Thursday's Child (14 page)

When at last Ajit was dismissed, Ram Singh's anger had evaporated and only a distinct coolness showed that his son was not yet restored to parental favour.

Mrs Singh was summoned to her husband's room and informed of the marriage. She looked suitably surprised,
murmured that Ajit was a sensible boy and that his father should be complimented upon his wisdom in not being too hard on him, at which Ram Singh cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.

‘May I give daughter-in-law a wedding present? And may I tell sisters-in-laws about the marriage?'

‘No,' roared Ram Singh, so that Mrs Singh jumped.

‘No present?'

Ram Singh shook his head irritably, and dismissed the present with a wave of his hand: ‘You can give a present if you wish – but on no account is anybody to be told about this misalliance. Nobody must know of it – it will cause trouble enough without people speculating about it now. I shall speak to Bhim about it, after which the matter will not be mentioned either in my presence or in my absence.'

‘Ji, hun,' said Mrs Singh.

‘I have only agreed to it, because I do not want my son to go away to England again and perhaps never come back.'

‘Ji, hun,' said Mrs Singh, rising to her feet.

‘I don't know what the younger generation is coming to – defying their parents as they do.'

‘Ji,' said Mrs Singh as she moved towards the door. ‘Would you like some more aspirins?'

‘No,' snapped Ram Singh, and added as an afterthought: ‘One sari will be sufficient present.'

‘Ji, hun,' said Mrs Singh.

In spite of the silence imposed by Ram Singh upon his family with regard to Ajit's marriage, there was an undercurrent of sly whispers amongst the ladies present at the tea party. When Mrs Singh approached a group, the conversation ceased or the subject was changed.

Ajit also felt that his private affairs were the subject of gossip, so he sought the company of Shushila and the other
children playing in the courtyard, and left the entertaining of the younger men to Bhim.

It is likely, he thought, that Bimla has heard of father's negotiations with Kasher Chand Rana and has confided her hopes to her girl friends, and it has caused some speculative gossip. In any case, it was well known that the two mothers had been friends in their youth and had declared that their children should marry each other. He had felt all eyes upon him when he made his bow to Bimla, who was gorgeously dressed for the occasion. Her jade-green shirt and trousers were silk and the matching veil was embroidered in gold. She turned languorous, brown eyes upon him and her voice was unusually soft, but Ajit felt cold at the idea of marrying her, and he excused himself and left her to his cousins, who were happy to take his place and flutter round her with tea and sweetmeats. Moths round the candle, thought Ajit.

The tea party was soon forgotten by Ajit as a minor unpleasant experience, in the rush of visits he had to make to old friends. He spent a considerable time playing with Shushila and in talking to his mother; his father avoided him as much as possible.

On the morning after the tea party, he accompanied his mother to the bazaar. She could easily have asked merchants to bring goods to the house for her to see, but Mrs Singh preferred to go to the bazaar herself. She was still near enough to her days in purdah to feel an exhilarating freedom in walking in public, and a certain wickedness in having her face unveiled and her head uncovered.

She and Ajit wandered in and out of sari shops together. Mrs Singh made several purchases of pieces of cloth for blouses. She bought no saris, however, and Ajit remarked on this as she usually bought sari and blouse piece together.

She said with a smile that she had plenty of saris.

When they returned home they washed the dust off their feet and Mrs Singh asked Ajit to carry her purchases to her room. He did so, and laid them carefully on a side table.

Mrs Singh took her keys from her waist, unlocked the storeroom which led off her bedroom, and vanished inside. Ajit sat down and switched on the fan. He was
daydreaming when his mother came back loaded with multicoloured silks.

Taking a pale-blue blouse piece from amongst those she had just bought, she lifted from the pile of silk a length of almost exactly matching colour, ornamented at one end with silver embroidery.

‘One,' she muttered, her forehead lined, as she peered at the colours to make sure they matched.

She did the same with a length of red silk, heavily patterned with geometrical designs in yellow and green, and then she added a third of yellow with a border of brown flowers and touches of gold embroidery.

‘Help me to fold them up,' she commanded.

Ajit did so, and she lifted the neat pile and put it into his arms.

‘For my daughter-in-law,' she said.

A lump rose in Ajit's throat as he received the first wedding present from his family. Eleven saris might have been expected as the usual gift; but, as his wife was not being recognised by his family, his mother was obviously giving from her own wardrobe three of the best saris she had.

She turned to lock up the storeroom, placidly chatting at the same time about the fashion in which Peggie should wear the garments; and Ajit was filled with gratitude towards his simple, but astute, mother, who had not once upbraided him but had heaped kindness upon kindness.

He put down the saris and, with a sharp movement, went to her, and bowed to touch her feet. She lifted him and smiled and patted him.

‘My son,' was all she said, but it expressed all her devotion and all her desire for the real happiness of her child. However much she feared for him in his strange adventure, she was doing her best not to make it harder for him than it already was.

‘Mother,' he said, ‘Peggie will honour you, and I think she will always remember that her Indian mother was sympathetic towards her when she was new to this country.'

The bedroom door creaked, and they both jumped.

‘Respected Mother,' said a silken voice, and Nulini slid
into the room, ‘if you are agreeable, I will call on Bimla this afternoon.'

Mrs Singh hooked her key holder back on to the waistband of her petticoat, and said: ‘Yes, go. Take Ayah with you – Shushi can go too, if she has done her lessons.'

Nulini was dismissed, but she lingered, leaning against the door, her sari swaying in the draught. Ajit, who had stood silently behind his mother, noted her daringly short blouse, which hardly covered the generous curve of her breast and left her waist naked. He wondered that his mother did not demand that she should wear longer blouses – perhaps she hoped that Nulini's modern dress would attract Bhim to her. In any case, there was no one else in the house who could be enchanted by a slim, bare waistline. She rarely met any men from outside the family and was invariably chaperoned wherever she went – it was doubtful if she had at any time been alone with a man other than her husband. His thoughts rambled on: ‘I suppose Mother is wise in not criticising her and spoiling the affection which seems to have grown up between them – Nulini probably realises that she is lucky to have as much freedom as she has and that she owes it to Mother's understanding of her.'

‘What a fine blue silk you have there, Mother. I have not seen it before – it would look well on you,' remarked Nulini, eyeing the sari covetously.

Mrs Singh looked guilty and said: ‘Yes, I have not worn it for years. Now go on your visit,' and she turned away to open the window.

Behind his mother's back, Nulini made a little moue with her mouth at Ajit, and then went out as quietly as she had come, leaving Ajit thoroughly shocked. Sisters-in-law, he wrote to me indignantly, should hardly look at their brothers-in-law, and in many houses they still covered their faces at the approach of their husband's brothers.

Mrs Singh sighed. ‘Perhaps Paickie will also be a good friend to Nulini – and to Bimla. Bimla has a great capacity for friendship.' She sat down on a mattress and tucked her legs under her slowly, as if they ached.

Ajit knew perfectly well what his mother was thinking
about, and said: ‘I am sorry about Bimla, Mother.'

‘Arree, don't worry about her – she is not in love with you.'

Ajit laughed, and picked up the saris.

‘Shall I bring you some cool water to drink?' he asked.

She nodded assent.

He brought the water for her, and found her gazing abstractedly into her mirror. She put down the mirror and took the glass from him.

‘Your children will be very fair, Ajit?' she asked.

‘They will be as fair as the women of Peshawar.'

‘Indeed? Ramji, that is very fair – and lovely.'

Ajit smiled and left her. He went to his room, and sat down to write to me.

Nulini, escorted by a grumbling Ayah and a jubilant Shushila, went to call upon her friend and confidante, Bimla Chand Rana.

Bimla found Shushila some coloured shells with which to play, and sent Mrs Singh's Ayah to join her own Ayah in the shade of a nearby mango tree, then she sat down with her friend on the swing which hung from the veranda roof.

‘And how are things with you?' asked Bimla, tossing back her long plaits. Nulini seemed to be more on edge than usual.

‘I am so bored,' said Nulini, pulling irritably at the cushion under her.

‘Why? You have a good young husband.'

‘Hmm,' sniffed Nulini, ‘I have told you many times that I might just as well be single. I wish I was back in my father's house.'

‘You should say to Bhim that he must take you out – he is modern – why, you could even dance together, as long as Singh Sahib never found out.'

‘How can I tell these matters to a husband I hardly ever see alone? He never comes to my room – anyway, Shushila shares it with me – and he has asked that I should not go to his room unless he sends for me, as it interrupts his studies. Studies! Books!' She almost spat out the last word.

‘He will be a great man one day.'

‘A great man? And what am I to do in the meantime, pray? So rarely he sends for me and when he does he has an abstracted air, as if he is thinking of something else. He gives me money and tells me to buy myself something pretty. I do not care about money – it will not buy me a son.'

She looked down at her flat stomach and tears came into her eyes. Her voice was bitter as she said: ‘Singh Sahib should not have insisted upon his marrying yet – he does not want to be bothered with a wife or children. I could have been enjoying myself, dancing at the club at home or playing bridge – instead, I waste away sitting on the veranda and knitting.'

Bimla put her arm round Nulini. ‘If I were you, I would make him take an interest in me,' she said stoutly.

‘You are different – you are not afraid of anybody.'

‘Just wait until I come to the house – I will change all this – Ajit will eat out of my hand. Together, we will make the brothers less stuffy.'

‘Arree, Bimla, troubled with my own woes, I forgot,' and Nulini caught her friend's hand. ‘Such an uproar there is over Ajit.'

‘Why, what has happened?'

‘He has married an English woman.'

Bimla was off the swing in a flash, her face contorted with dismay.

‘You lie!'

‘I do not. It is true.'

Rage enveloped Bimla. She grasped Nulini's wrist.

‘How do you know?' she hissed.

‘Let go, Bimla, you are hurting me.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I was told.'

‘By whom?'

Nulini twisted away from Bimla, and shrank into a corner of the swing.

‘I will not tell you.'

‘Have you been trying to win Ajit – and he has told you this to get rid of you?'

‘No, no, Bimla,' said Nulini indignantly, as she rubbed her wrist.

‘Did Mrs Singh tell you?'

‘No.'

‘Then how do you know and how do you know it to be true?'

Nulini blenched. ‘Someone whose word I can trust told me.'

Bimla's rage left her as quickly as it had come and curiosity mixed with vague suspicions took its place. A small flickering fear for her friend warned her not to press her further. She asked no further questions and accepted Nulini's word that she had spoken the truth.

‘Put an English woman in my place,' she muttered. ‘How can I face my friends in such a situation – the humiliation of it. Father must demand that Ajit put her away – why, everybody knows he is going to marry me – the humiliation!' And she burst into tears.

When I received from Ajit the letter in which he told me of the agreement reached with his father, I felt as humiliated as Bimla Chand Rana must have done when she found she had been superseded by me. I was most indignant at having to serve an apprenticeship before Ajit's parents would acknowledge my existence, and it was two or three days before calmer feelings prevailed and I thought comfortably that I should be living six hundred miles from them, so recognition did not amount to much. I could not know then what a comfort it was to be part of a tightly woven family in a country where any other protection from disaster was negligible.

On my next free day, the spring weather tempted me to pay a surprise visit to Angela, and I caught the mid-morning train down to Pentecost.

When I arrived at the farm, I was met at the door by the farmer's wife. Miss Delaney, she said with a faint air of disapproval, had gone for a walk with a Chinese
gentleman, who was staying at the George and Crown. I assured her that Dr Wu was an old friend of ours, and her disapproval melted into curiosity. ‘He's the first Chinese I ever saw,' she said. ‘Is he living here for always? Would you like some lunch?'

I accepted the offer of lunch with alacrity and sat in the kitchen while she prepared the meal. As she beat eggs and peeled potatoes, I entertained her by telling her about the people who came from all over the world to study at Wetherport.

There was a peal of laughter from the direction of the front door, which was open.

‘That'll be your sister.'

I nodded and walked down the hall to the front door.

Angela was sitting on a garden seat, and Dr Wu was doing an excellent imitation of Dr Gantry in a bad temper. I laughed and ran to Angela.

‘Pegs,' cried Angela, flinging her arms around me in unusual exuberance, ‘see who is also staying here.'

‘Yes, dear,' I said. ‘Dr Wu, I am really glad you decided to take a holiday.'

Dr Wu bowed. ‘My holiday has been embellished by Miss Delaney's company. We met in the lane only yesterday.'

Wu smiled and walked on into the house, to give us time for a word together.

‘Has Wu told you what has happened to him?'

‘No.'

I told her what I had learned at the club and from him personally.

Angela stood stock still.

‘I would never have guessed at such a tragedy,' she said. ‘He has been so cheerful – what misery must be inside him? Poor man! All his dreams and beliefs lost …' She scuffed on the path with her shoe. ‘Thanks for telling me.'

The farmer's wife came to the door: ‘Lunch, Miss,' she called.

I slipped my arm into Angela's and we went together into the house.

At half past eight that night I put the key into the lock of our front door and turned it wearily. Entering, I flung my hat on to the hallstand as I had done ever since my school days. Mother called: ‘Hullo, is that you, dear?' as she always did, and I was grateful for the routine sanity of it.

‘Hullo, Mum,' I called. I was very tired and I wanted Ajit. The world had been a topsy-turvy place during the past month. There had been the hurried preparations for my marriage, then the exquisite peace of my honeymoon, to be followed by the rushing back and forth for passports, permits, passages and all the impedimenta of travel, the uncertainty about Ajit, the finishing up of my work at the club. It all added up to an enormous expenditure of nervous energy.

I went into the kitchen, sat down thankfully on a primrose-yellow chair, and rested in the gentle stream of Mother's inconsequential chatter.

Three weeks later I abandoned the safe refuge of our old, Victorian house, and the parents who had, if anything, sheltered me too much from the rigours of life, and embarked for India.

It was then I discovered that the pain of departure is a real pain, a physical racking as if part of one is being torn away. As the three beloved figures waving from the dockside grew smaller and smaller and the tugs moved the great ship out into midstream, even the thought of Ajit's waiting for me could not ease the cruel wrench, and I clung to the ship's rail feeling that I would collapse if I let go.

During the upheavals of the war, I had been blessed by being allowed to stay at home, and the fact that my present banishment was self-imposed did not make the leaving less painful. Until the night came down and there was nothing to be seen except the foam falling away from the ship's bows, I stood in anguish by the rail; and then a kindly stewardess came to inquire if I was Mrs Singh, and when I said I was, she said she had put in my cabin a bouquet of flowers sent by a Dr Wu.

I went downstairs. A bouquet of daffodils lay on the
dressing-table in my cabin and attached to it was a note. I opened it and read:

‘Deep is the water in the Peach-blossom spring,

Deeper still is our hearts' feeling

When good friends are leaving.'

    Best wishes for your happiness.

It was signed simply ‘Wu', the name by which he had always been known to me.