year since she had been in Hong Kong she had gone into the New Territories with Kathleen Trent, the wife of an engineer with a construction company, to buy a peach tree.

‘Once you have had one you must be sure to do the same every year – unless you want bad luck,' Kathleen – an expert on Chinese folklore and customs – had told her.

But unless Su Ming arranged it she didn't suppose there would be a Peach Tree this year. It would certainly never enter Gordon's head to get one. As for Kathleen, she and her children had left Hong Kong already for Australia – Gordon had told her so in one of his letters.

The homesickness opened a deep well in her and suddenly, without warning, she found herself linking it with the envy she had felt and been unable to identify, for Lola's close-knit group coccooned in their butterfly world.

She knew now why she had shivered when she had thought about it.
Her
world, the world to which she belonged, might no longer be there when she returned. She might find herself stranded like a timetraveller, cut off for ever from the trusted and the familiar, with her friends and her loved ones all gone.

The prospect was too appalling to be faced and she responded by turning away from it.

‘I ought to have bought some presents to make up for it – well, some things for Alex, at least. I've been away so long and I have so little for him. But I just couldn't get around to thinking of things like that in Cairo. All that mattered was getting the passage home, and anyway Cairo's not that wonderful for shopping.'

‘Bombay is,' he reminded her.

‘Yes, but I've been more or less confined to the hotel.'

He looked at his watch. ‘If you want to pay a visit to a bazaar, we can do it on our way back. We probably ought to be making a move, anyway.'

‘Oh, that would be marvellous! Do you have presents to buy, too?'

One corner of his mouth quirked. ‘No.'

‘You haven't any children?'

‘I'm not married.'

The colour was hot in her cheeks suddenly and she felt incredibly foolish. ‘Oh … I'm sorry …'

‘There is no need to be.' His tone was amused. ‘I've been waiting for the right woman.'

What drew her eyes to his she would never know, but all the same they moved, magnetised and held, and in that moment something sparked within her: the same sensation she had first experienced the night John Grimly had died and again in the dim cave temple.

Her breath caught, suspended in her lungs, and sharp-edged sweetness twisted deep within her. Everywhere the sweetness touched pain followed, as if a razor was drawing jagged gashes in the heart of her.

What did he mean? What was he saying? Her mind was racing, but for that brief moment as the charge leaped between them she almost believed there was some hidden meaning to his words. Then she saw the corner of his eyes begin to crinkle, allowing the amusement to creep in, and her cheeks turned hotter still. He was playing with her. Laughing at her – maybe laughing at himself too. Her pulses were hammering as loudly as drums in her ears, jumping wildly at her wrists and throat as she struggled for composure.

‘Ready, then?' He was stubbing out his cigarette; her own had not yet burned down, but she ground it out. The taste of it lingered on her tongue and she knew that it would always remind her of her confusion and embarrassment and the mystic quality of this island.

They went back down the hill; Brit striding easily, Elise half running as her high-heeled sandals threw her forward on the sloping turf. The heat of the afternoon had begun to shimmer in the air and dance on the water, but as the launch carried them back to Bombay the breeze cooled her cheeks and freshened her moist skin. Looking back across the widening expanse of water, she saw that Elephanta Island was wreathed with a crown of mist.

Briefly she glanced at Brit, seated beside her, and saw her own awe of the place reflected in the set of his face. She knew now why he returned here again and again – it would draw her back too, she felt, if ever she returned to Bombay. The timelessness and overwhelming sense of peace could put the whole of life into perspective – even if it also awakened sleeping emotions and dormant desires.

In Crawford Market, where the din of bleating goats, hawkers crying their wares, cotton-fluffers twanging their beatets and motor vehicles sounding their horns with gay abandon contrasted sharply with the peace of Elephanta Island, Elise bought an assortment of brightly painted wooden and terra-cotta toys for Alex and a pair of gilt sandals as a gift for Su Ming.

‘He'll love them. Thank you for bringing me,' she said to Brit.

‘That's OK. I was due for a day out myself.' He was steering her easily down the narrow alleys between the stalls where silversmiths and goldsmiths, copper-beaters and enamellers worked and sold their wares. ‘Why not have dinner with me tonight – unless you want to meet your friends, of course?'

‘No, that would be nice.' She had been wondering how she could handle the evening if Lola asked her to dine with her own party again.

They parted company in the lobby of the Taj and Elise went up to her room. After the draining heat outside it was cool and restful; in the sitting room, she relaxed in one of the green brocaded chairs before running a bath.

This, she decided, was the part of the day she liked best – to lie in the perfumed water with the foam bubbles forming a cushion behind her shoulders and moving in a lazy froth along the line of her legs, feeling the moist heat of Cairo melting from her skin; knowing that tomorrow there would be another sachet of bubble bath to replace the one she had used, along with the newly laundered towels and the small bowl of fresh flowers. There was something comforting about the luxurious sense of continuity.

Except that tomorrow she would not be here in Bombay. Tomorrow she would be on her way back to Hong Kong.

She got up abruptly, letting her hair fall onto her damp neck, and reached for a robe. Then, as she emerged from the bathroom she was startled to realise that someone was knocking on her door. Too late for afternoon tea, too early for the room boy to turn the beds down … and she hadn't yet rung for the maid to pack.

Fastening the robe around her still damp figure she crossed to the door and opened it. As the safety chain caught it, a quarter open, the scent of flowers wafted in and when she released it she was faced with a turbanned room boy, half hidden by an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed roses.