The Sandalwood Tree (28 page)

PLEASE DO NOT HANDLE THE ARTEFACTS

I glanced out to the lobby. An Indian bearer stood at the open door, watching me, but when I met his eyes he quickly looked away. The men playing snooker had moved around the table and had their backs to me. I opened my purse and nabbed the mauve journal with one quick swipe. I snapped my purse shut and moved the doilies and antimacassars to cover the blank space, then strolled back to the bar.

Walker was saying, “God forbid Gandhi kicks the bucket on one of his fasts. Each side will start blaming the other. All they have to do to stop a train is to park a cow on the track; then they can board it at their leisure and chop ‘the enemy’ to bits. And they will.” He pinned Martin with his eyes and said, “I’m telling you, my man, this is not a good time to go to Lahore.” He gestured at Martin’s clothes and his noxious bidi. “At least, not looking like that.”

Back at the Cecil, we found Billy spooned around Pal, sleeping with his head on Lydia’s lap. She stroked his hair, and her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. I wriggled the puppy out of Billy’s embrace, and Martin slid his arms under Billy’s knees and shoulders. Lydia reluctantly handed him over, gently, like something precious and fragile. She gave us a detailed account of everything he had done, how many ginger cookies he had eaten, the cocoa he had drunk, the stories they had read, the adorable things he had said. She handed me a bottle of calamine lotion, saying, “This will help the mosquito bite on his left leg.” I had calamine lotion at home, but I took the bottle and thanked her.”

She continued to fondle Billy’s hair as he dozed on Martin’s shoulder, and absently asked, “You had a nice evening?”

“We did.”

“I’m glad. Bring him back again. Anytime.”

As Martin and I moved toward the door, I said, “That’s kind of you, Lydia.” I wanted to say, I’m terribly sorry about your boy, but I said, “Thanks again.”

Lydia followed us to the door. “When do you think you might have an evening out again?”

Martin and I exchanged a coded look. He said, “Soon. I’ll call you.”

“Please do.” She followed us out of the room, and watched us start down the stairs. “You know, you could leave him overnight if you like.”

“Not tonight, Lydia.”

“Another time then.”

“Yes. Goodnight.”

“Remember,” she called. “Anytime.”

After we had tucked Billy into bed with Pal, Martin said, “Did you see that smile on his face?”

I shuffled record sleeves and said, “You’re still going to Lahore tomorrow?”

“Please don’t start. I’m tired.” He took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s my job.”

I put the records down. “You are not a soldier or a journalist. It is not your job to put your life in danger. What about Billy and me?”

He put his glasses back on. “Don’t get hysterical.”

“Why can’t you go somewhere else? Why can’t you wear Western clothes? Why can’t you smoke Lucky Strikes or Camels? You want to hurt yourself, but you don’t care that you’re hurting us, too.”

“Of course I care!” Martin massaged his forehead. “Jesus, Evie, I love you and Billy.”

I dropped onto the sofa and lay my head against the high back. “Then why?”

He stared at me a moment, and I thought I saw something happen behind his eyes. But he only mumbled, “You’re getting worked up over nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s late. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He was right. It was later than he knew. “Fine,” I said. “Go to bed. I’m going to read a while.”

He stood there for a moment, with his arms limp at his sides, but when the silence became oppressive he slouched away, and I heard the bedroom door close. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my feet up on the sofa, then I opened my purse and pulled out the journal I’d stolen from the Club.

September 1858

Mother’s letter arrived yesterday. She says she is delighted to hear I have come to my senses about marriage & she has just the chap for me: a fifty-year-old bachelor accountant. She enclosed a photograph of a pig-eyed fat man with no hair. My heart sank when I saw him &, knowing he has never been married, I presume his personality must be as unpleasant as his appearance. His income is modest, but this match will get me out of her house & save her the embarrassment of a spinster daughter about whom there may have been odious rumours. Still, I hugged Charlie & said, “We’re going home!”

Then I read, “But surely you understand that you cannot bring a whore’s half-breed bastard into this house.” I read it three times & questioned whether I might have forgotten to include Charlie’s photograph with my letter. But I did not forget. She closed by saying, “There must be orphanages in that godforsaken place.”

I shall not see my parents or England again
.

October 1858

Charlie has taken his first steps. He grows more spirited daily, but I am unnaturally fatigued. I sink back on my pillow after chota hazri, & must drag
myself through the day. I nap when Charlie naps & still, at night, I fall into my bed & sleep overtakes me almost before my head meets the pillow. But sleep does not refresh me. Every morning, I wake achy & exhausted
.

The station doctor came, almost sober this time, & poked & prodded. He says I suffer from an abscess of the liver. “Filthy business, but not contagious.” Then he remembered to say, “Awfully sorry.”

“But what’s to be done?” I asked
.

“Well, we will bleed you, of course, & then we will see.” He mucked about in his black bag, eventually producing a brass lancet & a bowl to catch the blood. “Let’s have your arm, then,” he said, coming at me with his knife. I remember a sharp pain in my forearm & shockingly red blood pooling in the white enamel bowl. The next thing I remember is waking to the smell of rose water. He was gone & Lalita was bathing my arm. She said, “Let me bring a healer, memsahib. This bleeding business is no good.”

I smiled & I told the dear girl to go ahead & bring her witch doctor
.

October 1858

The witch doctor turned out to be Lalita’s mother, Anasuya. She is a pretty woman who has a gold pin embedded in one nostril & a melodious voice that I find calming. After spooning a truly vile orange liquid into my mouth, she brought Charlie to me. I was too weak to hold him long, & she comforted him when I gave him back & he cried. She & Lalita now sleep on the verandah & together they care for both Charlie & me
.

My skin has developed a jaundiced hue, my urine has turned brown, & I itch. The itch is an unrelenting torment that cannot be scratched away. This bizarre affliction does not respond to any of the medicines I brought with me. Anasuya bathes me in cold nilgiri tea for the itch. It helps, but not for long. I must endure
.

October 1858

Fever waxes & wanes, & I have developed an ache on my right side. Anasuya continues to nurse me with bitter tisanes & strange herbal concoctions, but they have not helped
.

All day she & Lalita run between Charlie & me, God bless them. But worry weakens my spirit as surely as this disease wastes my body. What will happen to him if I die? Will Anasuya take him? She could not even feed her own daughter, putting her into service as soon as possible
.

And Charlie is a half-caste. What will become of him?

October 1858

I can no longer rise from my bed. It is an effort to hold my pen. I lie here thinking of all the sordid backstreets in India overrun by starving urchins, ragged & begging, sleeping in gutters, eating from garbage heaps. Felicity said a four-year-old girl is worth two horses in Peshawar. I suppose they would take him at the orphanage, but I have never seen a child there over the age of nine or ten. What becomes of them?

Anasuya brings Charlie to me twice a day, & after she takes him away I weep
.

The rest was blank. I closed it and sat still in the moonlit room, feeling the pinch of grief. They died so young, and what about the baby?

Although Singh was a common name in India, wealth was rare. The odds of another wealthy family by that name living in Masoorla were slim, and the possibility that my landlord was connected to Felicity’s lover, Jonathan Singh, made my sleuthing heart beat faster.

Martin planned to leave for Lahore the next day on the three o’clock train. I couldn’t stop him, but I could take my mind off it by paying Mr. Singh another visit.

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September 1858

Dear Mrs Singh
,

I am deeply indebted for your support these past months, but now I must ask even more. I am afflicted by a malevolence of the humours & fear I will not live much longer. The child, your grandson, will have no home once I am gone. Might I impose upon you one last time? Could you find it in your heart to make arrangements for him? Perhaps you know of a family who would take him in & be kind to him?

Respectfully
,

Adela Winfield

I said, “I knew it!”

Mr. Singh unfolded the next note.

September 1858

Dear Miss Winfield
,

Before he passed away, my son asked me to provide for his child. It is not for me to judge Jonathan or Miss Chadwick. I am sorry to hear of your illness, but yes, Miss Winfield, I will make arrangements for the child
.

Also, I would like you to know that I did not withhold your friend’s remains due to any grievance on my part. My son committed her ashes to the holy Ganges. After his death, I did the same with his remains & with those of his wife, Makali. All three are mingled forever in the sacred water
.

In kindness
,

Charumati Singh

September 1858

Dear Mrs Singh
,

I was horrified by your daughter-in-law’s suttee. I will not pretend otherwise, nor will I pretend to understand such a custom. But I agree that it is not for us to judge
.

Lalita, the child’s ayah, will bring him to you after my death. I cannot bear to part with him sooner. Dare I ask that your kindness extend to her as well? Perhaps you could arrange for her to go with him, wherever he is placed. He is very fond of her, & he will already have lost two mothers
.