Belonging (5 page)

Simon was right: I did like Jagjit from the start, despite my resolution not to. He was tall – as tall as Simon was small – and very thin, with fuzzy black down growing in odd tufts on his cheeks and under his chin. His high-bridged nose looked too big for his face, and his mouth tilted up on one side when he smiled, forming a dimple in one cheek.

His hand engulfed mine as he looked into my eyes with his earnest dark brown ones. ‘Hello, Lila, I’m Jagjit. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Simon says you grew up in India, so we already have something in common.’

Ever since I had arrived in England I had noticed how different people were. Their eyes never held yours but were always shifting about, as though they were afraid of letting you see who they really were. And no one ever seemed to say what they really meant. But Jagjit’s brown eyes settled on me with liking, his voice warmed when he spoke to me, his lopsided smile did not seem to find me wanting. For the first time since I arrived in England I regretted my decision not to speak.

What was it about Jagjit that disarmed everyone who met him? The servants took to him at once, and even the villagers, who were usually suspicious of strangers and still looked at me out of the corners of their eyes, liked him and invited him to
play in their Sunday cricket matches. Everyone, that is, except Aunt Mina. She was polite, of course, but she never met his gaze and never spoke to him unless he addressed her first. Thinking about it now, I realise that she must have seen Jagjit as a threat to her efforts to banish my memories of India and turn me into an ordinary English girl. But, perhaps because he was the Beauchamps’ house guest, she tolerated him.

Although Jagjit was a year older than Simon and almost two years older than me, he did not seem to find us dull, as I had feared he would. The two of them helped with the Christmas decorations at High Elms. Being tall, Jagjit could reach places we could not, so he hung the ivy from the tops of doorways and pictures, and placed the decorations high up on the Christmas tree, while Simon and I did the banisters, the mantel shelves and the lower branches. Jagjit liked Christmas because he said the preparations and smell of cooking reminded him of the festivals they celebrated at home.

And it was true that it did feel special. The smell of spices and dried fruit filled the house and as Christmas came closer even the servants seemed excited. I heard Cook say to Ellen, ‘It’s like old times, with a child in the house. Such a pity the poor little thing is dumb.’

‘She’s peculiar if you ask me,’ Ellen said, and giggled. ‘And no wonder. I heard the mistress tell that Mrs. B. that her father topped hisself and her mam was doolally.’

I had no idea what ‘doolally’ meant, but I could guess. So Aunt Mina did know what had really happened. No wonder the people in the village thought I was queer.

On Christmas Eve we went to church for midnight mass. Jagjit came too. Usually he stayed behind at Simon’s while we were at church, but he said he was curious. At school
assembly, he told me, before prayers began, the headmaster would give the order: ‘Jews, Hindus and Muslims fall out,’ and all non-Christians would leave the hall.

I had always found Sunday services a bore but in the dark, with all the candles lit, the church seemed like a magical cave, decorated with great arrangements of berried branches and flowers, and fragrant with incense. We were invited to the Beauchamps’ for Christmas lunch the next day, and there were piles of presents under the tree, with mince pies and mulled wine for the adults and warm spiced apple juice for us. Aunt Mina’s gifts to us were practical: warm clothing for me, and a leather writing case for Simon. She had bought a fountain pen for Jagjit, but did not look at him when he thanked her. The three biggest presents were from the Beauchamps, and when we opened them we found that they had given us matching sleds. ‘Rats! Why can’t it snow?’ Simon burst out, and Jagjit and I exchanged smiles, like the parents of a small, eager child.

Two days before New Year, I woke with an uneasy feeling that something was different. It took me a few moments to notice the silence: the absence of birdsong, of trees rustling, of the clattering of the milkman’s cart as he did his rounds. And there was an odd light – a white glare – coming into the room round the edges of the curtains. I waited, and listened, but nothing changed, so I got out of bed and nervously pulled the curtains back.

At first all I could see was white. The world had disappeared! I felt a thrill of fear. Then, gradually, I made out shades of grey in the whiteness. It covered everything, smoothing out angles, curving gently up the hillside, balancing on top of trees and bushes, forming white pompoms at the ends of branches. White crystals were piled up round the
windowpanes and I became aware that I was freezing. It was early, not yet time for Ellen to wake me, so I got dressed and went outside. The snow came halfway up my Wellington boots and I stamped around, enjoying the crunch under my feet. I bent and scooped some up. Wetness seeped through my glove and my fingers went numb. I had read about snow and seen pictures of it in books so I knew it was cold, but had always imagined it dry and fluffy, like cotton wool.

Simon and Jagjit came over and we went up the slope behind the house. Half the village children were out, struggling through the drifts with their sledges made from wooden boxes and trays. We had never mixed with them and I didn’t care much for them because they stared at me and whispered. Jagjit’s arrival triggered another bout of wide-eyed silence, just as it had done in church when he followed Simon in to midnight mass. The children nudged each other and giggled, but by the end of that afternoon he was giving the smaller ones rides on his sledge and tumbling them, screaming with laughter, into the snow.

That evening we played charades with the adults and when it was our turn we chose the wedding scene from
Jane Eyre.
Simon, who was the smallest and fairest, took the part of Jane, dressed in one of my white petticoats with a lace curtain for a veil. I was Mr. Rochester because Simon said I was the best at scowling; I wore his blue velvet suit, which was a bit tight. Jagjit played the mad wife, with a cloud of tangled black hair and white powder caked into the fuzz on his cheeks and chin. He wore one of Mrs. Beauchamp’s nightdresses, which barely reached his knees; his hairy legs and big feet stuck out comically underneath. We wrestled with each other as he pretended to bite me, while Simon stood by wringing his hands.

For the next few days, while the snow lasted, we raced around the garden, hiding behind bushes then leaping out and pelting each other with snowballs. Simon ran up to me and thrust a handful of snow down the neck of my coat. I squealed and he stopped and stared at me, then turned to Jagjit. ‘She made a noise! She did – she made a noise!’ Jagjit looked at me and I turned away. ‘I’ll show you,’ Simon said to him, and picked up another handful of snow, but as he reached for me Jagjit tackled him, knocking him into a snowdrift. In the scuffle that followed, my squeal was forgotten, but later that evening, as we sat by the fire in the schoolroom groaning while our fingers thawed out, I saw Jagjit watching me thoughtfully.

The next morning, to my surprise, Jagjit came over on his own. Aunt Mina called me down from my room where I was reading.

‘It’s that Indian boy,’ she said. I could tell from the set of her lips that she wasn’t happy. ‘I’ve put him in the library and I’d like you to stay in the house. I want you within earshot.’ She gave me a meaningful look that annoyed me – what did she think he was going to do to me? But I went into the library feeling surprisingly anxious, wondering how I could entertain him. I was used to being in the background while he and Simon talked.

He was standing looking at the books and turned as I came in. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Lila. Simon’s gone into Brighton with his mother to buy school shoes, so I thought I’d come over.’

I noticed that although he had almost lost his accent he said ‘i-school’ instead of ‘school’, just as Afzal Khan used to. For some reason it made me feel easier with him. I smiled and shook my head.

‘Your aunt didn’t seem very happy to see me.’

I rolled my eyes.

He laughed. ‘What shall we do? Do you want to go out?’

I shook my head again and cast about for something. My eyes fell on the Parcheesi board and I pointed at it.

‘Ah, but I’m a champion,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to risk it?’

It was restful being with him. He didn’t talk all the time like Simon, and didn’t seem disturbed by my silence. When I took one of his pieces, instead of getting cross or sulking he smiled that funny lopsided smile.

‘I think you’re a hustler, Lila. I can tell you’ve played this before? Was it in India?’

I nodded, remembering the games with Afzal Khan, and Father when he was home.

Jagjit was watching me. ‘Do you miss India? Mrs. Beauchamp said you lived in Peshawar, not so far from us. You know what it would be like there at this time of year… those winter evenings, when everyone is coming home from their day’s work…’

He paused as though visualising it and I could see it too: the band of white mist rising from the warm earth as the evening air cooled, leaving the tree tops floating like dark clouds on a white sea; the great orange ball of sun flattening over the horizon; the wooden wheels of hay carts creaking along the dusty paths, the bullocks’ white coats tinted pale violet in the slanting golden rays; the smell of woodsmoke, and the graceful women in bright saris – peacock-blue, emerald and pink – supporting their water pots with one hand, their elongated shadows stretching across the sun-baked earth as they returned to their Untouchable village.

My eyes filled with tears.

He reached out and rested his hand on mine, warm and consoling. I looked into his dark eyes and for the first time since leaving India I felt comforted.

Aunt Mina went to Father’s room in the night. I had just finished writing down what happened at the chaplain’s, which took ages, so it must have been very late. I was getting ready for bed when I heard her knocking on Father’s door. I went to my own and opened it a crack. Aunt Mina was standing there with a candle, but she looked so much younger that at first I didn’t recognise her. Her hair was loose and she had a colourful shawl wrapped around her.

Father opened his door. He said ‘Cecily?’ very loud as though he was shocked and she said, ‘It’s Mina, Arthur. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Even her voice sounded different, softer. She said she couldn’t sleep and wanted to talk to him.

Father didn’t say anything for ages. I could hear him breathing hard, and then he apologised for leaving the chaplain’s house like that and said, ‘It was just that you sounded so… so like her.’ Aunt Mina said she was sorry too, and that she’d forgotten Cecily used to sing that song. She asked if she could come in, just for a minute, and he let her in and closed the door.

I went out on to the verandah and slid along the wall between my door and his. I know it was wrong but I thought they would talk about Mother and I wanted to hear. I pressed myself flat against the wall by his door. I heard Father say that he still misses her, and dreams about her. He said he sometimes finds himself fantasising that she was taken, that she is alive and living in a bazaar somewhere, and that he still looks at the hands of women in burkhas, hoping to recognise hers. Aunt Mina said surely he could not wish such a wicked thing, and even death would be preferable to
that
, but I don’t know what she meant.

She told him everyone was saying that he cared more for the natives than his own people and asked how he could forgive them after what they had done. Father said he did not think there was so much difference between them and us, and that we were just as guilty – he more than most, for he had betrayed the trust of a better man than he would ever be.

Aunt Mina said surely they deserved everything that was done to them and Father said the thing he always says to me when I complain about anyone: ‘When you start pointing the finger of blame it goes all the way back to Adam.’ Then he said it was late and they were both tired and why didn’t they talk tomorrow?

Aunt Mina began to cry and said she had waited eleven years to talk, and in all that time he had hardly written to her even though when they first met she was the one who had talked to him most, and everyone had been surprised when he chose Cecily. She said Cecily had always charmed everyone and got her own way, that she was indulged and spoilt, and how did he think she’d felt when he’d asked Cecily to marry him when everyone had expected him to ask
her
. Father said he was sorry if he had disappointed her but it was all water
under the bridge now. And then Aunt Mina said there was still me to think of and didn’t he think that I needed a mother? I almost stopped breathing but Father said surely she must know by now that he wasn’t good husband material and, anyway, he suspected that she was not cut out for Indian life and would be happier at home.

She didn’t say anything for ages, and I could hear her crying, and then she said, ‘You’ve put her on a pedestal but she didn’t deserve it. She never could bear anyone else to have something she didn’t, and as soon as she got it she changed her mind. She never loved you.’

I didn’t want to listen any more then, but I didn’t dare to move in case they heard me, and then Aunt Mina said she was sorry and Father said, ‘No, don’t apologise. You’re right, Mina. She didn’t love me. She deserved someone young, like that boy Peter. I should have known better, because India is full of foolish old men who’ve married silly young girls and it never ends well.’

I heard Aunt Mina leave and I wanted to go to him and say that whatever had happened I knew it wasn’t his fault, and that I was sure my mother had loved him, but I knew he wouldn’t like me to have heard. I had just starting sliding back along the wall towards my room when he walked out on to the verandah and over to the top of the steps leading down to the compound. I pressed myself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. He rested his hands on the pillars on either side of the steps and bowed his head, and from the back he looked just like the figure above the altar in church.

I heard him say ‘Cecily’ and then he called out ‘Ram! Ram!’ and his shoulders began to shake and I knew he was crying. I don’t understand why, because Ram is the name of a Hindu god.

Last night I had the dream again. It’s always the same: I am in a small hot space, with something covering my face so I can’t breathe. My eyes, nose and mouth are filled with darkness and in my ears there is a terrible screeching and I open my mouth to call for help, but no sound comes.

Then Father was there, holding me in his arms and rocking me. ‘Wake up, Henry. It’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s just a dream.’ My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would leap out of my chest, and then I heard Aunt Mina’s voice, sounding shaky and frightened, outside the door. ‘Is everything all right, Arthur? I heard someone screaming.’ And Father said, ‘It’s all right, Mina. It’s just Henry, having a nightmare.’ And I said, ‘You won’t send me away, Father? Promise you won’t send me away.’ And he said, ‘I promise, Henry. Go back to sleep now. You’re not going anywhere.’