The Sandalwood Tree (24 page)

R
ashmi held the ladder while I climbed, and Billy, chewing a piece of barley sugar, watched. Three rungs from the top I was able to reach the hollow, but I hesitated. There could be a rabid squirrel or a monkey in there. I stepped up another rung to scout the inside, the ladder wobbled, and Rashmi screamed, “Arey Ram!” I steadied myself on the trunk and looked inside the hollow.

The edges had grown smooth with time, and the inside was filled with snarled webs, rotted birds’ nests, and dead leaves. Gingerly, I reached in, grabbed a handful of damp debris, and dropped it without looking down. From below I heard, “Arey Ram!” and Billy laughed. I pushed leaves around until my hand hit something hard, which I teased forward with my fingertips. It was a clay urn, and I nudged it out and balanced it on the edge of the hollow to inspect it. It was covered with dirt and mold, and the lid had been sealed with paraffin. I held the urn against my chest as I descended, very slowly, with one hand on the ladder.

At the bottom, Billy said, “Is that buried treasure?”

“Sort of, Cutlet.” I whisked dirt off the top and examined it. The sealing wax was old and dry, and I thought the lid would come
off with a few careful taps. I picked up a rock and rapped the edge lightly, first on one side and then the other. The third try did it, and the seal broke with a muffled crack. I lifted the cover, and three heads—red, blond, and black—bent over it.

It was an ordinary tin box, rusting at the seams and covered in a skein of cobwebs. When I lifted it out, one side fell off, and a rubber hot-water bottle dropped to the ground. We sat under the tree to examine it. Once again, an end had been sliced off to make a rubber pocket for a book—another of Adela’s hand-bound journals.

Billy said, “Aw, nuts. It’s only an old book.”

Rashmi, who didn’t read English, looked disappointed. “Come, beta,” she said, giving Billy a kiss. “Let Mama read.”

August 1857

A message on embossed writing paper has arrived. He has had her body cremated according to the custom of his race. Jonathan indeed. It takes more than an Anglicised name to make a civilised man. I cannot bear to picture it—my fair friend consumed by flames on a Hindoo pyre. I understand that he was important to her, but she was not his property to dispose of. It is done, & cannot be undone, but I will never allow him into this house again
.

The infant cries & cries as if he understands the heinous act committed on his mother. He is an unpleasant child, loud & malcontent. His hair is dark, & his skin already turns from pink to brown. He screams as if he knows he will never fit anywhere in this world. But he is hers, & I will care for him
.

August 1857

I am delirious with lack of sleep but afraid to call a wet nurse. I have heard too many stories of those who feed their own children whilst they allow the memsahib’s baby to starve. I give him goat’s milk whenever he demands it, but often nothing will quiet him. He is capable of screaming for hours, & nothing pacifies him
.

I barely know night from day with this infant’s incessant howling. When
I ask Lalita to do something with him she runs off, crying, herself only a child & traumatised by her memsahib’s death
.

So constant are the infant’s demands I cannot even grieve. Sometimes I imagine smothering him with a pillow, or throwing him against a wall. My thoughts frighten me
.

September 1857

Thank God. At last I have found a soporific for the tiny beast. I remembered Felicity’s supply of Mother Bailey’s Quieting Syrup & poured a tablespoonful in a bowl of goat’s milk, then soaked a cloth in it. He sucked greedily & his eyelids drooped in a matter of minutes. I believe opium is one of the ingredients & I must take care with the dosage, but the silence brings a relief so profound I could weep. I slumber with the insensible bundle on my breast & must admit that asleep he looks almost angelic
.

Felicity once told me that if she had a son, she would name him Charles. She considered it a noble name, & so I have named him Charles, in accordance with her wishes, & William for her father. I believe she would approve, although I am not at all sure this ill-tempered infant deserves a noble name
.

Jonathan wishes to see him. I suppose he has a right, but I simply cannot face this man who brought about her death & then robbed me of her body. Not yet
.

September 1857

The Mutiny has been put down. A message came from Simla saying it is safe to travel. I am free to go to Calcutta or even back to England, but why? There is nothing for me in those places, & certainly not with this brown child. I sit under the sandalwood tree with him in my arms, & his eyes try to follow the marigold I dangle before his face
.

Now that I have contrived a method to make him sleep, the world begins to right itself. In slumber he curls up with his knees against his chest, looking utterly defenceless, & something in me stirs. I have no words for it, something as great & ineffable as the Himalayas, but far more intimate
.

I have decided he is too small a being to support the weight of a name like
Charles, & so I call him Charlie. His grip on my finger is surprisingly firm. He is a healthy boy & Felicity would be pleased to know he did not contract her illness. Consumption is airborne & her death might actually have spared him. I sit beneath the tree, watching his chubby legs pump & his hands grasp at nothing, & I wonder how we will manage when he needs more than goat’s milk & Mother Bailey’s
.

Felicity’s annuity will cease when news of her death reaches Calcutta. I do not know when it will happen, only that it must. I have no means of my own, & have not communicated with my parents since I refused to go to Calcutta for the season. My instinct is to pray, but to which god, & for what?

September 1857

Jonathan has asked again to see his child, but I am not ready to face him. I know I must forgive. I must stop being angry. Harbouring anger is like taking poison & hoping it will kill the person who has made you angry. I must put these poisonous feelings to rest, but I need time
.

I have summoned the fortitude to go through Felicity’s things & will donate her clothing to the mission. I will keep her ivory & jet brooch to remember her by. Sometimes she wore it to fasten the folds of her sari & we laughed at the incongruity. I called her the Hindoo memsahib, & I can still see her face shining with mirth as she pinned it
.

I have found messages from Jonathan in the form of poetry in her almirah—loose notes on all sorts of paper. His notes are written on his embossed stationery, & early drafts of those she wrote for him cover pages torn from her sketchpads. They were all folded & tucked in with her intimate things
.

September 1857

Jonathan has sent money, a generous amount, & though I find it uncomfortable to accept, I am at a disadvantage, expecting Felicity’s income to cease at any time. I am compelled to accept his charity, but something in me shrinks from it
.

He has asked again to see his child & even as I struggle with his request I hear Felicity’s gentle admonition from beyond the grave—do not judge
.

Charlie can focus on the marigolds now, & he grabs for them with wiggling fingers. I am taken by his perfectly articulated fingernails, & by the delicate whorls & crevices of his small, faultless ears
.

Today, I think he smiled at me
.

October 1857

I have had him christened Charles William. I wrapped him in a soft cashmere shawl of green paisley & took him to Christ Church in a tonga. I had sent a message ahead, & the minister met me at the font. It was a quick unceremonious affair with no one in attendance but Lalita & me; a sprinkle of sanctified water, a few words spoken in a monotone, & a name inscribed in the church record
.

I could not think what surname to give him. Chadwick would imply that his father is unknown, but I could not bring myself to hang an Indian name on him. I feel he belongs to Felicity & me. Perhaps this was wrong of me, but he is simply Charles William. To me he is Charlie
.

Money continues to arrive regularly, along with repeated requests to see Charlie, & I feel myself softening. It would be a relief, actually. I would enjoy showing Charlie off, his twinkling eyes & impish smile. Lalita carries him about, singing quietly, & Hakim cooks him sweet rice porridge & makes a great fuss over his plump cheeks
.

I am certain that Charlie smiles at me, & most charmingly at that. He is a handsome child
.

November 1857

Jonathan sent a long & earnest letter. He begged to see his son in the most moving & respectful language, & I am at a crossroads. I must put aside judgement & anger, knowing that this letting go is the price for an untroubled heart. I have decided to invite him to tea, & it is easy to imagine Felicity’s wonderful sudden smile at my decision
.

However, Jonathan did indeed contract Felicity’s consumption. Now I must find a way to bring Charlie & his father together whilst protecting Charlie from infection. It is reasonable to assume that as the child of two
people with consumption he will not have my immunity. I must give this dilemma a good think, for I have resolved to let Jonathan visit
.

Diwali, the triumph of light over darkness, has come again & Charlie watched in wide-eyed wonder as we lit the lamps. Whilst Charlie & Lalita watched the fireworks, I wrote Jonathan a gracious invitation to tea with the stipulation that he cover his mouth & nose & not touch his child
.

November 1857

I do not understand how such a tiny creature can keep me so busy. When he is asleep, I confer with Hakim about his diet, & with Lalita regarding his cloths & nappies. I instruct the dhobi (repeatedly!) to use only the mild soap I provide, & remind the sweeper to remain alert for scorpions & snakes. I personally make sure the legs of his bed always sit in dishes of water to prevent insects from climbing up, & I caution the servants to boil not only the drinking water but also Charlie’s bathwater lest some enter his mouth. Then I walk to the godowns to ensure the goat’s milk is fresh & the ponies are fed. All this must be done whilst he sleeps, because I want to be with Charlie when he is awake. I have neglected my journal & feel the tiny rascal has usurped my life
.

But there is no doubt that Charlie smiles at me—he smiles a good deal now—& sometimes I fancy I see something of Felicity in his suckling face, but surely that is only my imagination. He has his father’s complexion, black Indian hair, & dark, dark eyes
.

I feel a profound satisfaction when he quietens in my arms. I believe he must think I am his mother. Do babies think? In any case, I suppose in some sense, I am
.

He is a beautiful boy, & I begin to understand why poets sing of motherly love
.

November 1857

Jonathan came yesterday. We sat on the verandah & when Lalita brought Charlie out he unwound the end of his turban & covered the lower half of his face. I held Charlie up, an arm’s length away, & he surprised me by saying
,
“He looks like her.” I stared at Charlie’s cocoa skin & silky black hair, & then I saw it, the thing that made me fancy I saw something of Felicity in him. There is irrepressible joy in Charlie’s eyes
.

December 1857

Christmas approaches & I think of England: roast goose & carol singers in the snow, wassail & a kissing ball with mistletoe. I sing “Hark the Herald Angels” to Charlie & he stares up at me with such purity of expression that my voice falters
.

Last night, with Charlie asleep, a fire crackling in the grate, & the house as silent as snow, I gazed out at a full moon & a fierce loneliness seized me & brought me to my knees. In that moment, I wished Jonathan were with me, simply to share memories of Felicity & delight in Charlie’s perfection. Tears stung my eyes as I took out my writing paper & hurriedly wrote Jonathan another invitation to tea
.

December 1857

I took a hacksaw & cut pine boughs from a tree behind the house. I have fashioned a rather crude kissing ball, nothing so elegant as those Martha made, but it will suffice. I raised my hands to my face to smell the resin on my fingers, & I began to weep. I cried for a good while, then I washed my face & decorated my kissing ball with cloves & woody cones plucked from the blue pines. It hangs now in the drawing room, & I have crocheted a gift for Charlie—a yellow jumper
.

On Christmas morning, I entertained Charlie with a poem from my own childhood, & I smiled at the last two lines because they sounded like Charlie & me:

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly elf—
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself
.

Charlie didn’t understand a word, but the singsong rhythm made him lie still in my arms & stare up at me. I held him under the kissing ball & when I pecked his tender cheek, he grabbed my hair to pull my face to his. It was the finest Christmas gift I have ever received
.

That night he slumbered in my arms & there was no sound except the house settling in its corners, a sound to exaggerate silence, & it was enough
.

January 1858

Felicity’s annuity has ceased & I am now entirely dependant on Jonathan
.

He has accepted my second invitation & will come tomorrow, but his handwriting is shaky & I wonder how quickly he is deteriorating. Of course, I have Charlie, but he has no one. Can grief hasten one’s demise?

January 1858

I met Jonathan on the verandah with Charlie in my arms, but my smile faded when I saw him struggle up the steps. He is gaunt & grey & already leans on a walking stick. Still, his face broke into a smile & his eyes filled at the sight of his son. I could not put Charlie into his arms, but his eyes devoured the small, perfect face, the dimpled arms & curled fingers. But the poor man fairly collapsed into a chair as I set Charlie in a basket & Khalid served the tea
.