A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar (38 page)

I turned to my luggage so that he could not see the expression on my face. Victoria Station’s shuttered roof stretched its cathedral arches above us in great strips and outside I could hear rain drops, clamouring as if wanting to be heard.

‘You didn’t bring the desert weather with you, then?’

‘No, Mr Hatchett – Francis,’ I said, turning back to face him, ‘I have left the desert weather behind.’

38.
Eastbourne, Present Day

Henry’s Café, on the promenade

‘It won’t survive,’ Tayeb said, stirring his tea.

They were sitting on white plastic chairs outside Henry’s Café looking out at the sea which was flat and unimpressive. The tide was far out and didn’t seem as if it were in a hurry to come in.

Thoughts of Frieda’s work, her flat, her life clustered at the edge of the day but she banished them, as much as she could. It was sunny, but with a coolness in the air. They had walked along the neat, refined seafront promenade towards the undistinguished café at the bottom of white, spiked cliffs. Not talking much, but touching each other, lightly all through the day, hand on an arm, an elbow; a stroke of the hair. His hands were rough, and quite small, and she felt she could cherish them, if she were allowed to. When they did talk it was mostly about the fate of the owl. Frieda didn’t mention the letters.

‘But I do wonder if we should let it go?’ It was in Nikolai’s lounge at the moment, with a blanket over it. Nikolai had instructed one of his kitchen staff to feed it something raw.

‘I tell you Frieda, it won’t survive.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Frieda said. ‘Surely it will make its own way, out there in the world? It must have survival instincts.’

‘It would be cruel,’ he said. ‘Freedom would mean it would die.’

Frieda’s teeth dug grooves into the rim of her polystyrene cup. ‘Is that a euphemism, for you, I mean?’ He smiled.

‘Keep it,’ Tayeb said, ‘and if it becomes too much for you take it to a bird sanctuary.’

‘You’re right,’ Frieda said and, surprisingly, it was a relief not to feel she had to free it.

Behind Henry’s Café a chalk path ran up to the top of the beginning of the Downs and they made their way up it, slowly. It was the path that led to Beachy Head. The sky was low as if half-lit, odd, but once up on to the flatlands on the top of the Downs, they could see right out to sea. Frieda walked towards the edge of the cliff, hesitantly. Tayeb followed. Once she was a metre or so from the edge, she turned and called to him.

‘Be careful, it sometimes crumbles as far back as this.’

Frieda sat down on the grass, feeling a slight wetness rise up through the fabric of her jeans. She knelt forward, on hands and knees, and crawled to the edge of the cliff.

‘Come on,’ she said.

Tayeb did the same, on hands and knees, and when they were both at the edge they lay down flat on their stomachs, and allowed their heads with stretched necks to lean out over the end of the grass and chalk. It was an endless distance down to the sea where the waves bashed at chalk rocks. A sensation of vertigo shivered through her, but it wasn’t unpleasant. How small they were, together, and how together they felt, with their necks stretched over the edge of a cliff, looking down at the smashing, clashing sea on the shingle.

Evening cast a wilderness light over the civilised garden beds along the seafront. Frieda stood next to Tayeb as they watched the sea coming in. The tide had moved up the shore at an incredible rate and with the sound of shingle dragging up, and dragging down, taking away with it all the lies she had been told as a child, the guff about open marriages and love, her mother and her father and the cut tongues. All of it drained away into the gaps around the pebbles and Frieda fancied she could change things. Move, from the city to the sea, perhaps, to another sort of life of less travelling, fewer empty hotel rooms, less continual movement in circles away from herself.

‘You could come to Amsterdam, if I make it there?’ Tayeb said half to Frieda, half into the wind.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I could.’

39.
Letters in an envelope, tucked into the index of a book

January 30th, 1924

Acacia House,

17 George Street,

Hastings

Dear Francis,

We are settled in the boarding-house, and we are grateful. It is clean, the landlady cooks well. We shall be comfy here and will venture forth into the New Year nicely. The town is windy, bright and has everything that a seaside place should: cliffs, long stretches of beach, the smell of sea-kale and lavender. There is an old fishing quarter – the Old Town – with alleyways and fisherman huts and piles of ropes and tackles. There is a coastguard cottage and Irene and I are grateful. Thank you so much, is what I mean to say. When will you be returning?

Yours,

Evangeline.

Next, one page of a letter:

you for the books. They will be useful for distraction purposes. I think that Mother has finally conceded that we will not be returning to Southsea, though, she quite rightly points out that there is not much advantage to Hastings over Southsea. I have thought that myself. I am working very hard on the final manuscript; you’ve strengthened me. I am so grateful for your reassurance. The task of pulling together the remains of my thoughts and memories seems somewhat overwhelming on occasions. Today, for instance, I could hardly set one word after another; it was as if each time I attempted a word a desert-ghost would ambush me – I sound ludicrous, I am aware. Heaven knows, I am sure you don’t care a rap about these details, you just want the book finished! How can I ever thank you? Irene gets fatter and happier still.

And the next:

March 30th, 1925

Black Rock House,

Stanley Road,

Hastings

Dearest,

So glorious it looks: real, full of pages, actually here. I am moved – really, you can’t imagine how much – to look at it. Its existence is down to you. You perhaps will never quite understand how much I thought of you when in Turkestan; how much your commission meant to me. The fact is, now, you are also my dearest friend. You say that Emily finally understands, that you ‘sponsor’ Irene? I do hope so, darling. Tell me if there is more I can do? There is a small problem with the nurse, we can discuss when you come.

A peculiar thing: I found Millicent’s bible this morning, in my drawer. I hadn’t put it there, I am not quite sure how it got there but seeing it stirred up all sorts of impressions of her and it is a curious fact that I think of her more than I do my sister. I can’t quite say why that is. She has left a mood, almost a scent on my life.

Yours,

Evangeline.

Frieda flicked through the series of telegrams held together with a clip:

IRENE ILL. DOCTOR HERE. COME.

THURS AT 11 IS BEST. BRING THE PACKAGE.

I WANT TO SEE YOU. E. IRENE KISSES THE PICTURE AT NIGHT.

October 7th, 1926

Black Rock House,

Stanley Road,

Hastings

Beloved Francis,

Mrs Reckham told Martha that it was ‘common knowledge’ all about the town. I admit, at moments like these, I find our arrangement a little difficult. It is not – my love – that I resent the making of this ‘second home’ as you call it. I want to make the place for you, indeed, I find joy in creating this still place, away from all the wants of your wife and children and the flibbertigibbet of London – I think often of what you said about the pavements coming up, the heads talking all at once as if full of demons and the air smelling of cider gone bad – I speak as if I know London life, when, how could I? Kept as I am, here, with Irene, at the sea.

I am sorry. I should be happier. Irene is round and happy and loves Martha as far as I can tell. I mustn’t send this letter to you, Darling. All the worries you have. The work to keep the house a home and furniture and the fire, the kitchen supplied, all calm for your visits, in the end, in the night . . . This is just a passing mood. Forgive me.

Bless you and keep you,

Yours,

Eva

June 21st, 1945

Black Rock House,

Stanley Road,

Hastings

Beloved Francis,

Your lovely long letter came and I felt calmed and happy. I’m glad that you have been resting and that Emily, too, is better. Early mornings are best for work; work without looking up until one and then after lunch, relax. It is a much better system than your previous way. Did you get my cable? Irene is due back any day now. She was cross with me for not rallying after VE day and I tried to explain that I felt it inside, a liberation of sorts – or, a dignified sense of weary victory, if one can put it that way – but if I am honest, I merely felt as though I were looking out of my window at a broken piece of glass. I took a walk along the promenade which is covered in barbed wire and hooks, with sandbags propping up the edges, it was dreary; quite empty.

I could not shake an image of Irene in the flat on Regents Park, with her candlesticks in the fireplace as if it were perfectly normal that the windows were knocked out; those dreadful friends: no electric light, no water for her bath. Those things she said to me, ‘Eva, I can never reach the places you have been to. How am I supposed to?’ She said she found me ‘suffocating’. I believe there is a special gentleman somewhere, but she tells me nothing.

She will be coming back to live with me here in Hastings now the war is over. I fear that it might be difficult for us to accommodate each other again after this time apart. I am nervous, darling, but I suppose we shall get along. Perhaps she will not stay for long? I am sure she will travel, go to the places she talks of. One can only hope that the world will open up again now for the young.

This uncanny, brilliant sunshine gets wearing, and I miss you. Ought you not come and meet up with me next month?

Meanwhile, all love,

Yours,

Evangeline.

40.
London, Present Day

Victoria Station

Victoria Station was a rush of commuters beating each other to the prime seats. The air was hot, frenetic and Frieda stood, conspicuous with a large birdcage in her hand, waiting on the concourse to take a train to the sea. Her flat was sub-let, her report submitted. She had asked for, and was granted, a sabbatical; a window, a pause, to live by the sea.

‘But what are you going to do?’ colleagues asked her, after they had together spent two hours in a strategy meeting that resulted in a list of action points that did not resemble or refer to any actual action, or point. She made noises about research and hinted at personal projects but said no more.

‘The youth of the Islamic world will simply have to struggle on without you,’ they said.

She was rather an expert now at feeding frozen mice to the owl, which, as the print-out warned would happen, had ‘attached’ itself to her and had taken to hooting through the night, thinking, sadly, of Frieda as its mate. To be friendly, to be a sport, Frieda hoots back. She has left a husband to his discontented wife and their three boys.