Under the Jeweled Sky (20 page)

The palace seemed very far away. For two days, Sophie and her father had traveled, crossing the vast expanse of India's central regions, heading east, over the heartlands of Madhya Pradesh, then into Orissa, almost as far as the Bay of Bengal. Under the hours of darkness, as the sleeper train crawled through the landscape, Sophie would watch the moon from her bunk, listening to her father's steady breathing, the carriage clattering slow and heavy from track to track, rocking her gently as the moon shone down on her, full and white, heavy in the night sky, the film of dirt on the window smudging a dewy halo around its glow. While watching the moon, Sophie thought of Jag, under this same moon somewhere, bathed by the same blue light that rendered everything beneath it so fragile.

The journey passed in a haze. Trains and rickshaws and waiting rooms and functional meals eaten without either of them noticing what was served or which town they were passing through as they neared their destination; the place at which she would be left to bring her child into the world. Last night, they had reached Cuttack and had stayed in the
dak
bungalow, where Sophie had lain sleepless again through the darkness hours, listening to her father's breathing, wondering if he too were awake, dreading the prospect of tomorrow.

At noon the next day, they arrived at the mission, its door set firmly into the windowless rust-red wall that ran half the length of the narrow street. There could be no mistaking it, the landmarks all as described: the stonemason's workshop on the previous corner, the flame tree with the missing limb. The street was quiet, one small tributary in a maze of winding passages that ran like a catacomb off the beaten track. The door to the mission was much larger than all the others, with an ornate frame, a square viewing hatch set within it. The aged wood, wrung out by the arid landscape, bore tendrils of cracks where the sun had baked it dry. The masonry around it had decayed here and there, but that was to be expected for a wall of such age, and its general fabric seemed in a far superior state of repair to most of the other buildings that crammed the street. A tangle of electricity cables, threaded precariously from house to house, fed the erratic power supply. Dr. Schofield checked the piece of paper on which he had written the address. He found that his hand was shaking, and he struggled to decipher his own handwriting, then examined the door again.

“This must be the place,” he said. He recognized it from the description, the carved flowers cut deep into its timbers, but apart from that, there were no outward signs to announce its existence, no plaque on the wall, not even a name. It was all exactly as the shopkeeper had said, pointing them in the right direction while eyeing the suitcase he carried and the young woman who stood nervously at his side, knowing why they were there. Everybody here knew what that house was.

Dr. Schofield knocked on the dry wood with the head of his cane and concentrated hard on the door, willing it to open quickly, unable to look at his daughter, to see the fear and uncertainty on her face.

Sophie leaned a hand briefly against the wall to steady herself on the uneven ground. It had been a wearying morning, the last leg of their long journey a jolting, sickening ride in a hopelessly inadequate cart drawn by a ripe-smelling camel. She felt wrung out and so tired that she would happily have lain down in the street if she thought it would bring her some respite. Sleep eluded her at every turn. She would lie awake night after night, tossing and turning, listening to her baby, unable to imagine the fate that awaited them. She had heard about these places, where fallen women were made to scrub floors and work in steaming laundries and were forced to suffer every humiliating waking hour in penance for having conceived, regardless of how and by whom. She had considered ending it all. She could kill herself, but that would have meant killing the child too. His child.
Their
child.

Perhaps she had known all along what she was doing, that night in the water garden, but in that moment nothing could have stopped her. She had wanted to, and she had wanted him. She had yearned for him with every bone in her body, and although she had known that she would surely pay for it for the rest of her life, she didn't care. But the baby, the baby she had not thought of, not for a moment. It had never crossed her mind, and now she would have to bear the consequences. The baby felt it too, unsettled inside her, sensing her fear. And now they were here, at the place her parents had refused to discuss, the place that had been referred to only as
going
away
, her father staring at an imposing door in a sprawling town set within a barren landscape, unable to look at her.

From somewhere deep down, Sophie's panic began to rise. She could burst into tears and throw herself upon his mercy and beg her father to take her home. He would be unable to refuse her. He had been nothing but kind to her from the outset, and he would surely not let her down now. But she couldn't ask it of him. He had been crushed by the news, his face contorted as though he had been punched in the stomach. She had broken her father's heart, and the shame of it had eaten her alive. She couldn't even look at him, because every time she did her eyes would fill with tears, and she too would feel her heart breaking.

She had thought about her father every day during those years he was away, watching out for him constantly in the hope that she might see his figure appear in the street, tall and handsome in his uniform, dropping his kit bag and scooping her up, swinging her around as she smothered him in kisses. And then it seemed almost as if she grew up overnight, and that she had become the woman at the door, waiting for the man to return from war, her mother staying in the house as she always did. In their misshapen normality, father and daughter would embrace on the garden path, and she would lead him into the kitchen where her mother would stand from the table and look at him as though he were a stranger. Then her mother would turn her back on him and prepare something for supper, and a cloud would descend upon them all. It was the same black cloud that had descended the morning Dr. Reeves had told her father that she was in trouble, when Sophie's mother had flown at her in the drawing room, first with a stinging slap that had knocked her to the floor, then with a rain of blows that seemed to go on for ever until her father finally dragged her off, kicking and screaming. Sophie's bruises had been terrible, and her father had had to make something up about how she had tripped on the hem of her dressing gown and fallen down the marble steps outside their apartments.

At least he had been there to intervene. Sophie thought of the child growing inside her and found herself thinking of all the occasions when there had been no one to protect her from her mother's fits of rage, like the time she had picked up a tortoiseshell brush and broken it over her head. Sophie had dared to flinch while her mother tore through the knots in her hair, so she brought the brush cracking down and said, there, that'll give you something to cry about. It didn't happen when her father was around. Sophie could breathe easily then, his presence alone enough to ensure her safety. Not that she had ever said a word about it to anyone, but sometimes her father would go quiet, frowning over the top of his newspaper, then ask her to come closer so that he could take a look at the back of her legs, or the top of her arms, or a bump on her head. Sometimes he would bring out his doctor's bag and let her play with his stethoscope while he dabbed with cotton wool or applied a little ointment and gave her a special bandage tied with a bow. And then her parents would not talk, sometimes for days. Not that Sophie minded. It heralded better times when they did not speak. Her father would keep her close to him, taking her for outings, perhaps to have a glass of lemonade in the local pub while he enjoyed a pint of beer, or to visit a friend of his, to see a man about a dog as he liked to say, although rarely was a dog ever involved. She would be with him all the time, barely seeing her mother at all, but then the war came and he was sent away, and the cloud descended once more. Now the cloud had returned, and this time Sophie knew it would never lift.

Out in the noonday sun, Sophie realized just how parched she felt and wished that she had accepted the cup of sweet chai from the shopkeeper. She could have sworn that she had put a small flask of drinking water in her bag before they set out that morning, but where it had got to was anyone's guess. She concluded that she must have either forgotten to pack it in the first place or left it behind at the
dak
bungalow with the kind lady who had sung to her softly and helped her to dress while she cried her eyes out.

The January sun seemed much fiercer out here in the narrow street, the close proximity of its high walls trapping and baking the air. Dr. Schofield knocked on the door again, a little harder this time, and looked around self-consciously as the rap from his stick amplified around the ancient houses that lined the other side of the street.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself. He jolted as a bucket of water was thrown from a nearby window, splashing to the ground a few yards from their feet. Even as it moved toward the gulley it began to evaporate, the dark marks of the furthest droplets disappearing almost instantly. Sophie squinted up at the faceless window and felt herself dissolving. She looked back at the door anxiously, knowing that she would not be able to stand for much longer. The baby was asleep inside her, unmoving. She stole a glance at her father's reddening face. He sighed at the door in exasperation. Perhaps no one would come, she thought, and they would have to turn back. She closed her eyes and prayed.

Light footsteps approached. The sound of a bolt being thrown. The viewing hatch opened and a woman's face appeared behind the fretworked screen.

“Yes?” she said, peering out to see who had dared to knock on her door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the glare sufficiently to take in the two figures standing before her. She seemed too busy to smile and looked at them with suspicion.

“Is this St. Bride's mission?” Dr. Schofield asked, holding up the slip of paper.

“Who are you?” The woman came closer to the screen, checking the street in both directions. From behind the door they could hear evidence of occupation, that constant, dull cacophony when there are too many people in one place.

“There's no sign on the door,” Dr. Schofield explained. “I wasn't sure if we had the right address.”

“What do you want?” the woman asked.

“My name is Dr. George Schofield, and this is my daughter, Sophie.” He paused a moment. “I think you're expecting us. It's very hot out here,” he added, removing his hat to display his fatigue. “Might we come inside?”

The woman assessed him for a little longer, then slammed the hatch closed. In a few moments, the heavy timbers were heaved open on a hidden hinge that seemed to split the door in two, as though one entrance had been secreted within another. The woman stretched out her arm to aid Sophie's negotiation of the step, bringing her into the cool of the shade beyond the thick stone wall. Dr. Schofield climbed in behind her.

“You must excuse me,” said the woman, bolting the door shut and finally offering them a smile. “We get some unwelcome visitors here. There are still a lot of people who don't approve of our activities and try to make trouble for us. Here,” she noticed Sophie's fatigue with concern and urged her to sit on the cool stone block that ran the length of the wall, “let me bring you some water.”

Sophie sat gratefully and pulled the sari from her head, using her hand to fan herself a little. The air was less unforgiving here, and she took a few moments to rest and take in her surroundings, sitting beneath the shade of the deep archway that passed under the building. A few yards ahead, it appeared to open out into a small square courtyard that dropped down through the center of the house like a hidden cloister, where a squabbling group of sparrows bathed in the overspill from a stone water trough fed by an old hand pump. Sophie breathed deeply, taking in the thick scent of dry dust and rich spices that clung to the inner walls.

The woman returned carrying a clay jug and two cups. Tall and lean, with jet-black hair and pale, translucent skin peppered with freckles, she sat down beside them and poured some water before handing a cup to each of them. Dr. Schofield guessed that she was not quite Indian, a woman of mixed blood. Sophie took her cup and began to drink, gulping down all of it, and nodding gratefully as the woman refilled it for her. Dr. Schofield sipped at his cautiously.

“Don't worry. I haven't given you the water from our well,” she said with a smile. “It doesn't seem to agree with everyone. This has been boiled.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said, returning the cup to her. “Gosh. That's so much better.”

The woman gave her an approving nod. “Dehydration is a very real danger. You must remember to drink plenty.”

“This place certainly took some finding,” Dr. Schofield said.

“We don't exactly advertise ourselves.” The woman poured some water into the cup Sophie had used and quenched her own thirst. “Where have you traveled from?”

“East,” Dr. Schofield said evasively, frowning briefly to himself. “Although we are from England.”

“I can see that.” The woman laughed, a big, generous laugh filled with white teeth. “But isn't this rather out of the way for a…” She paused, suddenly embarrassed. “Never mind. It just seems that you've traveled a very long way only to find an overcrowded, tumbledown house. We do our best,” she said. “It's not too bad at the moment, but there are times when we've been quite overrun. Forgive me for the way I answered the door. We have to be careful of reprisals. Nobody ever wants to admit that a girl doesn't get into that condition on her own. Some are raped, sometimes by members of their own family.” She spoke matter-of-factly, unruffled by Dr. Schofield's evident discomfort. “Others have been led up the garden path and left in the lurch. You know how these things are.” She smiled at Sophie. “We don't ask questions here. We've seen it all before.”