Of Marriageable Age (52 page)

Now that she had guessed it was obvious, so obvious she wondered why she hadn't realised it before. Of course.

Balwant Uncle. The exception to the rule. The man who didn't play by the rules. The only one of her male relatives who had ever shown an interest in Saroj, and more, had encouraged her and spoken to her as if she were real. Yes, and the only man to whom Ma responded, and who did not treat Ma as if she were air. Balwant Uncle teased everyone, true, but he had a special way of teasing Ma, respectful and yet somehow daring, and Ma responded to him — yes, she responded! Saroj felt excitement rising within. She recalled the way Ma reacted to Balwant Uncle's teasing: suppressing a smile, pressing her chin into her neck, looking away and yet glancing back at him coyly, in affection — and love.

How clear everything was now! Why Ma couldn't join him: he was married, happily, on the surface, and Ma was not a woman to wreck a family. Why Balwant Uncle was so fond of her, Saroj, and why she was so fond of him. Her favourite uncle. Her father. Of course. With a father like that… oh what a shame, and yet how splendid! She could not wish for a more likeable, more loveable father. She would write to him. Let him know, between the lines, that she knew, that she was anxious for a closer contact, yet willing to keep the secret from Kamla Auntie.

She wrote her letter, pages long and effusive, filled with innuendoes that Balwant Uncle could not but pick up. She addressed it, for the sake of the secret, to Balwant Uncle and Aunt Kamla. So deep was her disappointment when Aunt Kamla replied for them both, with nothing but a 'Balwant Uncle sends his love' at the end. Saroj did not write again.

Her only comfort after that was Trixie. Letters ricocheted between them, crossing and re-crossing in mid-air. At half-term they flew into each other's arms, and Saroj spent a day seeing the London sights with Trixie's family, and she and Trixie finally stepped, arm in arm, along Carnaby Street. But the three days sped by and before she knew it she and Trixie were weeping tears of farewell on a King's Cross station platform.

She missed the warm familiarity of Georgetown, the feeling of being an integral part of a whole. And yet, here she could grow, become that entity she had always missed and longed for — an individual, not bound by rules and regulations, not hemmed in by tradition and culture and a father's rule of law.

And so, huddled as she was inside herself, the new Saroj began to grow. She absorbed strength from her books; learning, she realised, lent her a power and a prestige and placed her in a world apart from her peers. She might be from a backwater colony, but here, in learning, lay her uniqueness: for here she was better than they, more focused, more determined, and here she could soar above them.

She might be without country, without nation, but inside her there was still a being that could exist and be free, that could simply say
I am
without adding a this, or a that, without saying I am Indian, Guyanese, English, or anything else in the world. She folded her wings closer about her in protection so that the inner self could grow. But while it grew those wings grew too: hard, impenetrable, shielding her from hurt.

‘I'm still undecided whether to study medicine or law,’ she wrote Trixie at the end of the first year. ‘You know my aim was always law, so I can really do something for Indian women back home. But will I ever go back? Everything's changed since Ma's death. And I hate the idea of following in Deodat's footsteps. On the other hand medicine interests me more and more, and as Balwant Uncle never tired of telling me, I have a mathematical mind. So I think that's it. I aim to be the best. Colleen's encouraging me to go to Oxford or Cambridge, but I won't. I like it here.

‘It took a bit of getting used to, though. The anonymous crowds, all those people who've never seen you and don't give a damn if you live or die. But what a relief to join them! To be really anonymous. Not to have anyone poking their nose into your affairs. Nobody saying do this or do that! It's a splendid isolation; all this personality business doesn't come between you and the rest of the world. What a difference!’

D
URING THAT YEAR
Saroj received two more letters from Gopal Uncle, both of which she ignored, just as she had the first. A long silence followed the last letter, and Saroj believed herself safe from Gopal Uncle's machinations.

She was wrong.

46

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

SAVITRI

Madras, 1941

G
OPAL WAS
in Bombay when the telegram came with news of the tragedy. He rushed to Savitri's side and brought her to Madras, to Henry and June. At first glance Henry and June knew she was a widow, for she wore the white borderless sari of a widow, and June took her in her arms to express condolence. But as she did so she looked at Henry, and her eyes spoke of relief, for they both knew what sort of a marriage it had been.

But then they saw the naked searing agony shining in Savitri's eyes, and the exquisite fire of bereavement that marked her features. Savitri told them, then, in calm words free of emotion, of Ganesan's birth, and of his death, and June sobbed and again gathered Savitri into her arms, and held her there silently. Gopal plucked Henry's arm and drew him aside, and said to him, 'It would be very kind if she could live with you. It would not be good for her to live in my brother Mani's home, for Amma is now dead and she would be alone with her sister-in-law which would not be pleasant. She cannot live with me for I am going back to Bombay where a promising career in the film world is opening up to me.'

Henry, still visibly shaken, nodded and said, 'Certainly, certainly. No question,' and now that June had released Savitri he brushed away a tear and hugged her, rocking slowly, comforting the girl he had once loved almost as a daughter.

'She has brought no garments with her,' Gopal said apologetically, 'but I will supply funds to make purchases. And I will supply funds for her lodgings and victuals.'

But June and Henry were not listening. They both held Savitri now, they held her sandwiched between them, their arms around her and each other, and they were not thinking of funds. David's presence was almost tangible. It was as if the raw youth David was still among them, crying out, 'I want to wait for her, and I want her to wait for me!'

As if that scene had been only yesterday, and there had been no deaths between then and now, no marriage, no rape, no beatings, no murder, no tragedy, no England, no war. But they all knew of these things, events that were the abyss between then and now, and the knowledge of them was like a finger on sealed lips.

A
FTER A WEEK
S
AVITRI
stepped over the abyss. 'Where is he?' she asked June, and June knew right away who 'he' was. Their eyes met; June reached out and touched Savitri's shoulder, and smiled.

'David is in Singapore, Sav. He's in the army.'

'In the army? But he was going to Oxford — he was going to be a doctor!'

'He did go to Oxford; he
is
a doctor. But then he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps, and, well, that's where he is now.'

'But why? Why the army?'

'Well, David's always known he'd work in the tropics — if not India, then somewhere else, and the Royal Army Medical College is simply one of the best places to get a training in tropical medicine. He went to Singapore as a lieutenant. I suppose he's a captain by now.'

'Singapore! Of all places! Why didn't he come home? To India?'

June shrugged. 'I think we all know, Sav. Because of you… He couldn't bear to come back, knowing you were married, and not to him. That's what he hinted. I suppose Singapore was as good a place as any. And I suppose that his knowledge of Tamil and of Indian customs would come in handy there, with all the Indian labourers.'

'But now I'm free, June! I'm free! We can marry! He can come back to India! There's nothing in our way now!'

But June shook her head. She got up to make a cup of tea, moving quietly around the little kitchen. She felt Savitri's mounting excitement, felt the need to dampen it.

'No, Sav. He can't.'

Fear shot through Savitri's features. 'He's not… married, is he?'

She looked like a little girl, sitting at the table gazing up at the elder woman with a plea in her eyes, the plea to make things right, to make things right just by saying them, a naïve little girl with no knowledge of the workings of the world, of the realities of the army. A little girl living in a perfect world where love alone counted, where love was the only reality. Affection welled up in June's heart. She walked over and placed a cup of tea on the table, then stood silently beside her, an arm around her shoulders. Savitri leaned towards her, pressed her head against June's hip, reaching out an arm to encircle her waist.

'Yes, Sav. David's married. He married just before joining the RAMC.'

Savitri's face, looking up so eagerly at June, sagged. Her body slumped. She said nothing.

'What did you expect, Sav? He's the last of the Lindsays. I expect he was pressured into it. There's a fortune at stake and they need an heir, you know! And you couldn't expect him to foresee that you'd be free, so soon!'

Savitri buried her face in her hands, still leaning against June's hip, the older woman's hand gently stroking the hair around her ear.

'I have to see him, June. I have to. I'll go to Singapore.'

At these words June kneeled down beside Savitri, took both her hands in hers, and hammered their clasped hands gently, insistently, on Savitri's lap.

'Savitri, Savitri. Listen to sense. Don't do anything rash. Don't give in to your impulses. He's married; don't barge in. Don't wreck his life. Don't make trouble. You'll only bring heartache on yourself. I beg you, Savitri — don't go chasing after him! He's
married!'

'But we were married first!' Savitri cried. 'We were vowed to each other! I've always been his and . . . and . . .’ her voice dropped to a whisper. It was as if the rebellious English part of her bowed before the accepting Indian part, the patient, enduring core of herself.

'I won't do anything, June. I only want to see him. Really that's all I want. I have to see him.'

June shook her head, trying not to smile. 'Oh, Savitri. You're so naïve. And you think David would want to be with you on those terms? Just
seeing?'

'I don't care! I don't know! I'll write to him! He'll come! I know he loves me, I do, I know he'll come the moment he…'

'Savitri, dear, you're overwrought. It's all the pain of recent years, I know. And now having to give up David. It's too much for you. But stop for a moment, think of it all rationally, and maybe in time you'll agree with me.'

Savitri shook her head. 'Never. I know it, June. I have to go. I just have to see him once more. Just once.'

'What will you do in Singapore?'

'I can work, June! I've got my hands, haven't I? If they need doctors they need nurses too. Volunteers, I mean, people who want to help, and especially in wartime. I can go, June, I must!'

'How will you pay for your passage? Did your husband leave you any money?'

Savitri shook her head. 'Money — no. We only had debts — he drank so much! But I've still got my jewellery. The gold ornaments Amma gave me for my wedding! I rescued them before I left my in-laws' place. I knew I'd need them. I'll sell them!'

'You'd sell your jewellery? Your heirloom?'

Savitri tossed her head in disdain. 'Gold! Pooh! What use is it to me, lying there doing nothing!'

'Sav, be sensible! You're a widow: you need to live, to build a life, without David. You're free of your family but you'll need a bit of money to start again, and…'

Savitri's eyes grew moist at the words
without David
but before the tears could spill out June looked at her watch and said, 'Oh Sav, I'm running late, Adam finishes school in half an hour and I promised to pick him up. Eric's been sleeping nearly two hours — would you be a dear and wake him for me, and entertain him a bit while I'm gone?'

Savitri nodded, quickly swallowed the last dregs of her tea, and left the room.

47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

NAT

London, 1969-1970

N
AT WAS FIRED BY A CERTAINTY
, a knowledge, that somewhere, soon, very soon, this very day, he would look up and see the girl from the train again. Never mind the chances of that actually happening being one in millions. Nat knew that somewhere, among the millions of people who lived and moved in London, spilling out of the Tube and onto the pavements, in and out of buildings, restaurants, homes, offices, colleges, shops, supermarkets, cars, buses, trains, cinemas, parks, discos, milling here and there like ants and separating and marching along the pavements in the great labyrinth of streets, tunnels, mews, terraces, avenues, gardens, crossing at the traffic lights, waiting on a platform somewhere under the ground, behind that newspaper on a park bench, standing in the queue at the Wimpy Bar, somewhere just around the next corner, entering the bus at the very next stop, was that Other, the Other that was, in fact, no other but his very own, placed on the earth for the express reason of completing that which was incomplete, filling that which was empty, entering the innermost circle of one's life to make it full and whole and round, giving it a centre and a purpose and a whole new way of being.

He had seen her, so he knew she existed. On a train bound for London. There, on a Southampton station platform, separated only by a grubby pane of glass and hardly two yards of air — space, vacuum, through which, if he could only have stretched out his arms, he might have touched her. He was aware of that same power stretching out, sifting through all the millions of strangers to seek her out. He felt, he heard, he sensed, he knew that another heart was also stretching out, that from above the mass of murky mind, the composite thoughts of the million strangers thrown together in those days in that place, rose a call that could not fail to be heard, and he strained to hear that call. His eyes were restless, searching the faces of passers-by for that one face, looking over their shoulders as if by some sudden intuition — There! Now! — scanning each crowd, fine-tuning his soul to pick up signals he knew were being sent. It had to be. It could not be otherwise. He prayed, he yearned, he cried out into the silence that echoed each prayer: Where are you? Come! Oh come!