The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  In the end it had been a very successful day. Jennifer had helped her to get kitted out sensibly for the office and for evenings, with clothes, shoes, bags, rainwear and toiletries. She had taken her round carefully so that she could retrace her steps to the shops if she wished to add to her wardrobe. They lunched at a small Italian restaurant, enjoying lasagne and salad washed down with glasses of Chianti and tiny cups of strong coffee.

  Jennifer had then taken Dwita to the pied à terre she and John owned, a two-bedroomed flat, on the fifth floor of a massive apartment block on Royal Hospital Road. Though small, it was cosy and had plenty of light streaming through bay windows. Boxes of geraniums bloomed on the window sill. It was expensively and comfortably furnished, with gilded mirrors giving a feeling of space. There were a few good pieces of Renaissance and modern art on the walls, a few ornate bronzes on the mantelpiece and shelves. The Parkinsons had both the taste and resources to be able to live well – there was nowhere the obvious thrust of the nouveau riche, only the quiet enjoyment of the good things of life.

  The day had flown pleasantly until the reality of her medical appointment dawned on her, bringing a sense of nervous foreboding. Jennifer took her to Harley Street, where John Parkinson had his clinic. John somehow seemed like a stranger behind his desk, now the image of a consultant, aloof yet reassuring. He informed her that Janet and Rusi had written a letter explaining the circumstances of the conception, and had sent a doctor’s note on Nishith which included relevant details of his family history. At the end of their lengthy discussion he asked, “Why did you wish to go ahead with it, if, as your doctor, I may ask an unethical question?”

  “I wish I knew – perhaps my upbringing primarily, or a helpless feeling of responsibility to a living foetus. I now wonder if I was wrong and overestimated my strength and capacity for endurance. It is too late now, in any case, to reconsider.”

  “Yes – you have to go through with it now, there is no choice. But I am afraid your decision is going to cost two lives metaphorically – one is yours and the other is that of the unborn. You are condemning yourself to a life shared with a constant reminder of that nightmare event. As for the child, it too may be struck down at some point by the inherited insanity, or it may be normal but in the unhappy position of living with one parent who is incurably ill and the other for whom it is a burden. Quite frankly, I shudder at what lies ahead of you, Dwita,” he said, shaking his head. He was not making it any easier for her.

  “I feel confused and helpless, John. I know all of you are right, Dr Mitra said the same – yet I could not give it up at that time, something prevented me from doing so. Maybe time will take the edge off the bitterness in my heart and will teach me to accept or even grow to love the child of my nightmare. I do not know, John, I can only wait and hope for a miracle to happen.”

  “Let me examine you in any case.”

  He was satisfied with her physical condition and said all was well. She had to come back a month later. He was going to register her with a private clinic near Waverley for emergency purposes. It was run by a colleague where he took his own cases sometimes. But Dr Mitra had arranged for her to be taken to a clinic in Switzerland nearer the time of her confinement. Meanwhile, she was going to work with Ernest Reed on her programme for about twelve weeks, and thereafter live and work quietly until the time came. Afterwards, it would be up to Rusi to decide where he wanted to post her next. She noted what John had to say and decided not to question him further. She was both embarrassed and confused.

  Once the consultation was over he had relaxed and they left the clinic together, to return to the flat. Jennifer had insisted on her sharing an omelette supper with them; later Dwita took a taxi back to the hotel with all her packages and carrier bags, overflowing with booty from the day’s shopping spree.

  The hotel porter carried it all up to her room, she tipped him, closed the door and shut the world out. She read the messages left for her at reception – one from Ernest Reed asking her to return his call, and three from Christopher. She decided she was not going to contact him yet, not without thinking things out. Their effect on each other was obvious, but she found him far too irresistible for her liking. She was quite powerless against it, and what was even more frightening was that she enjoyed sinking into it, drowning in it, knowing full well there could be no future in it. Moreover they knew very little of each other. She did not wish to speak to Christopher about her previous existence or present calamity. Nor did she wish to find out anything about him that could spoil the only dream (or perhaps the illusion) that she was now left with.

  She picked up the receiver and asked the operator not to put through any calls. Then she changed, picked up a paperback of no consequence left perhaps by an earlier occupant of the room and curled up in an armchair for an evening’s thoughtful repose.

  The next day she stayed in bed until nine, sipping the coffee that had been brought up to her room and eating a croissant from the côrbeille full of freshly baked rolls and pastries. She packed two more carefully in a paper napkin for later. She had phoned Ernest first thing and he had gone through her programme of visits for her approval, so that he could telex messages to various host organisations. He had asked her to dinner that night which she had accepted. She deliberately decided to stay out of the hotel in order to see some more shops and also to avoid Christopher, so she wandered around, sat on park benches nibbling at her pastry and then finally ended up at the Victoria and Albert museum to view the India collection. She was trying to keep herself busy, to keep her mind off Christopher, but when she returned to the hotel around six in the evening she found him sitting in the foyer with an air of determined patience. She knew she had no choice– he had already seen her coming in and was now walking towards her.

  “I had to come in the end and I also made up my mind to wait until your return.”

  “Shall we go to the lounge and share a pot of tea? I am exhausted from all my wanderings in the corridors of London museums and shops.” She tried to sound casual and light-hearted. He followed her to the lounge at the end of the foyer, chose a corner seat by the window of the oval room and signalled her to sit down beside him.

  “Yes, by all means, let’s have a cup of the English cure for everything,” he said rather ruefully,“ I am sorry if I offended you the other day. But I didn’t mean to – I hope you understand that.”

  “You have not offended me in any way, Christopher.”

  “Then why did you not return my calls? Why did you forbid the operator to put me through to you? You have been avoiding me, Dwita!”

  “I felt that was the best thing to do in our present circumstances.”

  “You felt I had moved too fast? I couldn’t help it – though I realise that coming from a different culture I had perhaps been a bit too hasty, and maybe indiscreet.”

  “No, Christopher – believe me, it has nothing to do with our differing cultures or any indiscretion.”

  “Then what?”

  “There are reasons on my side which it may be best not to discuss. We hardly know each other.”

  “But that should not prevent us from getting to know each other. We can surely talk a little about ourselves?”

  “It isn’t quite that, Christopher – you must believe me.”

  “Then what?” he said again. “I cannot bear this suspense any more. We should tell each other something of our lives – let’s begin with me–”

  “Let us begin with some tea.” She knew she was trying to postpone the moment of confession, but Christopher obligingly called the waiter and ordered tea. Then, looking at her unblinkingly, he began, “Well, I am a management consultant in the firm of Ashton, Browne & Hastings, married – yes, quite definitely married,” with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I have two children, both boys. And you?”

  “My situation is not so simple and cannot be put as neatly into a nutshell as you have done.”

  “You mean you don’t wish to tell me.”


  “No, not yet – I must have time to consider.”

  “All right, tell me when you want or feel able to do so – I honestly do not care what secrets you have. I am interested in you as you are – can we not be friends, at least? You can call me Chris.”

  “Yes, but that is all you can expect from me for now. Chris, I would truly like to be friends with you, I would like it very much, but it is only possible to continue our friendship with limitations it may be hard for you to accept.”

  “There’s no harm in trying, is there?” He was attempting a lighter note.

  “No, no harm at all.” She smiled back at him.

  “When can I see you again then?”

  “I start my training tomorrow – I promise to call once I know how Ernest is scheduling my time.”

  “How about dinner tonight?”

  “No tonight – I am dining with Ernest. He is important as he is my local sponsor.”

  When Christopher left she sat there for some time, wishing she had never met Nishith, never had to bear the onus of her traditional upbringing on her weakening shoulders – and above all she wished had never met Christopher Ashton. She felt very despondent.

  She dragged herself upstairs, showered and changed for dinner and sat down to write to her mother and to the Wadias. She had already cabled her safe arrival.

  *

  The dinner with Ernest Reed had been pleasant and uneventful. It was good to be able to put a face to the man she had known through letters and on the phone for some time. He was stout and broad, of medium height with a jovial face, clear blue eyes and a shock of pale blond hair that he kept pushing back from his forehead in an involuntary gesture. He represented successfully an impressive list of organisations with varying interests. He also had the loud, voluble speech of a cheerful salesman and loved to hear the sound of his own voice; he did most of the talking whilst Dwita played her part of attentive listener. Her programme was discussed at length and seemed well-structured and useful, though heavily concentrated. Apart from a few special attachments, she was to attend an eight-week course in general management at a reputed business school near London. The shorter attachments would concentrate on practical experience in departments of various organisations. Most of the programmes would be residential, which meant that she would be able to avoid familiar faces for some of the time. Her condition was making her increasingly self-conscious. Ernest had given her a lift after reconfirming arrangements for the next day, dropping her safely at the door of the hotel.

  Dwita retired early, but could not sleep. She could not get Christopher out of her mind or even out of her subconscious. He was there like a permanent nightlight and she found herself reasoning with him senselessly until the small hours. She felt somehow that it was not a one-way transmission but almost telepathic in nature and content. She definitely seemed to receive answering vibrations from him, as though they were operating on a two-way wavelength.

  As the night wore on, she grew increasingly aware of the strength of her emotional attachment to him and of the sheer happiness of it all. They had met only a short while ago, but there was now no doubt in her mind that she had fallen in love. She realised that she, who had never loved anyone before, never given an iota of herself to anyone except what had been taken by force, or given in obligation, was ready to give all of herself without stinting or withholding. There was something in him that magnetised her and she felt no urge to pull herself away. She made up her mind to see him again as soon as possible and confide in him – tell him everything, absolutely everything. This was a risk she had to take, she could not deceive someone she loved and see him gradually lose faith in her. If on hearing her out he decided to withdraw, it would be his choice and she would accept it.

  She felt more at peace in the morning, having accepted her weakness and decided to live with it whatever happened… She arrived on time for her appointment with Ernest Reed and they were locked in a meeting for a couple of hours. She had also been given reading notes to brief her on the programme and the organisations she was going to visit. All this kept her occupied throughout the morning. Before lunch, the telephone rang just as she was about to pick it up herself to put a call through to Christopher.

  “Who rang first, you or me?” a familiar voice said at the other end.

  “You, I believe. You have beaten me by a few seconds.”

  “How very telepathic! You mean you actually remembered to call me?”

  “You were never forgotten. Will you be my guest to dinner tonight?” she said.

  “No, you will be mine.”

  “Ernest is going to keep me busy until six I think, so shall we say seven-thirty at my hotel?”

  “Fine – see you then. Thank you, Dwita,” he said very quietly and put the phone down.

  She was awaiting him anxiously in the foyer when his car stopped for a minute at the door, and he peered to see if she was there or if he would need to park. She waved at him and slipped into the car. He gave a small whistle. “You look beautiful in black – and unattainable.”

  “Thank you – is that a compliment or shall I go and change?” she teased him.

  “You sound more friendly today – am I forgiven?”

  “You never needed my forgiveness.”

  “I thought I was in the dog-house?”

  “You put yourself there – I did not send you.”

  He laughed happily and took her hand briefly. “We should have gone in chauffeur-driven comfort then I wouldn’t need to keep my eyes fixed on the road – I think even a London cab would have been a better choice tonight.”

  They were both relaxed and happy, the previous day’s tension seemed to have dropped away – they chatted on until they had arrived at their destination. She did not know the area, Christopher said they were in the heart of South Kensington and the restaurant was French – quiet and exclusive. She liked it instantly. They were taken into a small parlour, warmly furnished in bear-brown and cream, where they could have aperitifs – they chose a place near a terrace door and ordered martinis. The menu appeared and they chose the same courses – paté de foie en croûte and darne de saumon en sauce d’oseille, with a good bottle of Chablis. They both declined dessert at first, then weakened at the thought of a sorbet-citron flamed in whisky. The coffee was excellent.

  Although it was a gastronomic evening, their minds were not often on the food. Initially they said very little, enjoying the silence, with mutual warmth and understanding. They then gradually began to unwind and chat, and Dwita broached the subject of her reticence and hesitation. She told him about her life, from the day of her meeting with Nishith until now, only leaving out the most painful details of her prolonged humiliation at his hands and her submission to maternal blackmail. She somehow could not bear to relive those moments with any guarantee of self-control – in retrospect they seemed to hurt terribly.

  Christopher heard her out, not saying a word, only touched her hand occasionally to reassure her and continued to look at her steadily. When Dwita had finished, he only said, “Please forgive me for my insensitivity earlier – I wish I had known.”

  “Would you then have stayed away?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No – but I would have behaved differently.”

  “Please do not blame yourself. I have told you everything because I feel it will be wrong not to do so. You had to know everything in order to appreciate the reasons behind the permissible terms of our friendship.”

  “It changes nothing for me,” he said, “but what are you going to do with yourself? You cannot destroy your life, give up all your hopes and aspirations for a man who has deceived you, tortured you and will in any case spend his life in an asylum? It would be criminal of me – of all of us – to see you drift away into an impossible and absurd way of life just because of promises given in ignorance. There must be a way out for people like you – surely you can consult a lawyer?”

  “Do not upset yourself for me. None of us in the world are blessed
with unadulterated happiness – most of us have our individual crosses to bear, Christopher. Have you not one as well?”

  “I suppose you are right – yes, I do. In principle, I should now be home with my family or away on holiday with them, instead of spending my evening with another woman – in the eyes of society I am adulterous and deceitful. But I am paying today for my early mistakes and youthful stupidity. I have been married twice, divorced once, and now I continue to live in a marriage which in truth ended long ago, because I cannot steel myself to go through the nightmare of another divorce.

  “I married at twenty against all advice, a woman much older than me, a Polish emigrée teaching at my university. She was lonely and I was young and available. She also knew that I was not poor. We both soon realised it had been a mistake and she began to drift towards other men. But she would not grant me a divorce for ages. She wanted money and in the end I gave her most of what I owned to buy my freedom. In the process I lost the love of my friends, my parents and of course sacrificed most of my financial assets – not to speak of the two years at university which I had to catch up later. However, I was not a quick learner. I managed to retrieve the lost years of academia, but I never caught up on common sense.