The Peacock Spring (32 page)

‘I thought I had,’ and Edward was filled with a desire to pour out to this woman of calm his sorry tale. But Hindus don’t tell their sins, he thought. ‘They wash them
away in the river.’

He must have said it aloud because Srimati Roy spoke. ‘It is a coincidence you said that. As soon as she saw the river from our alleyway, your little daughter did not wait, she went in to
bathe herself, before ever she came to the house. Ravi said she ran there. I asked her why; her answer was simple. She said, “To wash away the dirt.” She said more than she knew. Aie!
Why make dirt, Sir Edward?’

‘Don’t!’ Edward’s cry was sharp. ‘Srimati Roy, you are right. This is all my fault. These last twenty-four hours have opened my eyes – painfully.’

‘What pity it all is! She would have made a good wife for Ravi, but there is one valid objection. He is still a student for all his age. Aie! Ravi rajah! He is as irresponsible as one of
your cuckoos.’

‘Your daughter told me to intimidate him.’

She smiled. ‘Indira is still fierce.’

‘What would you have me do with him?’ asked Edward.

‘I am not concerned.’

‘He is your grandson.’

‘Still I am not concerned.’

‘Yet you call him Ravi beta, Ravi rajah.’

‘Old habit.’ But he had touched her. ‘If possible, Sir Edward, and you can make it possible, let him compete in this festival and read his poems. If he appears – and this
Lady Srinevesan they talk of will, I am sure, help you – all scandal, if there is scandal, will be hushed, especially if you are there. If Ravi wins, he will gain esteem, most importantly
from his father, put an end to their grieving and Ravi could go home.’

‘Sri Bhattacharya says he will not have him back.’

She smiled again. ‘He will,’ and she gave him the little nod of dismissal which in Indian society means the end of an interview.

Edward rose. ‘I will go and see how Jaiswal and Ravi are getting on.’

‘With the intimidation?’ But she was still unruffled. ‘Do that. Then my servant will take you to your Una.’

‘Go away,’ said Una.

Edward had scarcely recognized her; it was not only that she was wearing a sari, that her skin seemed transparent by contrast with the black hair, dyed lashes and brows, that she had grown even
thinner – she was ‘changed’, thought Edward, as if his Una had gone and this changeling come in her place. He had found her asleep, lying on a sleeping mat, laid on other reed
mats to give softness; a small clean white pillow was under her head, the floor around her strewn with neem leaves which, Edward knew, are cooling and refreshing. Beside her was a brass tray with a
covered jug and tumbler; khus-khus-woven-grass mats had been hung across the balcony to dim the room; they had been freshly sprayed with water and the river breeze blew through them; Edward could
hear the lapping of the river far below. No one, he saw, could have better care, yet she looked so small and white lying in the big room that, more strongly than ever, he felt the pang, the tug at
his heart Una so often gave him. ‘Una,’ he had called with utmost gentleness, but she must have been tense; she started in her sleep, sat up alarmed and, when she recognized him, it was
with horror. ‘Go away.’

‘Una, I have come to fetch you. Dear, I am not cross . . .’

‘But I am. I am – furious. I said “Please don’t try to find us”.’

‘I had to. Do you think I could let an Indian – or anyone – do this to you?’

‘He didn’t do it. We did it. Oh, Dads, go away.’

‘My dear, I can’t.’

‘Why?’ she demanded passionately. ‘Why can’t you? I helped you get what you wanted – Alix.’ She did not notice Edward’s wince. ‘Then why
won’t you help me to have Ravi?’

‘It isn’t as simple as that.’

‘It could be.’

‘Dear, it’s impossible.’

‘It can’t be impossible. It has happened. We are married.’

‘You are not.’

‘As much married as you and Alix. More – we are first lovers.’

‘I know, and I know how it hurts, but it can’t go on.’

‘Why? Why? Why?’

‘For one thing you are too young.’

‘Not now.’

‘Too young,’ repeated Edward, ‘and you come from worlds apart.’

‘In our world there are only two of us – us two, together.’

‘No world can be like that, and his parents would never consent, nor would I.’

‘We don’t need parents.’

‘But you need their consent.’

‘Why?’

‘Because without it you cannot stay together. That is the law. Una, be reasonable.’

‘Ravi is my reason.’

‘Ravi could be charged and sent to prison, perhaps for seven years.’

‘He is still my reason.’

‘You cannot see mine just now.’ Edward’s voice was filled with pity. ‘One day you will.’

‘No.’ That rang out as she sprang up from her mat. ‘I will never see.’

‘Ravi has.’

She was still. ‘What did you say?’

‘Ravi has seen sense. He has agreed to be put under surveillance by Colonel Jaiswal. the Chief of Police, who has come here with me. If Ravi stays under that surveillance, he will be
allowed to compete for this Tagore award. Then he is going home to his father and mother.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘And he has promised not to see you again.’

‘Not see me again? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Not ridiculous, but wise.’

‘Ravi would never consent to that.’

‘He has.’

‘I don’t believe it. I shall never believe it.’

‘Not if I bring him in front of you and you can hear him say it?’

‘He wouldn’t . . . if we were alone.’

‘You shall be alone.’

‘With you listening? He would know you were listening, you and your police, ready to pounce on him.’

‘No one will listen. Ravi will tell you himself.’

‘Ravi!’ Una was ready to run to him but the way he stood, as if unwillingly, and just inside the door, his face sullen, arrested her. ‘Ravi?’ she
whispered uncertainly.

‘Why did you have to send for me?’ said Ravi. ‘Couldn’t you take it from him?’

‘What – what have they done to you?’ It was still a whisper.

‘Una, you don’t understand. If I don’t do as they advise, this could send me to prison.’ Ravi’s eyes were wide with fear.

‘Then you must go to prison.’

‘For ten years!’

‘Edward said seven. I will be waiting for you when you come out,’ but Ravi did not seem touched by this promise.

‘What of my work?’

‘Poets write good poems in prison. Think of Oscar Wilde.’

‘Wilde was not a good poet, besides, in ten years—’

‘Seven.’

‘Even seven, we shall not be the same.’

‘I shall always be the same,’ but Ravi shook his head.

‘You think so now.’

‘
Think!
I
know
. Oh Ravi, Ravi – what
have
they done to you?’ and Una did run to him. ‘Ravi, hold me. Tell me this is a bad dream. Isn’t it?
Isn’t it?’ But Ravi did not hold her. He shuffled uneasily under her clinging.

‘The fact is, Una, we have to give in. They are too strong for us.’

‘Not if we go now. It was silly to come to Naniji, to your grandmother, near anyone who knows you. This room has a back staircase – I saw it when I went to the bathroom; it goes down
to the garden where there is a gate to the river. Before you could count twenty, we should be among the pilgrims; you can hear them bathing now. There are thousands of them. How could anyone ever
find us?’ She was pulling on her chappals. ‘I have a hundred-rupee note; I hid it in my bundle.’ She snatched the bundle up. ‘If we are quick . . .’ She stopped. Ravi
was still standing motionless by the door where he had come in. ‘You – are not coming?’

‘I can’t.’

‘You don’t want to come?’ Slowly she put down the bundle.

‘Want – not want – that is not the question. The fact is . . .’ When had Ravi spoken of facts? ‘The fact is I want to read my poems. I see now that is of paramount
importance.’

‘Paramount?’ She said it as if it were an outlandish word.

‘Yes. You yourself have told me so a dozen of times.’

‘That was – then.’

‘It still holds, and haven’t I,’ Ravi asked indignantly, ‘paid penalty enough?’

‘Penalty?’ Stupefied, all Una could do was repeat these high-sounding words.

‘It will be difficult enough to read the poems well, to do myself justice with these police fellows over me –
and
I have to go home, eat humblest pie to my father. Don’t
make it any worse for me, Una. I tell you, this is over.’

‘How can it be over when our baby . . .’

‘Chup!’ As Ravi used the peremptory Hindu word, he was across the room with his hand over her mouth. ‘Look, Una,’ – it was Ravi who whispered now as he took his
hand down – ‘As soon as you get home you must tell Miss Lamont – as soon as you are home. She will know what to do.’

‘Do?’ Una was still stupefied.

‘Yes. Don’t tell me,’ said Ravi, ‘that the same hasn’t happened to her.’

‘The
same
? To Alix?’ Una spoke as if he had uttered blasphemy. ‘To
Alix
?’

‘Yes. All such women have ways and Sir Edward need never know,’ but Una had turned her back, her face to the khus-khus; ever after, the smell of wet grass brought back this pain.

‘You said, “No one is going to touch my son.”’ It was barely a whisper, but it reached Ravi. ‘You said that.’

‘I was foolish. Colonel Jaiswal is kind – he and your father – and they have made me see I was foolish and bad.’

‘They made you see this as
bad
? And you let them! You let them!’ His silence answered Una, his hung head, and suddenly, ‘Get out of my sight,’ screamed Una.

‘My darling.’ Edward had come into the room, Walking on tiptoe as if I were ill, thought Una. Perhaps I am. She had been driven to the bathroom as soon as Ravi
went, doubled up with diarrhoea that afterwards left her weak and cold. Now she had rolled up the khus-khus and Edward found her standing on the balcony looking down at the river in the blinding
afternoon sun; Una’s eyes seemed blinded too, her face stupefied with shock. ‘Come, my darling,’ Edward would have put his arm round her but she drew away. ‘Don’t
touch me.’ She was stiff, rigid. ‘No one must touch me, ever again.’

‘Very well, but I must take you home.’

‘I have something to ask you.’

‘Ask, my darling.’

‘Edward, please leave me here with Naniji, with Srimati Roy.’

‘Here? In Varanasi?’

‘Please. I like it here – and she would have me. You have seen how I am looked after.’

‘Leave you here in a house that, in a way, belongs to the man who has wronged you!’

‘It wasn’t wrong – until you made it wrong; besides, I won’t see – him – again.’ She would not say Ravi’s name. ‘It’s Srimati
Roy’s house – not his. Leave me here for the summer.’

‘Varanasi, in the hot weather!’

‘Yes. If you would let me, Edward, I can bear this.’

‘Already you look a hollow-eyed little ghost.’

‘Only because of the journey. I find it – lovely – here.’

Edward had to admit he did too: the big almost empty rooms; the water reflections; even the pilgrim clamour from the river banks did not disturb the pervading calm. He remembered his own desire
to confide in Srimati Roy but, ‘We couldn’t trouble her,’ he said.

‘Nothing troubles her. That’s why I want to stay. I shouldn’t worry her, nor she me. You can give me a little money – a little would do. Please, Edward, please
understand.’ I cannot tell you the real reason, thought Una, but Edward, please.

‘I do understand. She is a wise serene person, but you are not thinking.’

‘I am,’ and she said aloud, ‘You don’t need me now. You have Alix.’

Edward flushed. ‘I have had to learn – painful things about Alix.’

‘From whom?’ Una said it with polite dullness; what did Alix matter now?

‘Some – inadvertently. Some from Alix herself.’

‘Poor Alix!’

‘Yes.’ Edward, too, leant over the balcony to look down at the river and said in a low voice, ‘You don’t know how ashamed I am.’

‘Of her?’

‘Of myself,’ and he said, ‘Yes, I can understand your reason for wanting to stay here.’

You don’t, said Una silently.

‘But apart from the other impossibilities, Ravi may well be kept here until you are safely back in England.’

‘I am to go back to England?’ It was as if Una had woken up.

‘Certainly – after this escapade.’

‘It isn’t an escapade,’ but – England. That might be possible – if no one guessed until it was too late. I could hide it and Crackers would help me. England . .
.

‘No more argument.’ Edward was suddenly as brisk as the Inspector General. ‘Come and say goodbye to Srimati Roy and thank her. We shall go back to Delhi in the embassy’s
plane, and you will fly to England tomorrow.’

‘It was then,’ said Una, ‘that the real uglinesses began.’

They did not go straight to the airport; instead, Una was smuggled in by a side door to Varanasi’s largest hotel, built well away from the crowded river bank. There, in a discreetly
emptied salon, the hairdresser – ‘who won’t talk,’ said Colonel Jaiswal, ‘We shall see to that,’ – was to try and take the dye out of her hair. ‘Does
he have to?’ she asked in despair. ‘I have such a headache and, Edward, I have diarrhoea.’

‘You must try and control it. If you can’t, you can be taken to the ladies’ room.’ Since leaving Srimati Roy’s house, Edward had grown oddly callous. ‘How can
I take you back to Delhi looking like this? If you won’t think of yourself,’ said Edward, ‘you might think of me.’

The hairdresser used a stripper. ‘But the hair is too fair,’ he said. ‘I must use a bleach too.’ He anointed and washed, anointed, rewashed, anointed – waited; the
bleach had to take effect. ‘I think she may faint,’ he said.

‘She mustn’t,’ said Edward in alarm. He brought cold water and they washed her face. He soaked his handkerchief in eau de Cologne and made her sniff it, then gave her brandy
and soda; to Una it tasted horrible and, though it helped the bowel pains, made her head throb unbearably under the dryer. ‘Could I have some ice?’ She meant ice cubes, but they brought
her ice cream. ‘Ough!’ said Una.