The Peacock Spring (24 page)

She and Edward had found Hal ‘blooming’, as Edward wrote to Alix.

Yes, like a flower, prettier than ever and not changed too much. She loves the nuns and the nuns love her. The Paralampurs are coming up so she may, after all, see Vikram, but under
impeccable circumstances.

Hal had been allowed to come out of school and stay the night with Edward and Una.

She can’t do that with Paralampur; it is only allowed with parents,
but, for this short while, Una and Hal were back in their old camaraderie. Una was longing to talk to someone of
her bubbling excitement, and who as safe and loyal as Hal?

‘Not sick again!’

‘Naturally.’

Back from Fatehpur Sikri, Una, sitting cross-legged like the old Muslim in Salim’s tomb, but on her bed, had tried to calculate: ‘If only I were tidy-minded, and marked my diary as
some girls do,’ she reproached herself, ‘or kept a journal like Hal. I wasn’t swimming the day the American pool opened and Mrs Porter told me about Alix. Yes, I am a fortnight
late,’ she calculated. ‘A fortnight is nothing. But you are unpredictable,’ she told herself, ‘you have always been – after Ravi you could expect your rhythms to be
upset,’ and, ‘You are feeling so limp because you are on the verge of having a period,’ Una tried to tell Una, yet again had come that quiver and she had lifted her pyjama jacket,
looked at her breasts and was sure they were bigger. I am altered all over, she thought. But – could this have happened as quickly? Yes, she had heard of girls – women, she corrected
– who, after the very first time . . . It could be, Una decided. Could . . . If only there were someone, anyone experienced I could ask; immediately she thought of Hem, but she would not see
Hem for perhaps another ten days – in her impatience that seemed interminable. Then, in Darjeeling, every morning had come that daily retching. ‘What do you mean –
“naturally”?’ asked Hal.

‘I am going to have a baby,’ Una said firmly.

‘A b . . . !’ Hal could say no more; for the first time in Hal’s life, Una saw all colour drained away from her face; her kitten eyes were wide with terror, her mouth dropped
open. Then, ‘You – can’t – mean – it,’ whispered Hal.

‘I do.’

‘It isn’t possible.’

‘Why not? I am the same as other girls.’

‘But . . . you don’t know anybody. No one has ever even looked at you.’

‘That’s what you think. It may surprise you to know that while you were hero-worshipping Vikram Singh, I have had a lover.’

‘But . . . you
couldn’t
have.’

‘I ought to know.’

‘Holy Smoke!’ said Hal. She looked at her sister with, Una noticed, a new respect. ‘Who is it? Una, who? Who could it be?’

‘Never you mind,’ said Una. ‘I’m not going to tell you now, but everything is . . . different.’

It was. Different again. Quite, quite different, thought Una, from those days of dreaming in the garden. These snows, this little town of Darjeeling, often above the clouds, with its merry
Tibetan-faced people, its ghosts of British India shown in the hundreds of red-roofed villas where the English in power had always spent the hot weather, the Mall, the Club, old Government House,
all, for Una, faded into insignificance beside the spell of this that had been placed inside her – Ravi’s child.

‘But – what are you going to do?’ asked Hal.

‘Wait. That’s what all mothers have to do.’ She, Una, a mother!

‘They will never let you,’ said Hal. ‘Golly! Wait till they find out!’

‘They won’t have to. I shall tell them by and by.’

‘But as soon as Edward and Alix are married, they will want you out of the way, probably send you back to Cerne. Holy Smoke!’ said Hal again. ‘This
will
be a surprise
for Crackers.’

At the mention of Mrs Carrington, Una came out of her spell; she was a schoolgirl again, only fifteen, ‘And far too sensible, well-informed and controlled to get into any sort of
trouble,’ as Mrs Carrington would have said. Then . . . trouble? This isn’t trouble, objected Una. It’s joy, and deliberately she pushed all thought of Mrs Carrington away –
Mrs Carrington, Edward, Alix, Aunt Freddie, everyone; theirs was another world.

‘You must be afraid,’ said Hal.

‘Of course, but happy afraid.’

‘Will he – the man – help you?’

‘I’m sure he will. I can’t wait to tell him.’

‘But . . . are you sure? Oh Una, what will happen to you if he – your he – doesn’t help? Where will you go? Who will take care of you?’

‘Darling Hal. He will.’

‘I spent and spent,’ said Alix. ‘I had an orgy.’

Alix had arrived back at Shiraz Road two days after Edward and Una, but Edward was submerged with work, getting things in order for the conference reconvening. ‘Once I am ready, we should
be able to have twenty-four hours’ peace.’ Una had been sent to stay with Lady Srinevesan and though Alix, newly chic and polished, had fetched her, the house was so alive with servants
and preparations Una had no chance to go to Ravi.

‘You had a good time?’

‘Gorgeous.’

‘Did you manage to settle your mother?’

‘Yes, thank God – with the nuns, in a lovely house in Naini Tal. Think, Una, I shall be able to give her anything she wants.’

‘Including United Nations Scotch,’ but Una forbore to say it. What did it matter now? Edward had seen to it that Dino had found work, ‘in the Italian Embassy, promotion for
him’, and it all seemed best forgotten. Alix had brought Una a Guerlain scent spray; a month ago Una would have put the spray straight back on Alix’s dressing table; now she shrugged
and let it stand on hers. It too did not matter. Nothing mattered until, late that night, she had been able to run down the dark garden to Ravi as if she had never been away.

In the house, Edward was probably enjoying ‘his Alix’ – that was the term they used, ‘My lord pleasured me,’ but ‘Ought I to touch you now?’ asked
Ravi.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Una. ‘I don’t know.’ She and Ravi, stopped abruptly on the brink, looked at one another in dismay. Then, ‘Better not,’ said Ravi and
turned away, but he could not help being cross.

Ravi, though, had accepted the idea of the baby as he would have accepted the seed of a poem – it had come. ‘But I wish we really knew. I am almost sure,’ said Una, ‘but
if we knew for certain . . .’

‘If you can stay here alone for a while, I can get Hem.’

‘At this hour?’

‘He won’t mind. In any case, he will be studying. This is one more study. He will come.’

‘Dear Hem. He is like our brother,’ but when Hem came he was far from brotherly.

‘How dare you come to me? I am only a student. Una can go to her own doctor.’

‘I couldn’t.’ At the thought of Doctor Gottlieb, Una recoiled.

‘Then Ravi can damn well find one.’

‘Hem, Hem,’ and now Ravi did call him brother. ‘Bhai, who else can I turn to? You have always helped me – always. Think how easy it is for you to have a test made at the
medical school. There it is an everyday affair. If we use another name, no one will question – while for us it is life and death,’ said dramatic Ravi. ‘You cannot be so
ungenerous. If we don’t know, how can I help Una?’ At that Hem made a movement – whether to go or stay Una did not know – but Ravi had his arm round Hem’s shoulder.
‘Look, Una, I will leave you with Hem. He will tell you what you have to do.’

Next night Hem came back and flung the report slip on Ravi’s desk. ‘You would think neither of you had ever heard of sensible things to do.’ Hem was in a
towering rage.

‘It is our first love,’ Ravi pleaded and, getting angry too, ‘Sensible!’ said Ravi in disgust. ‘This is holy thing,’ and he quoted, ‘“The woman is
the fire; her womb is the fuel; the invitation of the man is the smoke; the door is the flame; the entering is the ember; the pleasure the spark . . .”’

‘Yes,’ whispered Una.

‘“In the fire,”’ Ravi went on, ‘“the gods find the offering; from the offering springs the child.” That is the Upanishads,’ he said proudly.

‘Maybe,’ said Hem. ‘It is also everyday, and the truth is that neither of you gave a thought to the consequences.’

‘We thought you would help – and be glad.’

‘Glad! Think of the trouble this will cause.’ Always that word ‘trouble’ – ‘get into trouble’. It was as if a cold premonition had touched the baby.

‘Why should there be any trouble?’ asked Ravi. ‘It is only a little more than two weeks to the prize-giving. Then everyone will know openly of Una and me.’

‘And of this?’

‘Why not?’

‘So all can rejoice?’

‘Why not?’

‘Every reason. Really, you are impossibly silly,’ said Hem. ‘Ravi, think of your parents. To them this will be ab-ys-mal disgrace.’ In his agitation Hem split the
syllables, which seemed to make them more grave. ‘Disgrace with any girl, let alone an English one of whatever position. And you,’ Hem turned to Una, ‘do you think Sir Edward will
let his daughter have a child by an Indian – a servant?’

‘Ravi is not a servant.’

‘He certainly is.’

‘How can Edward prevent it?’

‘Think!’ Hem was short and Una looked at him aghast.

‘Edward would never—’

‘Wouldn’t he? To him you are still a child.’ Hem’s anger had gone; all at once he seemed afraid. ‘Ravi, Una, go in the morning to Sir Edward and tell him
everything.’

‘Before Ravi’s poems win?’

‘Yes.’

‘No,’ said Ravi and walked up and down the hut, keeping away from Hem. ‘It would spoil everything.’

‘It . . . it would take away the . . . piquancy.’ Una felt she had found the right word.

‘Isn’t this more important?’ Hem was still immovable.

‘It can all be fitted in.’ Una sounded uncertain, then made up her mind. ‘We mustn’t tell him.’

‘And how long before the Lamont will guess?’ asked Hem.

‘Alix! I hadn’t thought of her.’

‘Then you had better. She could guess now. You say you have morning sickness and soon, physically, you will alter. It may already be five weeks.’

‘But . . . they couldn’t do anything.’ Una still clung to her spell.

‘Wake up.’ He was rough.

‘But how could they?’

‘With a doctor, of course. Wake up,’ said Hem again. ‘You are living in the twentieth century. This could be terminated in a few minutes – for many girls in their lunch
hour, but for you, I can guess it would be a hush-hush nursing home.’

‘Don’t.’ Una wanted to put her hands over her ears. ‘Don’t! You are brutal, Hem. Brutal.’

‘If it is brutal to speak the truth, then I am brutal.’

‘Ravi! Ravi!’

Ravi came to her and put his arm round her. ‘No one,’ he told Hem grandly, ‘is going to touch my son.’

‘Then you had better protect him.’

The grandeur faded. ‘How?’

‘Take Una away – and quickly.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s your affair. I can only tell you,’ and Hem stood stiffly as if he were a soldier, though he spoke in medical terms, ‘there is conception – the test is
positive and, even at this early stage . . .’

‘It means “Yes”,’ said Una in ecstasy.

‘It can be terminated, probably safely,’ said Hem, ‘up to twenty, perhaps twenty-six weeks. After that, I doubt if Sir Edward would risk it. So, if you want this child . .
.’

‘Of course we do.’

‘The next four months, about, is your dangerous time.’

‘Then . . . for four months we should have to hide.’ Ravi’s dismay was evident.

‘
She
would have to hide. You could take her somewhere and come back for the Tagore Prize. You needn’t be afraid of coming back,’ Hem said contemptuously. ‘Who
would connect a poet genius with a tomfool gardener’s boy?’

Edward and Alix were to be married next day. ‘What will he get that he hasn’t had before?’ asked irreverent Ravi.

‘To be fair, a wife. That’s what he longs to make her, so . . .’ Una shrugged. ‘They will only have one night away. Edward must be back on Friday for the opening of the
conference; it assembles on Saturday.’

‘Saturday is a holiday. It is Baisakhi.’

‘Not for them. They assemble, then resume their talks next week.’

‘So we shall have twenty-four hours,’ said Ravi.

‘For what?’ asked Hem.

‘To do what you said. Take Una away, to a safe place.’

‘And you think they won’t find you?’

‘I think not.’ Ravi was as cocksure as Hem was contemptuous.

‘Where are Edward and Alix going?’ Vikram, who had suddenly appeared in the drawing room at Shiraz Road, asked Una that.

‘I think to the rest house of the bird reserve at Sultanpur.’

‘But . . . it is the close season on all the jheels – swamps – no shooting.’ Vikram was astonished.

‘Edward likes to watch birds, not shoot them.’

‘Think of the Lamont spending her honeymoon looking at birds through binoculars! Sir Edward will probably have her up at dawn! Poor Alix! I should have thought she would have wanted the
Princes’ Suite in the Lake Palace at Udaipur, and flown there in the blowfly,’ which was the nickname of the embassy’s private plane.

There was something so bitter in Vikram’s mocking that Una stared. He got up, went to a window and stood with his back to her.

‘Why have you come here?’ asked Una.

‘Foolishly – to have a last look. Talking of shooting . . .’ the mockery broke, ‘I could shoot your father.’

‘Because he won?’

‘He didn’t win. It won – or rather, they won.’ She was surprised at his passion. ‘Tell me, Una – why is it so important for me to make little pure-bred Rajput
Paralampurs?’

‘It isn’t.’

‘My father thinks so, but Una . . . I know Alix,’ said Vikram as if the words were pulled out of him. ‘I know her through and through. I know what she is, what she does, all
the lies and disgraces. She needn’t pretend with me but when Sir Edward finds out, as he must – then what?’ demanded Vikram. ‘He is besotted with her but I . . . I love
her.’

Una had not thought she could hear Vikram speak so humbly and truthfully, serious truth. The slim shoulders moved as he kept his back to her; she knew he was in tears, And I thought he was just
an arrogant playboy, thought Una.

‘But if you love her, then why?’ she asked.