The Onus of Ancestry (20 page)

“We didn't miss you,” Christopher teased him, looking at Dwita. “However, if we do not return soon, one of us will have to be carried home. I fear Dwita is feeling the effects of wine and jet-lag.”

They drove back, mostly in silence, and on arrival Dwita said her thanks and excused herself in order to retire early. She noticed that she and Christopher had adjacent rooms and that they were going to share a bathroom as well. This somehow did not disturb her. She was far too tired to raise any objections anyway. The soft mattress received her into its embrace and the feather quilt enveloped her deliciously.

Dwita overslept and did not hear the alarm by her bedside. It was already eight-thirty on a Monday morning, she suddenly realised in horror. She jerked out of bed and slipped into her negligee, then heard the familiar voice followed by three knocks on the door. She opened the door to let Christopher in.

“I am sorry to wake you, but I have to leave early for an appointment in town. I could not leave without seeing you again.” He then looked at her with deep tenderness and said, “I don't know what has come over me, Dwita, but I do know I have to see you again – I will be in touch. I believe you are going to London later with John and Jennifer. Please keep this card – it has my office address and telephone numbers.”

“Yes, see you soon. Bye for now,” she said quietly.

He left abruptly without looking back – and it hurt, she thought, surprised, a sort of physical pain just below her consciousness – what was it? She wondered, was it just a passing attraction? Dwita kept asking herself the question as she was getting ready. She came downstairs, dressed and ready for departure. She apologised for sleeping late to Jennifer who was sitting at the kitchen table with her pot of coffee, a copy of the morning paper spread in front of her.

“Don't apologise, my dear – we are in no hurry. John decided to go with Chris in the end, so we can have a leisurely start to the day. He would like us to call in at his clinic around five-thirty this evening – he wishes to examine you and discuss arrangements. Otherwise the rest of the day is ours. He also asked me to remind you about Ernest Reed.”

“Yes, I had better ring him straight away.”

“You can give him another twenty minutes – sit down and have some breakfast.”

“I do not eat breakfast normally–”

“But you must eat something in the morning in your present condition,” Jennifer was firm.

“I will help myself to a piece of toast and some tea.”

She rang Ernest who sounded jovial and cheerful for a Monday morning. They chatted about the flight and the hotel and he asked after the Wadias and Parkinsons – then they arranged to meet at his offices in Jermyn Street on Wednesday morning at nine. He also told her that she would have to stay in the hotel for another week as her room in the guesthouse was still occupied by a business contact from Europe.

She came out to find Jennifer already seated at the wheel of a cream BMW, waiting for her. “Jump in, Dwita, and we'll be off. Have you got everything? Well, the lovely weekend is over and now it's back to our apartment and the noise of London – no more peace and quiet until Friday. By the way, remind me to give you our London address and phone number. We must keep in touch during the week and if you don't get tied up, come back with us on Friday.”

“You are being wonderful to me, Jennifer. Thank you, I would like to.”

They were now winding their way out of Waverley into open countryside to catch up with the flow of traffic on the main road to London. Her mind went back to yesterday morning with Christopher beside her and she felt confused again.

“Dwita, are you all right?”

“Yes, I feel fine.”

“You were not looking fine a second ago.”

The journey was made shorter by the roads Jennifer had chosen to follow. She drove through Belgravia into Sloane Square, giving a running commentary on the passing scene and briefing Dwita on the neighbouring streets, shops, cinemas and theatres. There was so much to see and feel and momentarily she was cheered out of her gloom.

“Dwita, I am going to leave the car in the carpark off Sloane Street just ahead of us. Why don't you take yourself into that store opposite and I will find you in the Separates and Coordinates department on the first floor in twenty minutes' time?”

She got out of the car and crossed the street into the store Jennifer had pointed out to her. She wandered around aimlessly for ten minutes on the ground floor. There was so much to see and buy – the sheer variety displayed enthralled her. She found her way up to the the first floor – each item seemed more tempting than the last, but she knew some of the styles or colours would not suit her.

“Have you found anything yet?” Jennifer had caught up with her. She touched this, picked up that, finally chose two matching sets in rust and blue to try on. She bought one of them, a simple skirt and blouse in cream and rust with a matching jacket. “Just right for work,” Jennifer commented. Then they came out of the store and hailed a taxi to take them to Knightsbridge in pursuit of the shops on Sloane Street and Brompton Road. Jennifer had decided to leave the car where it was.

The magnificence of some of the shops threw her completely. Coming from a developing country, particularly from a deprived, dilapidated city like Calcutta, she felt she had landed on a different planet. Although she had been brought up in relative plenty, amongst people who could not exactly be categorised amongst the have-nots of Bengal, she found the extravagance displayed in some of the shops somewhat obscene in a world where so many were starving. She told Jennifer that it was too soon for her to accept such indulgence, maybe she would feel differently in the months to come. Jennifer smiled and said, “You don't have to buy here, you know, this is mostly just for sightseeing. Some people just come to buy bacon in that large store there and then go home happily. The bacon is very good no doubt, but it's mostly about having the famous brand name on it – such things seem very important to some of us! ” They both laughed and decided to carry on elsewhere.

In the end it had been a very successful day. Jennifer had helped her to get kitted out sensibly for the office and for evenings, with clothes, shoes, bags, rainwear and toiletries. She had taken her round carefully so that she could retrace her steps to the shops if she wished to add to her wardrobe. They lunched at a small Italian restaurant, enjoying lasagne and salad washed down with glasses of Chianti and tiny cups of strong coffee.

Jennifer had then taken Dwita to the pied à terre she and John owned, a two-bedroomed flat, on the fifth floor of a massive apartment block on Royal Hospital Road. Though small, it was cosy and had plenty of light streaming through bay windows. Boxes of geraniums bloomed on the window sill. It was expensively and comfortably furnished, with gilded mirrors giving a feeling of space. There were a few good pieces of Renaissance and modern art on the walls, a few ornate bronzes on the mantelpiece and shelves. The Parkinsons had both the taste and resources to be able to live well – there was nowhere the obvious thrust of the nouveau riche, only the quiet enjoyment of the good things of life.

The day had flown pleasantly until the reality of her medical appointment dawned on her, bringing a sense of nervous foreboding. Jennifer took her to Harley Street, where John Parkinson had his clinic. John somehow seemed like a stranger behind his desk, now the image of a consultant, aloof yet reassuring. He informed her that Janet and Rusi had written a letter explaining the circumstances of the conception, and had sent a doctor's note on Nishith which included relevant details of his family history. At the end of their lengthy discussion he asked, “Why did you wish to go ahead with it, if, as your doctor, I may ask an unethical question?”

“I wish I knew – perhaps my upbringing primarily, or a helpless feeling of responsibility to a living foetus. I now wonder if I was wrong and overestimated my strength and capacity for endurance. It is too late now, in any case, to reconsider.”

“Yes – you have to go through with it now, there is no choice. But I am afraid your decision is going to cost two lives metaphorically – one is yours and the other is that of the unborn. You are condemning yourself to a life shared with a constant reminder of that nightmare event. As for the child, it too may be struck down at some point by the inherited insanity, or it may be normal but in the unhappy position of living with one parent who is incurably ill and the other for whom it is a burden. Quite frankly, I shudder at what lies ahead of you, Dwita,” he said, shaking his head. He was not making it any easier for her.

“I feel confused and helpless, John. I know all of you are right, Dr Mitra said the same – yet I could not give it up at that time, something prevented me from doing so. Maybe time will take the edge off the bitterness in my heart and will teach me to accept or even grow to love the child of my nightmare. I do not know, John, I can only wait and hope for a miracle to happen.”

“Let me examine you in any case.”

He was satisfied with her physical condition and said all was well. She had to come back a month later. He was going to register her with a private clinic near Waverley for emergency purposes. It was run by a colleague where he took his own cases sometimes. But Dr Mitra had arranged for her to be taken to a clinic in Switzerland nearer the time of her confinement. Meanwhile, she was going to work with Ernest Reed on her programme for about twelve weeks, and thereafter live and work quietly until the time came. Afterwards, it would be up to Rusi to decide where he wanted to post her next. She noted what John had to say and decided not to question him further. She was both embarrassed and confused.

Once the consultation was over he had relaxed and they left the clinic together, to return to the flat. Jennifer had insisted on her sharing an omelette supper with them; later Dwita took a taxi back to the hotel with all her packages and carrier bags, overflowing with booty from the day's shopping spree.

The hotel porter carried it all up to her room, she tipped him, closed the door and shut the world out. She read the messages left for her at reception – one from Ernest Reed asking her to return his call, and three from Christopher. She decided she was not going to contact him yet, not without thinking things out. Their effect on each other was obvious, but she found him far too irresistible for her liking. She was quite powerless against it, and what was even more frightening was that she enjoyed sinking into it, drowning in it, knowing full well there could be no future in it. Moreover they knew very little of each other. She did not wish to speak to Christopher about her previous existence or present calamity. Nor did she wish to find out anything about him that could spoil the only dream (or perhaps the illusion) that she was now left with.

She picked up the receiver and asked the operator not to put through any calls. Then she changed, picked up a paperback of no consequence left perhaps by an earlier occupant of the room and curled up in an armchair for an evening's thoughtful repose.

The next day she stayed in bed until nine, sipping the coffee that had been brought up to her room and eating a croissant from the côrbeille full of freshly baked rolls and pastries. She packed two more carefully in a paper napkin for later. She had phoned Ernest first thing and he had gone through her programme of visits for her approval, so that he could telex messages to various host organisations. He had asked her to dinner that night which she had accepted. She deliberately decided to stay out of the hotel in order to see some more shops and also to avoid Christopher, so she wandered around, sat on park benches nibbling at her pastry and then finally ended up at the Victoria and Albert museum to view the India collection. She was trying to keep herself busy, to keep her mind off Christopher, but when she returned to the hotel around six in the evening she found him sitting in the foyer with an air of determined patience. She knew she had no choice– he had already seen her coming in and was now walking towards her.

“I had to come in the end and I also made up my mind to wait until your return.”

“Shall we go to the lounge and share a pot of tea? I am exhausted from all my wanderings in the corridors of London museums and shops.” She tried to sound casual and light-hearted. He followed her to the lounge at the end of the foyer, chose a corner seat by the window of the oval room and signalled her to sit down beside him.

“Yes, by all means, let's have a cup of the English cure for everything,” he said rather ruefully,“ I am sorry if I offended you the other day. But I didn't mean to – I hope you understand that.”

“You have not offended me in any way, Christopher.”

“Then why did you not return my calls? Why did you forbid the operator to put me through to you? You have been avoiding me, Dwita!”

“I felt that was the best thing to do in our present circumstances.”

“You felt I had moved too fast? I couldn't help it – though I realise that coming from a different culture I had perhaps been a bit too hasty, and maybe indiscreet.”

“No, Christopher – believe me, it has nothing to do with our differing cultures or any indiscretion.”

“Then what?”

“There are reasons on my side which it may be best not to discuss. We hardly know each other.”

“But that should not prevent us from getting to know each other. We can surely talk a little about ourselves?”

“It isn't quite that, Christopher – you must believe me.”

“Then what?” he said again. “I cannot bear this suspense any more. We should tell each other something of our lives – let's begin with me–”

“Let us begin with some tea.” She knew she was trying to postpone the moment of confession, but Christopher obligingly called the waiter and ordered tea. Then, looking at her unblinkingly, he began, “Well, I am a management consultant in the firm of Ashton, Browne & Hastings, married – yes, quite definitely married,” with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I have two children, both boys. And you?”