Dignity Page 9

  I look over to the space where the snake was, on the floor we had polished assiduously just days before, and which has been quickly cleaned by the servants again. It looks freshly polished, empty.

  I try to thank Sajid next time B is out.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I am very grateful.’

  He looks at me briefly.

  ‘Not poisonous, Memsahib,’ he says, with a half-smile, and walks away.

  Oh I am such a fool!

  It is several weeks after B and I are married that I first realise I am pregnant.

  We have, with great difficulty, finally settled into our house in Darjeeling, having got rid of a positive infestation of mice and having installed bars on the lower windows and stationed a servant outside on the veranda at night ever since thieves came in and stole some of our best ornaments. The house finally feels safe. In fact, with the new window pots and our flowers from Bombay, it’s actually very pleasant. I don’t mention to B that it sometimes feels like an ornate cage, a cage in which his rather relentless passion for me makes me a tortured bird. He would be hurt, if he knew I felt this way. Indeed, I believe he does know, and, perhaps does hurt. I have turned my face away from his wanting lips rather too often, and have once or twice even recoiled at his touch. Occasionally I spy, beneath his dignified comportment, a faint faultline of selfdoubt, a hairline crack which will let in trouble. I can feel it, how trouble stands in the wings, as if waiting to serve us tea, guarding its fury.

  Every day I leave the cage for a walk. Usually with Mrs McPherson or some other of the society ladies, though I should like to walk much further than they’re able. Today Mrs McPherson and I are accompanied by Sajid because it is not such an established path and he must beat away the undergrowth so that we can walk freely. It is a relief to be out of the house.

  I take my botany book on these walks, and have acquired another from the bookstore. The Oxford Bookstore really is at least as good as any bookshop in England. It’s astonishing the number of plants and insects that I’ve never come across. I’m so happy, identifying them, taking cuttings to be pressed and set in my scrapbook.

  This must be the most beautiful place on earth. The hills, at this time of year, are splendidly lush with pasture and woodland, and flowers of all sorts. The land pleats and ribbons its way down into valleys dotted with the small, vivid houses of Nepali farmers, flowerpots set at each door. There are lush rivers too, laced with a rainbow of prayer flags, and even I can see that the water that springs out from these mountains is holy. It’s like Eden here. Eden with bars on the windows, and Mrs McPherson, unfortunately, for company.

  Mrs McPherson begins to talk about Sajid, although he’s walking just a pace ahead, can hear and, from what the snake incident taught me, understand fairly well.

  ‘Is he loyal, this man?’

  ‘Who? Sajid? I should think so. B has trusted him for many years.’

  ‘Only I’ve heard bad things of Bengalis.’

  ‘Really? I’m sure they’re as honest as any other men.’ I say it quietly.

  ‘I believe the Bengali is given to lying, far more than the Nepali, who is by nature very honest.’

  I’m embarrassed that she’d say such a thing, straight out of one of the old guidebooks, but Sajid must not have understood, because he just keeps walking, and doesn’t change his gait.

  ‘Women are advised against having them as servants, you know. They cause no end of trouble, fiddling the accounts and what have you, and are very lustful besides. Oh! It isn’t their fault. It’s in the blood.’ She looks at me meaningfully.

  I can’t listen to any more. ‘Sajid!’ I say. ‘This path is impossible. Let’s turn back.’ And I turn on my heel, without waiting for either my companion or my servant, leaving Mrs McPherson and Sajid behind. I can’t believe the woman would be so rude as to talk of a man like that in his presence! And imagine if Sajid did understand. My cheeks are hot at the thought.

  Sajid does make me uncomfortable, though I don’t know why. He seems so intelligent. And some of what Mrs McPherson says about him being of a lying type is true, for he doesn’t own to knowing any English, and yet I know, as fact, that he does. Still, I don’t care what Mrs McPherson says, I’m no attractive prospect to Sajid. He never so much as looks at me. Perhaps it’s worse than she thinks. I have a feeling that he views us with disdain. Looks down on us. Finds us lacking. And I can’t blame him. For I’m as useless here as an axe in summer.

  It’s what happens on the day of B’s birthday that makes B decide he no longer wants Sajid. We are all at the McPhersons, having lunch. Sandwiches and salads and pickles and drinks. It is pleasantly warm. B is telling tales of his exploits in hunting, his favourite tale being the story of how he was once accidentally shot in the arm by his hunting partner. He still has a shallow scar just above his elbow from the incident, and the scar, with its silver, angry bite, is about to be shown to the party. I’ve heard the story many times already, and besides, suddenly I feel unbearably hot and unwell. B’s voice is saying, ‘I was just running through the wood, after the stag, when a searing …’ but I hear nothing more, because the scene’s gone quiet and begins to darken inwards from the edges.

  I don’t know I’ve fallen, but when I come round I’m being cradled to the ground, safely in someone’s arms. My vision doesn’t clear immediately, although I hear voices around me, and am aware that there’s a scene. When it does become intelligible I realise that it isn’t B looking down at me, but Sajid. I’m in Sajid’s arms.

  B’s rushing across the grass towards us. He pushes Sajid away.

  ‘What’s wrong, Evie darling?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say tiredly. And then, after a silence, ‘I’ve never done that before.’

  ‘It must be the drink. You’re not used to it.’

  ‘But I haven’t had any!’

  Mrs McPherson’s saying, ‘Just sit there a moment, my dear, and we’ll get you some water,’ but already I’m getting to my feet. Telling them I’m all right.

  ‘I’ll go home in the car with Sajid,’ I say.

  I am surprised at B’s vehemence that I should not. He makes me stay with the party, although I can’t manage to be lively, and so I just sit, all afternoon, on their chaise longue, feeling rather ill and trying to count the days since I last bled, which, I’m certain now, have been too many. Eventually I fall asleep right there, and only wake in the morning, covered in blankets. The McPhersons evidently decided that I should sleep here. B has gone home without me and will come to get me in the car himself.

  ‘Himself? Why not just send Sajid?’

  I don’t know the answer until we’re home. Sajid has already packed and left. I try to ask B what happened, but he’s dismissive, and won’t speak of it.

  I ask for the doctor, and when he comes it is confirmed.

  We are so very delighted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Even if collapse sets in, and apparent death, hope should not be given up. Every effort to keep up circulation should be continued, many people having literally been brought back to life by devoted nursing. Hand-rubbing, hot bottles, mustard, turpentine, everything should be tried; stimulants and opium avoided, and ice given liberally; and also beef-tea iced to a solid.

  The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook,

  Flora Annie Steel & Grace Gardiner At the family planning clinic, I sit under the chlamydia poster and wait to be called.

  ‘Susheela … Gupta? Room 3, round the corner.’

  I walk down the corridor, the walls filled with noticeboards and health posters, push open the door. It’s a woman, thank god. She has short grey hair, glasses. She looks a bit school-marm, and I find myself thinking of Magda.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I say, sitting down. The word sounds made up. A language I’ve just invented. The word doesn’t attach to the feeling.

  ‘OK,’ she says. I’m glad she doesn’t smile, or say congratulations. ‘How d
o you know?’ She looks at me over her glasses. I feel thick and young.

  ‘I did a test.’

  She nods.

  ‘Was it planned?’

  I laugh. Then stop laughing and shake my head. She smiles grimly.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Sick. Tired.’ Desperate, I want to say. Fucking desperate.

  ‘Yep, afraid that’s normal,’ she smiles. ‘No pain?’

  ‘Sometimes. Just indigestion. My boobs are sore.’

  ‘That’s normal too,’ she nods. ‘Right then. Those tests are pretty accurate, so I’ll give you some information to go home with and book you in for a scan and blood tests.’

  It’s all so quick.

  ‘Can you give me information about an abortion?’ I hear myself say it. The room gets hollow and big.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it’ll be in the pack. Would you like to talk it through?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘And you’re feeling OK?’

  I shrug.

  She starts writing something. ‘So,’ she says, ‘even if you think you might not carry to full term, you should take these.’ She passes me the prescription. ‘Folic acid. And stay away from shellfish, prawns, eat tuna only once a week, don’t drink or smoke. Cut down on tea and coffee.’ She reels off the list of detailed instructions. I nod, with half an ear open.

  ‘All right then,’ she says. ‘Anything else?’

  I hesitate. I want to tell her about Mum, about Dad, about Ewan. But she looks in a hurry, and shifts impatiently in her seat, so I just get up and walk out.

  I’ve managed to get out of two shifts at Magda’s, but now I find myself walking towards her house with the pack from the doctor in my hand. Her house reels me in. I think of it, the way she said it: damned stupid Indian. Like most of the old people I work with, Magda’s territorial as hell about her heart. Perhaps that’s what makes her a fucking bigot. I didn’t tell the office about it, because she could just as well tell them about me. And she hasn’t. I can tell she’s not said anything.

  Her overgrown garden. Brambles across the path. They grab at me and hook into me as I walk past and I have to detach my tunic from them a couple of times. I should bring some cutters for those. Get at least the path cleared for her, and for us girls for that matter. She wouldn’t want it like this if she could come out here and see it. I correct myself. She could come out here. It’s not her body stopping her. Her chair has wheels. We’ve been told not to try. Just the thought of leaving the house makes her ill.

  I go into the galley kitchen, and boil the kettle ready to take her a cup of Darjeeling tea upstairs, which is what she prefers. The kettle here is slow, like everything else except Magda. As it boils grumpily, I clean some plates left by the last girl. We’re supposed to clean up after every meal, but the company only allows us half an hour to give breakfast, and often there’s no time left before the next person. I see from the tick list on the wall that it was Annette who was here this morning anyway. She’s barely coping with being back at work after the baby, so it’s no surprise to find the odd job half done.

  Magda’ll have had her breakfast and will be sitting reading a gardening manual or a book about exotic wildlife for hours. Painful to keep reading about something you can’t do any more and places you can’t go to. Or you’d think so. She reads National Geographic, but never goes past her front step.

  I walk up the stairs with a cup for her and a cup for myself. I wouldn’t normally have one myself. We don’t have time. And anyhow we don’t like them to see us eat and drink. We don’t like them to be reminded that we have bodies too, that might get old, although at Magda’s, I’ve broken those rules that keep me safe and private and cold already. There’s a pull in me, right from the belly, to see her. To take the information the doctor’s given me, and show it to her.

  She’s there, in the cruel chair. Her back to me.

  ‘Hello, Magda,’ I say. ‘It’s me. Susheela.’

  She doesn’t answer.

  I put the tea down on the table and slide its little wheels under her chair so that the tabletop can be moved right under her nose, and it’s only then, as I’m getting myself into position to start holding the cup to her lips that I realise her eyes are closed.

  ‘Magda?’ I say. ‘Magda?’

  The eyelids don’t move. Is she breathing? The house feels unsteady. I watch her chest. A barely there shift, a flutter at her wrist; yes, the tiniest flutter of breath and pulse. Her cheeks are very pale.

  ‘Magda!’ I say, louder this time. I take a hand to her shoulder. Her eyelids move slightly, but nothing more – or was that flutter the house itself, moving with my high voice?

  Chapter Twelve

  Dirt, illimitable, inconceivable dirt must be expected, until a generation of mistresses has rooted out the habits of immemorial years.

  The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook,

  Flora Annie Steel & Grace Gardiner

  As soon as I am pregnant it is open house. Mrs McPherson comes almost every day and bosses the servants, telling them it should be this way and it should be that way. This is how you make lemon curd. This is the best way to make gravy. Don’t be dirty. Your trousers are badly made, these linens are not properly pressed, keep your eyes down, and have some respect. She says these things to the servants in my house. It’s improper to stop her.

  ‘You must keep an eye on them,’ she says. ‘You must keep them in line.’

  What line? I don’t even know the parameters of correct behaviour here myself. Polite society closes around us all like the cover of a manual, and we line up, numbered pages, obedient and limited, each in turn.

  She seems to use the chance to get closer to me, or rather to approach the delicate issue of my wardrobe. Today she comes in, and asks if she might arrange my closet, and then proceeds to take out every garment I own and examine the cut, asking what style it is based on, where I obtained it, and whether this is the cut the girls are wearing at Home. Thinking at first that she’s here to criticise my style, a slow understanding comes that she is, in fact, poaching ideas for her own closet. I begin to wonder how long it is since she has been to England because she seems to know so little of fashion as to think that I am up to date. The very next time she comes she wears a dress identical to one of mine which she has had made up by a seamstress in town. I notice that a couple of other women, since I arrived, have also changed the fit of their dresses to match my own. It seems I am the latest arrival, and so the bastion of fashion, at least for this season.

  It is odd how these women think of Home. But I am beginning to understand it. As Home gets further and further away, the memories seem to sweeten, to refine, their backdrop becomes more brilliantly clean, more fresh and more luscious. And against that backdrop I myself begin to dull. I feel less and less the person that I was, the schoolteacher with her class of children. I try to remember how awful the English winters are, and that the summers themselves can be so glum. But still I find myself dreaming of sitting in my mother’s kitchen, shelling peas, with light flowing in through her net curtains and the sound of children playing outside, or of being with Helen, sitting in the back of the bakery, watching her stir or mix or knead. It is always that kind of thing. Some idealistic vision of Home which I know can’t really exist. I’m aware, as Mrs McPherson is, of how my skin and my clothes and the very guts of me are being worked on by this India, how it’s in my bones, and how in my bones I am slowly less and less of what I was. So that I can understand how Mrs McPherson grasps at straws, would be so excited by a dress pattern that is current at Home, current in a place present and now and yet a part of what we once were.

  Partly because of her eagerness to poach, I still can’t encourage her to have a real conversation with me. I have barely found out where she’s from, though I believe it’s somewhere in Kent. She has no family worth speaking of, and seems to prefer me to think that she had no life before this, which is clearly untrue. Mr McPherson is ugly and n
ot the type to marry far beneath him, so she must have been something already, but will not say. Instead, she likes to talk of fashion and recipes and my health, which she guards lavishly with homemade medicines from The Complete, the time-honoured manual she swears by. She has her female servant make these potions from the recipes, and insists that I take them although they make me feel even sicker than before.

  Finally, as we sit in our sitting room one day, she does tell me something. She tells me that she is a mother.

  ‘Goodness! But I didn’t know!’ I’m quite taken aback. ‘How old is the child?’

  ‘He is six. No, seven,’ she says, her fingers working urgently at the pleat in her skirt.

  I’m a little surprised that she is unsure.

  ‘He’s at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you will see him in a few weeks’ time?’ The schools in Calcutta break up a little late, and so the children do not come up into the hills until later in the season.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘We shall see him some time next year.’

  ‘Next year! Why so long?’

  ‘He’s in England, Evelyn. It is not so easy to get to them.’ Her voice is a little sharp, pinned down at the edges.

  ‘England!’ My voice is high. Too high. It sounds judgemental, I can’t help it.

  ‘Of course.’ She has become cold and aloof.

  I’m staring at her. I can’t stop. Seven is so young. I knew that the children were sent Home eventually. But seven!

  ‘It’s the best thing, and entirely normal,’ she says, her voice cracking as she says it. After an awkward silence, she gets up and takes her leave. Now I understand why she doesn’t like to talk of her life. Better to talk of nice frocks and keeping house than of a child across the sea who is missing his mama. I could never do what she has done, no matter how customary it is. I know too much of how children can suffer with bad parenting, or parents who are absent. At my school we had several little bastard children who came from the Barnardo’s home, and, although we were as kind as possible, they never thrived without the individual care of a parent.