The Letter (2 page)

James shrugged off Margaret’s nod of an apology for keeping him waiting, resigned to her greeting people for as long as it took. He noticed she looked tired, her quick smile a little forced. He’d mention it to Lizzie.

At lunch the food stuck in Margaret’s throat. She drank
copious glasses of water to swill it down. Elizabeth asked if she was all right. “It’s nothing. I slept badly. I think it’s the start of a cold.” James advised putting more whiskey in her cocoa, expecting a witty reply, but she hardly dared look at him across the table. She wanted to shout, “Stop! I’ve something important to say,” but the words dried in her mouth.

She usually dozed in the lounge to the comforting scraping of plates, rattle of glasses and muffled voices of her daughter and son-in-law drifting in from the kitchen. Today she couldn’t settle. Her stiff fingers fumbled with the Velcro fastening of the blasted surgical collar. Released, she threw the offending article on the floor and sank back in the cushioned armchair snapping her eyes shut. It was no good. She simply couldn’t carry on like this. Fidgeting with the corner of her pretty blue cardigan she opened her eyes at the crunching of feet on the gravel drive. Through the tall window she caught sight of James going out, being pulled along by Rory, his boisterous setter. This was the chance to end weeks of indecision. She called, “Come, Elizabeth, take the weight off your feet for a few minutes.”

Elizabeth carried on methodically filling the dishwasher. She thought it remarkable that her mother’s cultured Edinburgh accent was as strong as ever, even though she hadn’t lived there for more than fifty years. The call came again, this time louder, and more insistent. A rare occurrence, but the tone was a command, with possibly a reprimand at the end of it. Elizabeth dried her hands muttering, “I’m not a child… It had better be important.”

Margaret’s frail figure housed an iron will, but tense and uncertain where to begin, she imperiously indicated the matching sofas. Elizabeth obediently sat on the edge of the nearest, “Mum, you know I always finish in the kitchen before I sit down.”

“Elizabeth, some things are more important than a tidy kitchen! Besides I want to talk to you without James.”

“Without James… ?”

Allowing no further opportunity to query the unusual request Margaret continued, “I want you to know that I was married before… I mean before I met your father.”

Relieved that the intensity in her mother’s blue eyes was not the forerunner of bad news, Elizabeth said lightly, “Oh is that all? I know you were.”

Astonished, Margaret exclaimed, “Who told you?”

“You did… years ago when I was nine.”

One dark winter afternoon, leaving her mother reading and shivering by the fire, Elizabeth had crept upstairs and sneakily opened the fitted cupboard in the spare bedroom. It was crammed with feather pillows, sheets, blankets, bed spreads, towels, and other just-in-case household commodities. There were at least two of everything, nothing was thrown away. She was foraging through when she came across some unfamiliar khaki cloth and cardboard suitcases.

Getting them out quietly without something falling and alerting her mother had not been easy. She surreptitiously dragged them to the window to read the remnants of their glued and tattered labels. The spidery handwriting held snippets of names and destinations, a world of grown up secrets waiting to be solved.

When Elizabeth opened the cases there was a strange smell, not unpleasant but different, rich and earthy, evocative of strawberries and warm summers spent out of doors. She warmed her hands by running them over the stored deep velvet, green, gold and blue silk. Some of the fabric was embroidered with gold dragons, blue and pink birds. She draped this over the big double bed to catch the fleeting half-light but her favourite treasure was a creamy silk kimono. The front was plain but the back was covered with red chrysanthemums, intertwined with delicate green leaves, flowing down to the hem, contrasting with the dull-brown linoleum floor. Queen of the Orient, she preened in front of the three mirrored dressing table.

“ . . . It was the day you caught me emptying the old suitcases. I thought you’d be cross because I was dressed in your kimono trying to fathom out the engraving on some discoloured bracelet.”

“I do remember. It was my identity bracelet?”

“Yes, you said it was from the war. It read
Margaret
Riley
Atrey.
I knew grandpa’s name was Riley but I didn’t recognise the other name so I asked you. You told me Atrey was the name of your first husband. The only thing that bothered me was who my father was. You said that he was the man I’d always known. I was so relieved because for ages I’d been thinking I was adopted.”

“You were a funny little thing, always wanting to know more than was good for you. My first husband was Indian so he couldn’t have been your father.” Margaret’s chest tightened. She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. She glanced fearfully at her daughter, “ . . . you don’t seem surprised?”

“That you were married to an Indian? India has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. You told me the kind of things you can only know if you’ve lived among the people. Other children’s mothers got flu. You got malaria. Me and dad piled eiderdowns and blankets on top of you and gave you lots of drinks out of a special cup with a spout. When I kissed you goodnight you were all clammy. I asked dad if you’d die but he said you’d get better. So that made it okay. What really scared me were the Indian hawkers. You know the ones with legs like matchsticks who came to the back door selling cardigans out of suitcases. They spoke loudly waving their arms and nodding. You nodded back, speaking louder in some funny language. I hid under the kitchen table ’til they’d gone.”

“Oh Elizabeth, we were only talking.”

“But Mum you’d told me stories about brave warriors who didn’t cut their hair and wore it rolled up under a turban. They carried curved daggers which, once drawn, couldn’t be sheathed unless they spilt blood. I was convinced I’d be murdered and had awful dreams about being kidnapped and squashed in one of their suitcases.” Elizabeth melodramatically embellished her tale, “Trapped, blinded by the colour of sweaters and cardigans, suffocated by the smell of wool…”

“My word Elizabeth, I had no idea! You always had a vivid imagination. I can’t believe all that went on in your head.”

“I liked it really, so no, I’m not surprised.”

Margaret was tempted to leave it there, secure in Elizabeth’s childhood memories, but she couldn’t deny the past that roared in her ears. “Do you remember the photograph album in the green cover that I kept in the top of my wardrobe?”

“You mean the India album. The pages were separated with tissue paper and there were pictures of your friends, menus and birthday cards decorated with lace and tiny ribbons.”

“Yes and a small black and white photograph of a little girl in the snow.”

“Mmm… a man was standing near holding the reins of two black horses. I didn’t know it snowed in India until I saw that.”

“You remember so much.”

“Of course I do. The girl was your friend’s daughter and…”

“She was mine… Is mine… Her name is Pavia.” Margaret repeated the name, savouring the shape of the tumbling letters, fighting back the tears. “I also had two sons, Saurabh and Rajeev.”

Elizabeth took hold of her mother’s hands, “Why are you telling me this now?”

Margaret started to explain, “Because I’ve had a letter…”

“A letter… ?”

Gripping her daughter’s hands like lifelines Margaret said, “Yes, from India and…”

The dog barked. James was coming up the drive. “Elizabeth, please don’t say anything about it to James now. It’s getting late. Tell him in your own way when he comes back from taking me home.”

Chapter 2
 

Elizabeth cuddled into James’s back. In the busy week sometimes the only chance they had to talk to each other was in bed. Snuggling at weekends led to other things. James said sleepily, “You do know it’s Sunday?”

Elizabeth nuzzled his ear. “Did you know mum was married before she met my dad?”

“God Lizzie you picked a fine time to tell me.”

“To tell you the truth I sort of forgot about it.” She divulged her mother’s secret. Instantly wide awake James said, “Didn’t you suspect there were children?”

“No I didn’t give it a thought.”

“How did they contact her?”

“Through a letter…”

“And…”

“I don’t know the details.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“You came back, and Mum didn’t want to talk about it in front of you.”

“Why not?”

“I think she was frightened.”

“Frightened of me! I’ve always been there for her.” Lizzie leant towards him. “It’s no use kissing your way out of it.”

“I’m just saying sorry, I didn’t put it very well. I meant she was afraid you’d disapprove.”

James lay back and stretched his arms over his head, “I thought she wasn’t herself today, too quiet by far.”

“It’s the quickest Sunday lunch we’ve had without you two arguing. Politics and religion, you’ll not change her views.”

“Scottie and I don’t argue. We discuss.” Early in his marriage to Elizabeth, mellowed with whiskey, James tried to get Margaret to decide what he should call her. ‘Mother-in-law’ was too formal. He wanted something more affectionate. She thought about it and said he could call her Scottie. It was a nickname from when she was young. James thought it must have been at a time when she was happy because she had a far away look when she suggested it.

*  *  *  *  *

Margaret spent the week worrying. She thought she knew James but she’d been the victim of prejudice from the most unlikely quarters. The following Sunday she was relieved to see his silver Mercedes outside church. She
was expecting some reference to last week’s conversation
but he was his good-natured self. Maybe he didn’t know? What if she had to tell him?

The journey took an age: every traffic light on red; a police car on the straight stretch where there was an accident. James put his foot down on the motorway but lunch was already on the table when they arrived. Elizabeth filled any gaps in the conversation, offering to drive her mother home so James could have an extra glass of wine. Margaret was becoming more agitated by the minute. Knife and fork in hand James said, “Well you’re a dark horse, Scottie. There’s certainly more to you than meets the eye.”

Elizabeth glared at her husband. Trust him. She thought they’d agreed to wait until her mother brought the subject up. Margaret was glad of the opening. She had a speech prepared, the bones of which she had rehearsed again and again during the sleepless nights of the previous week.

“James, I assume from that remark you are referring to my previous marriage…”

“But,” James interrupted, “how on earth did they find you after all these years?”

“One of my grandchildren traced me. His name is Anil.
He is the youngest son of Pavia, Elizabeth’s Indian sister.”

James wasn’t interested in who was related to whom. He wanted to know the big picture.

Margaret began easily enough, “My first husband, Ben, was staying with our daughter Pavia at her home in Lucknow. During his visit Anil asked his grandfather questions about the family. Ben revealed that I had not died as the children believed but had been forced to return to Scotland. He produced a letter that I had written to him when we were university students. Apparently it was his habit to carry this, as a kind of good luck charm. Anil traced me from the address.”

“It’s absolutely incredible Scottie! Who on earth would
keep a letter for over…”

“Fifty three years… The address was that of my parents’ house but luckily the local postman recognised the surname and took it to my brother John, who still lives nearby. He forwarded the letter to me unopened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elizabeth said, upset by her mother’s lack of trust.

“I wasn’t certain whether to reply. I didn’t know if I could stand the disruption.”

“What do you mean disruption? Mum if there’s any disruption it’ll be caused by your secrecy.”

“Elizabeth, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Custom dictated that I wrote to Ben asking for his permission to contact our eldest son Saurabh. I couldn’t do it so I sent a short note to Anil, thanking him for writing and giving him my correct address. Saurabh’s first letter arrived before I had made up my mind whether or not to write to his father.”

“Oh I see.” Elizabeth said.

“But you’re not angry?”

“Far from it… I’m thrilled. I’ve got a million questions.” A million answers Margaret didn’t want to give. “How old are they? Obviously older than me…”

“Yes, Saurabh is ten years older and a high ranking Indian Army officer. He recently organised an
All
India
Hockey
Tournament
in honour of his dead mother, and here I am alive and kicking!” But Margaret’s humorous remark was at odds with the sorrow and anger stirring inside her and she couldn’t go on to give the birthdays of her other children.