Under the Jeweled Sky (21 page)

“Your English is very good,” Sophie complimented her.

“I went to school in England,” the woman said.

“Really?” Dr. Schofield straightened himself, determined to appear suitably impressed, despite his exhaustion. Thank God, he thought. Thank God this place was as he was told. He couldn't have borne to put Sophie into one of those terrible places people talked about. He would have refused, and he had told his wife as much, vowing that he would not leave her anywhere if he thought it unsuitable. Veronica had screamed at him and had thrown a vase and told him that if he dared to come back with Sophie, she would leave. She would not suffer the humiliation of it.

Dr. Schofield felt a wave of tiredness as some of the tension seeped from him. With all his remaining strength, he somehow managed a smile for the woman who had shown them kindness today. “So, if you went to school in England, may I ask how on earth you ended up in a remote place like this?”

“My mother founded the mission years ago.”

“Your mother?” Dr. Schofield sat to attention slightly. “Miss Pinto is your mother?”

“Yes.” The woman smiled. “She had a love affair which she foolishly assumed would end in marriage, then discovered that she was expecting me. The man couldn't get away fast enough. He was British, of course, and already married to someone else. They always were in those days.” Sophie stared at her incredulously, taken aback by her openness. “Don't worry. It could have been a lot worse. At least he had the decency to give her a generous payout before deserting her, enough for her to buy herself a house and not to have to worry about putting food in my mouth. She found this place and bought it for next to nothing, then placed the rest of the money in trust. My mother turned out to be quite a whiz with her investments, and sometimes we receive donations.” She looked at Dr. Schofield with a sudden air of deference. “And your generosity was a gift from God.”

Dr. Schofield nodded in small acknowledgement. All this talk of saving for a rainy day, after the war and all; he had thought it a stupid expression. But he had saved anyway, regardless of the vagaries of life and death, and now had come the downpour. God knows he would have given it all, and more, to have made this go away, to have saved his daughter from this cruelty. But there was nothing more that he could do, and the money might at least go some way to salving his conscience.

Noticing Dr. Schofield's drifting expression, the woman brightened with a small clap of her hands. “Well!” she said. “We've never wanted for anything. Right now we have twelve women here, but that could change tomorrow. Some don't stay very long, others have been here for years, too afraid to leave.”

“Well, well.” Dr. Schofield looked up and admired the decaying old house, its battered state lending its faded pink grandeur a suitably feminine charm. “Who would have thought it?”

“Would you like to come and meet the family?”

Recovered from the heat, Sophie and Dr. Schofield followed the woman across the courtyard, through a door in the far corner that opened into a small, untidy office. She called hello, switching effortlessly to Hindi as she announced the arrivals, showing the pair of them into the cramped room where an elderly woman, plump and soft-figured, looked up from a pile of paperwork.

“Maa? This is Dr. Schofield and his daughter, Sophie.”

“Ah.” Miss Pinto stood up. “We meet at last.” She shook hands firmly with Dr. Schofield and offered Sophie a sympathetic smile. “Do take a seat.” She gave them a moment to settle themselves. “I see you have met my daughter, Pearl.”

“Yes,” they said.

“Can I offer you some tea?”

“Yes please,” said Dr. Schofield, and they entered into a ritual of small talk about the heat and dust. When the tea came, he could feel his hand shaking, the cup clattering lightly against its saucer.

“You mustn't worry,” Miss Pinto said. “Your daughter will be safe here with us, and when her time comes, we will take good care of her.”

Miss Pinto had never had to suffer the act of separation from her daughter. She was all she had left, this perfect child she had birthed into her own hands. The fear and pain had been unbearable, but to lose her child would have been beyond any suffering she could imagine. Alas, this was not the way it could be for the women who came here. Their babies would be taken from them, never to be seen again. For some of the girls, this was the way they wished it to be. Yet others would plead and cajole to no avail. The lucky babies would be adopted. The rest would be taken in by the many orphanages that mopped up the remnants of those who were either unwilling or unable to take responsibility for the lives they had created. But, above all, none would be killed, left outside to die of exposure or poisoned by their own mother's hand. It was the best Miss Pinto could offer, each child having to make what they could of the unfortunate life that had been bestowed upon them.

Dr. Schofield put his cup down on her desk. “And what about the infant?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Why he asked, he didn't know, but it had suddenly seemed so important. He knew it was too little and far too late. None of them had ever mentioned the word. Not his wife, not him, and not his daughter. She was to have a child, and all he could think of in that cramped office with the noisy, sluggish ceiling fan, all he could think of was the way he had been awash with love for her when she was born, this young woman who now sat beside him, a child growing inside her, a child she would never come to know. It tore him up, that she would have to bear this terrible thing, this thing that would leave an indelible mark on her for the rest of her years. He wondered if she would ever be able to put it behind her, to forget all this and get on with her life. He couldn't bear it. It was his worst nightmare, not that he had ever known it until it presented itself to him. She was supposed to have a happy future, this girl of his. He had pictured it so many times, imagining her grown up, finding her stride, discovering the joys of life, walking up the aisle on his arm one day. He had seen it all, dreaming of her in a place where all those wrongs that had been done to her had been put right, a place where she was safe and happy. But he had never seen this.

“The infant will be taken care of and placed with a good family.” Miss Pinto smiled at Sophie. “It is hard, I know, my dear, but it is for the best. In time, you will see that. You are young. You have your whole life ahead of you, and there will be other children.” Sophie nodded bravely, her lips held tightly together. “I promise.” Miss Pinto got up from her seat and came to comfort her. “You will recover from this, and your baby will have a good life.”

Dr. Schofield couldn't bring himself to look up from his cup. He didn't need to witness his daughter's expression to know that she was already in pieces. He could feel it as surely as he could feel the thin wafts of air from the rusting fan. He finished his tea in silence, not noticing that the suitcase had been taken.

“Now, Dr. Schofield, it is time for you to say good-bye to your daughter.”

Sophie felt her heart lurch. They had only just arrived. She had expected him to stay with her until she had prepared herself, at least for a few hours, so that she could come to the point of departure ready for the moment of separation. She looked at her father in desperation, wanting to shout,
Don't leave me here!

“I will give you some privacy for a moment, but don't take too long. It only makes it worse.” Miss Pinto left them in peace, closing the door quietly.

Dr. Schofield, a sad figure in his crumpled suit, stood from his seat and seemed to sag. He dipped his face toward the floor, raised his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

“It's all right, Daddy,” Sophie said. She felt unable to reach out and touch him, to squeeze his hand or press upon him one of their warm embraces. Instead she just stood there, ashamed. “I'll be all right. You mustn't worry about me.”

“Oh, Sophie.” He stepped forward and hugged her. “I'm so sorry, my darling.”

Sophie had never seen her father cry before.

The train pulled in almost six hours late. Dr. Schofield, weary from the journey, put his hat on and climbed down from the carriage. A boy rushed to his side, pulling at his bag. “Me carry! Me carry!” he shouted.

“
Chale
jao!
” Dr. Schofield brushed him off, clutching the bag to his chest. He had learned his lesson about street rascals long ago, brazen little louts who would run off and disappear into the crowds with anything they could carry. Pushing his way through the swarm of people, he exited the station to see Mr. Ripperton waiting beside one of the blue palace cars, driver at the wheel. The Maharaja must be back and expecting someone important to send the first ADC to greet them. Dr. Schofield turned and made his way to the area where the rickshaw
wallahs
gathered.

“George!” He halted at the call of his name. “George!” Mr. Ripperton raised a hand in greeting, threw his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out before marching over. “I thought you'd never get here.” They shook hands.

“Rip,” Dr. Schofield said. “What brings you here? Waiting on an esteemed guest?”

“Only you. Thought you might need a lift back to HQ. Can't be too careful at the moment. There's still a lot of saber-rattling going on. We had a stabbing on the estate on Monday. Nobody will say who did it, of course. Poor chap damn near lost a kidney.” The driver jumped out from behind the wheel and took Dr. Schofield's bag, placing it on the front seat before opening the back doors for the men. “How was your trip?”

“All right,” he said. “Dusty.”

“It's a fine thing young Sophie is doing there, going off to do her bit like that, particularly at a time like this. She'll have them all whipped into shape in no time. Did you get to look the place over?” The car pulled away, honking its way through the crowds.

“Yes, a bit.”

“I suppose they're all the same,” Rip said, adopting some of his passenger's fatigued manner. “Still, good for her to get out of the old mausoleum, I suppose. It can't be easy to be the only young bones in a place like that, although I have to say that poor Fiona is bereft, missing her like mad already.”

George stared out of the window, unable to concentrate on the patter of small talk that fell from Mr. Ripperton's mouth. It was part of his job, to impart polite conversation, keeping the Maharaja's guests entertained and attended to, and he was very good at it. All the way to the palace, his steady, melodious voice imparted useless snippets of information about matters in which Dr. Schofield had no interest. He would reply with a nod or a small yes or no, and that was all it took to maintain the flow. George wished that Rip hadn't bothered to collect him. He would have been just fine traveling solo and felt the need to be alone with his thoughts.

The prospect of dealing with his wife hung around his neck like a dead weight. All he wanted was something decent to eat, and his bed, yet before that he would no doubt have to go through the performance of allowing Veronica to remind him of just how useless a husband and father he had been. There would be no sidestepping it. She had had too much time to sit there scheming, building up a fine head of steam that she would unleash upon him the moment he got back, sparing him nothing, hurling every error she could trawl from her memory. He would utter no word of protest today. It would serve only to extend the misery of the encounter and he was too damn tired. There was only one way to deal with it: walk straight into it and get it over with quickly. A glass of whisky and a sleeping pill would probably help, either before or afterward. Perhaps he would have them before, to soften the assault.

After what seemed an eternity, they arrived at the palace, passing through the high gates, up the long showy driveway. The car pulled to a halt.

“Take the doctor's bag to his apartments, will you?” The driver saluted, Mr. Ripperton waiting until he had gone. “George, before you dash off, there's something you'd better know. Come and have a peg for a minute, would you?” Too tired to argue, George followed him through the blue courtyard.

Mrs. Ripperton stood at the open window in her parlor, looking out on to the fountain, newly planted with bright marigolds, a gin and tonic in her hand.

“George!” She had the door open for them before they had ascended the steps. She kissed his cheek and led them inside. “Oh George, do come in and sit down. You must be completely exhausted, you poor dear. Was there any trouble on the trains?”

“No,” he said. “Just running hours late and a whole lot of chaos as usual.”

A look passed between Mr. Ripperton and his wife. Mrs. Ripperton waited until both men had a whisky in hand before sitting with them.

“Oh George, I'm afraid we have some rather awful news,” she said. Dr. Schofield looked up, his face expressionless, as though there could be no news to touch him after what he had been through these last few days. “It's Veronica. Her mother has been taken ill. She was very upset about it.”

Bearing in mind his wife's foul mood when he had left her, Dr. Schofield understood the reason for the early warning. The last thing he needed right now was to walk into a situation even worse than the one he was already anticipating.

“I see,” he said. “Well, thanks for the advance notice. I'd better finish this on the double and go and see how she is.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Ripperton, glancing briefly at her husband. They had talked about it over supper last night, discussing how best to break the news. The business about the sick mother was a downright lie. No telegram had been delivered for Mrs. Schofield that day, nor any letter. If it had, it would have arrived at the ADC's office first, to be noted as received and sorted before being passed along with the rest of the day's post and wires. Veronica Schofield had barely waited a day before packing her bags and leaving.

Heaven only knew what had gone on in their apartments behind closed doors, and Fiona had ventured to her husband that she wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't had some kind of terrible row and she had upped and left for good. Everybody in that part of the palace had heard the commotion, the crashing and banging and shouting. It was none of their business, Rip had reminded her, and she was not to go interfering. They would give George the plain facts of her departure, then leave the poor man alone. “That's the thing, you see, George.” Fiona Ripperton girded herself with a good sip of her drink. “She's gone.” The glass in Dr. Schofield's hand halted midway to his mouth. Mrs. Ripperton gave him a rather pathetic smile. “Oh George, I'm so sorry.”

George Schofield sat in silence as though cast in bronze, a lifetime running through his head. The war had left a gaping chasm between him and his wife. Sophie had been just twelve years old when he left, a sweet girl, awkward and thin, uncomfortable in her own presence. He'd grown runner beans in his garden, and they'd had a cat named Pumpkin who liked to sleep in the vegetable patch. But then the war came, and by the time he got back, Sophie was seventeen. He had hardly recognized her, this lovely young woman who had come running through the door the moment she glimpsed him from behind the curtain where she had been waiting all day. She had greeted him with tears of joy. Sophie carried no resemblance to her mother at all, the wife who had become a burden to him, the years having worn him down to this pathetic shadow of a man, hell bent on keeping his family together, no matter the cost.

He sat and thought about his wife. There were times when he had wished her away, hoping that she might just pack up and leave one day, or, in darker moments, imagining her dead, seeing his figure mourning at her graveside, his daughter by his side. At least it would have been over then, this hell, the sinking feelings that filled him with dread as he neared the threshold of his own home, wherever that may be, like entering a vacuum where nothing could breathe. He would try to anticipate her mood, picking his way carefully through her neuroses. He didn't mind so much for himself. It was his daughter he worried about. That was why they had come here, to force open his wife's isolated existence into which she was pulling Sophie, sucking her down like a calf caught in quicksand. At least the beatings had stopped. Or that was what he had thought. It was the first time he had witnessed it first hand, the day he had broken the news about Sophie. Perhaps, had he not been so shocked, he would have acted more quickly to shield his daughter before his wife picked up the ashtray and hit her with it.

As a youngster, Sophie had never said a word about her mother's behavior, not once, and even when he had questioned her about her bumps and bruises, she had said that she had fallen over or banged her head by accident and he had chosen to believe her and told her to be more careful, because he couldn't bring himself to think that his wife was responsible for her injuries. All mothers disciplined their children. It was a necessary part of raising them. Whether he agreed with her methods seemed almost by the by, as he was not the one who was there to do it. Veronica should never have had children. She had never been able to cope with it. Even when Sophie was a baby, he had seen his wife staring down into the cot, looking on impassively while she cried, walking out of the room and closing the door on the wailing infant.

He had expected it to pass, the indifference, the complete absence of interest. It wasn't unknown for a new mother to feel overwhelmed at first, yet nothing had lifted her blackened mood, and she made it clear to him that there would be no more children. It was just as well, he had thought, as the years wore on and his wife hardened further. Even then, he hadn't realized the full extent of it, until one evening he came home to find his daughter hiding in the coat cupboard under the stairs. The sight of her had brought his heart to a stop, one side of her face coated with a thin veil of dried blood. Veronica had refused to speak to him. She wouldn't even tell him what the hell had happened. Sophie was just seven years old at the time.

He had told Veronica that if he ever found their child in that state again, he would have her committed. He would have her locked up with the rest of the wailing harpies who filled the asylums, and if she thought it an idle threat, she was very much mistaken. It would take just one other doctor, he had told her, and he'd be able to get a second signature in a flash. Veronica had heeded the warning, or so George had thought, for he never saw Sophie's blood on the floor again.

Fiona sipped from her gin and tonic and gave her husband a feeble smile. Dr. Schofield seemed to have drifted, his eyes fixed on the view across the courtyard, the pale stone wall split in two by shadow. All at once he put his glass to his lips and swallowed the whisky in one long, steady motion. He put it down on the table and tapped the side for a refill, his eyes set upon it. Mr. Ripperton fetched the bottle without a word and filled his friend's glass generously, pouring another for himself to keep him company.

Nobody spoke. There was nothing to say.