Belonging (6 page)

Dear Mina,

There is so much to tell you, I don’t know where to begin! I am writing to you from our new home in Cuttack. The journey took just over a fortnight by pony cart, and palanquin in the places where there were no metalled roads. I do not know why people complain about travelling in India for to me it seems quite delightful, like an extended picnic. We spent the night in pretty little rest houses, called ‘dak bungalows’, which provided everything we needed – a simple meal of an omelette or chupatties, and a curry of meat or lentils. Afterwards we would sit on the verandah talking until it got dark.

We arrived in Cuttack just as the sun was setting. There is no dusk here – night falls suddenly, like someone blowing out a lamp. And then, out of the darkness, we saw pinpricks of light, like fireflies floating towards us and growing brighter and brighter. Then drums started up and there was shouting and cheering and a crowd of men in colourful uniforms and turbans appeared out of the dark, bearing torches. They were Arthur’s men, come to greet us. They garlanded us both with gardenias and marigolds and tied a gold turban on his head.
Then they lifted him on to a white horse and led him ahead of us through the streets with the band playing, and people threw rice at us as we passed. It was so romantic – like being in a story from the
Arabian Nights
!

But I have told you nothing of Cuttack and the house. Briefly, then, Cuttack is a pretty town strung out along a river, with a church, a mosque and a temple, and the cantonment is full of little white bungalows with small gardens bursting with flowers. It all looks quite English and very clean, with straight roads and neat white fences.

Our house is the same as all the others. The drawing and dining rooms are connected by double doors, and there are two bedrooms with their own dressing rooms and primitive bathrooms. Arthur has a study at the back, and a verandah runs all the way round the house. The rooms are high, with cloth ceilings, which are removed in the hot season to allow the heat to rise and punkahs to be hung. The kitchen and servants’ quarters are behind the house in the compound. It is so strange to see things that I have only heard talked of, or read about in books. It is all very bare but Arthur says I can order anything I want from the catalogues and make it just as I want it, for he knows ‘women like their fripperies’. He has ordered me a piano as my Christmas gift. He is so very kind and thoughtful and I am determined to love him, and I know I shall when we know each other better.

Give my love to Mama and Papa and tell them I will write to them soon.

Your loving Cecily

P.S. I almost forgot to say Merry Christmas (although I know you will not receive this till nearly February).

Darling, darling Mina,

Thank you so much for the beautiful shawl, which is perfect for these cooler mornings. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw it. How ever did you find the time to embroider it all? Whenever I feel homesick I shall wrap myself in it and feel comforted.

I wore it to church on Christmas Day but I am afraid I heard nothing of the service for all my thoughts were with you at Home. I kept picturing Mama and Papa and you in our little church. Do you remember the time Peter put burrs down the back of my dress and Mama sent me out of church for fidgeting? And now you are engaged! Oh, Mina, I am so happy for you both. Please do give him my love and my congratulations on his commission. I am sure you will miss him when he goes away but, as you say, it is important for him to establish his career before he marries.

I am afraid I am not managing my household tasks very well – with so many servants it is hard to remember who does what, so I am forever getting it wrong. It is all so complicated. You can imagine how nervous I am at the thought of having to oversee them all. Arthur says I should leave it all to the khitmutgar, but the other ladies tell me I must not or we shall be shamefully cheated and taken advantage of. I wonder if I shall ever learn to be a good ‘mem’. Arthur says if I do he will divorce me!

Your loving Cecily

Dear Mina,

I have just received your reply to my foolish letter from Calcutta and, although I know I deserved it, I thought it very unkind. It is true that you and Mama warned me I was too young to marry and travel so far from home, but it is never nice to hear someone say ‘I told you so’!

I know I should not have written to you about such private matters, but we have always told each other everything, and there is no one here that I can confide in. But, as you rightly say, matters between a husband and wife should remain between them, so you need not worry about my involving you in my troubles again.

Your chastened sister, Cecily

Dear Mina,

I am so sorry for not writing to you for over a month. Arthur has been ill with malaria and I have been so afraid. I had no idea what a terrible illness it is. The doctor says there is nothing to be done except to keep him cool and quiet and dose him with quinine.

I don’t know how I would manage without his native officers. His subhedar and jemadar have been coming daily to visit him and give him news of the men. They even take it in turns to sit with him through the night so I can rest. It is such a comfort. His subhedar is called Durga Prasad, which means ‘gift of the Goddess Durga’ (she is the goddess of war, appropriately enough), though he does not look at all fierce
but the very image of the old Indian with a turban and white beard on the box of that old wooden puzzle in our nursery! The jemadar, Ram Buksh, is quite young, with flashing white teeth and a handlebar moustache, like a pirate. He speaks English quite well and tells me that Arthur has had malaria before. They have told me many stories of his bravery and it is clear that they both respect and admire him. How I wish I had known him when he was young!

The doctor has told me that I am to take him to the hills, where it is cooler, as soon as he is strong enough to travel. I will write again from there.

Your affectionate Cecily

P.S. I am learning some Hindustani now, for Ram Buksh has been giving me lessons. I know Arthur will be pleased.

I thought of Jagjit often in the three and a half months between Christmas and his next visit at Easter. I felt closer to him than anyone I had met since coming to England, because I knew that he, like me, was missing his home. He had told us how strange things seemed to him when he first arrived in England – all the things I too found odd: the grey skies and fogs, the bland food and the lack of sounds and smells. But he said the queerest thing of all was arriving at Tilbury and seeing white men on the dock acting as porters, dockers and sweepers. He couldn’t believe it when he got into a taxi to the station and the driver called him ‘sir’.

I would have liked to know more about his home and family, but Simon wasn’t interested enough to ask and, although the Beauchamps always enquired politely after his parents and brother, they left it at that. The main subject at their lunch table was politics. Keir Hardie, who had just resigned as leader of the Labour Party, was a frequent visitor. He supported free education, women’s suffrage and home rule for India and Ireland, and was a close friend of Mrs. Pankhurst. Her sister, Mrs. Clarke, lived in Brighton and was often there too, so the talk was usually of matters that had been raised in the House: as well as the causes close to his heart, they
talked of Germany’s growing militarisation and the fear that the situation in Bosnia and Servia would lead to a European war. I was surprised by Jagjit’s grasp of history and politics. The adults treated him like an equal and he often joined in the discussions, especially when the subject of India arose.

Aunt Mina stayed silent on these occasions. She disapproved of both the Labour Party and the Votes for Women movement and would have preferred to keep me away, but she did not want to offend the Beauchamps.

One Easter Sunday, we went over for lunch after the service. There were no other visitors that day, and during the course of lunch Mr. Beauchamp asked Jagjit what he planned to do when his schooling was finished. Jagjit told him that his father wished him to go to university and study law, with a view to joining the I.C.S.

Mrs. Beauchamp laughed. ‘So you’re going to be a civil servant! Do you know, I was in the village yesterday and the baker’s wife asked me if it was true that you were a prince! Actually,’ she went on, ‘an Indian prince did come here once, before I was born. I remember my grandmother mentioning it. She said he was very cultured and quite charming. I believe he even stayed at the Devil’s Dyke Hotel. You might remember that, Miss Partridge,’ she said, turning to Aunt Mina.

For a moment Aunt Mina did not reply. Then she said quietly, ‘Yes, I do remember him. He was charming. And a snake, and treacherous – as they all are.’

Mrs. Beauchamp’s eyes widened.

‘Ah, yes,’ Mr. Beauchamp said, glancing at Jagjit, ‘but he wasn’t a real prince, was he? As I recall he was called something Khan… began with an A? Azim? Wasn’t he from Cawnpore, something to do with…’

He trailed off as Mrs. Beauchamp caught his eye. She said quickly, ‘I think to the villagers every Indian is a prince. They think of Ranji, of course, who played for Sussex. You play cricket, don’t you, Jagjit?’

‘No, I don’t, Mrs. B., although I’ve been unable to convince the games master, who seems to think just because I’m an Indian I should be good at it. But Mr. Beauchamp, do you perhaps mean
Azimullah
Khan, who was – ’

‘Perhaps we should all take a turn in the garden,’ Mrs. Beauchamp said, cutting across him.

There was a silence while Jagjit looked around the table, puzzled. Aunt Mina’s face looked as though someone had laid it on the ironing board and pressed it. ‘I’m sorry,’ Jagjit said. ‘Have I said something I shouldn’t?’

‘It
is
a lovely afternoon,’ Mrs. Beauchamp said into the silence.

Once outside, the Beauchamps and Aunt Mina walked around the lawn while the three of us wandered over towards the orchards, where the buds on the apple trees were still tightly furled. April had been cold, and the day was chill and damp.

‘Did I do something wrong, Lila? I always get the feeling your aunt dislikes me, but I never know why.’

‘Perhaps it’s because you’re Indian,’ Simon said. ‘She was engaged to my Uncle Peter and he died, out in India. But that was a long time ago, so she shouldn’t
still
be upset.’

I thought of Aunt Mina young, as she had been in the photograph, and wondered if I would remember Father when I was as old as she was. Part of me shrank at the thought of the long, lonely years she must have spent in that big empty house, brooding on the past, but I felt pleased at the thought that I would never forget him, as Aunt Mina had not forgotten Peter.

I think, now, how sad it is that we lived in the same house for so many years, both locked into our pasts, unable to speak of the things that mattered most to us.

A few days after that lunch, we cycled out to Shaves Wood. The following week would bring unseasonal blizzards and deep snowdrifts, but that day was sunny and seemed to hold the promise of spring. We sat under the green-gold canopy of unfurling leaves; the bluebells were just beginning to open around us, scenting the air with their delicate fragrance, as we ate our cucumber sandwiches and drank our lemonade.

Because of the inclement weather I had not seen much of the boys that week and I felt shy and separate. I sat listening, trying to look interested, while they talked easily of school, and masters, and other boys. Jagjit made an effort to include me, as he always did, but I could tell it was making Simon impatient so I wandered off to collect some bluebells and wood anemones and wove them round with wild honeysuckle to make three crowns and some bracelets. I placed mine around my head and wrists and wandered back.

As I approached the clearing where the boys were sitting I heard Simon say, ‘Why does
she
have to do everything with us? It’s so boring.’

I stepped behind the trunk of a beech and waited for Jagjit’s reply.

‘Come on, Simon. She’s hasn’t got anyone else.’

‘Do you always have to be so dashed kind to every lame dog?’

‘Isn’t that why we’re friends? Have you forgotten what a bad time
you
were having at school before I intervened?’

There was a silence, and I imagined Simon’s face flaming
as he struggled for words. He stammered out, ‘I th-thought you
l-liked
coming home with me. You could always stay at the b-beastly school if you prefer.’

I heard him stamp off.

Jagjit sighed and stretched out on the rug in a patch of sunlight.

I crept silently into the clearing but as I approached him he opened his eyes. His mouth pulled up, creasing his cheek. ‘You look like a peri – a fairy – in that crown. Are those wings you’re hiding behind your back?’

I showed him the two other crowns.

He smiled. ‘Is one of them for me?’

I nodded.

‘Why don’t you put it on for me?’

He reached up and lifted his turban off, preserving its stiff pleated shape, then untied the white handkerchief securing his topknot and shook his hair out. The long black rope of it uncoiled as far as his waist. He sat up and I knelt in front of him and placed it on his head.

‘You heard us, didn’t you?’ His eyes searched mine.

I hesitated, then nodded.

‘I thought so. He didn’t mean it, you know. It’s just that he’s a bit nervy. He had a bad time at school when he first arrived. New boys do, especially those who’re young for their age, and it doesn’t help if you look like him. You get the wrong sort of attention from the older boys.’

I wondered what he meant.

‘What are you thinking, Lila?’ He dipped his head until his eyes were so close to mine that they blurred into one giant Cyclops eye. ‘You notice everything, don’t you? What do you really think of us all? That we’re a lot of fools with our yak-yak-yakking?’

I shook my head, but he’d already turned away. ‘I’d better go and find Simon or he’ll sulk for the rest of the day.’

That evening, alone in my room, I tried to make myself speak aloud, but it was harder than I’d imagined. I had always thought that when I was ready I would open my mouth and speech would come, but it felt ugly, unnatural, as though there were two tongues in my mouth, tangling round each other. The words slid away as I fumbled for them, and the sounds that emerged were more like frogs than pearls. The thought of talking in public filled me with dread: I imagined the attention that would be focused on me, the fuss that would be made. And once I started there would be no turning back; I would have to speak to everyone, not just to Jagjit and Simon and the Beauchamps and Aunt Mina, but to Cook and the maids, and to people at church and in the village and to people I had not even met yet. And by now everyone was so used to my silence that no one ever asked what I thought, or left a gap in the conversation for me to fill. I should have to force my way in and I shrank from that. No, I was not ready. And then the blizzard came unexpectedly, bringing deep snow, and, by the time the path was passable again in May, the boys had gone back to school.

A month later, the suffragettes held a huge demonstration in London and for weeks beforehand the Beauchamps’ house was full of women sewing banners and tabards in the W.S.P.U. colours of purple, white and green. I went over after lessons to help. I did not sew, but I could cut and shape and pin. It was fun and I was looking forward to accompanying Mrs. Beauchamp, but Aunt Mina refused to allow it. The papers were full of it the next day – they said it was the
greatest demonstration ever held in Britain. I was deeply disappointed at not being able to go, and it made me resent Aunt Mina even more.