A House Called Askival

by Merryn Glover

  ‘There’s no need,’ he said.

  ‘She’s not here, you know.’

  ‘But I am!’ she spat.

  ‘Oh Piyari!’ James startled.

  ‘Oh – come now…’

  But she was gone.

  He took a few steps after her, then stopped and watched her crashing up through the forest. Crying, broken.

  He knew if he pursued, she would run further away.

  Had it always been like this?

  He saw her sitting on her bed, about four years old. Spanked and banished from the table for refusing to eat. He’d gone in to make peace. There she was, elfin face white as stone, bloodless lips pressed together, arms buckled across her chest. He knelt and put his hands on her knees. She flinched.

  ‘Piyari…’ he began softly. Beloved. She glared at his hands.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, hating the edge in his voice.

  Her gaze slid up. Grey-green eyes, flashing and hard. Like scales.

  The mist was thick around him now and murmuring rain. He shivered, pushed his hands into his armpits and looked back at Ellen’s headstone. When she died it was like all the burdens of his life had poured down upon him. A stoning of the spirit. He had stood alone at her grave and wished to be dead.

  In truth he was not alone. The funeral was attended by hundreds, but for all their hymn-singing, kind words and cups of tea, they were as good as the gravestones to him. On the phone, Hannah had cried, but couldn’t come because she was about to give birth. And Ruth. Well, Ruth was, as always, unreachable. He had endured it with a bitten lip for so many years, but when it came to her mother’s death, he had bellowed. Not at Ruth, though he wished to. Nor at Hannah, for she already knew. Nor, indeed, at anyone who had anything to do with it.

  At someone else, entirely.

  ELEVEN

  It was three weeks after Ellen had died, and James could not get the Landour Community Cookbook to sit flat. Every time he lifted his hand, the page turned by itself and he lost the recipe. Because the book was so old, many of its stained pages had been taped together, and while some of the tape had lost its stick, other bits were newer and tenacious. Like this bit, which sat in such a way that the pages tugged and would not lie open. He yanked the straying page back, slapped his hand on the central margin and rubbed hard.

  ‘Stay!’ he barked.

  Tuna Hash by Patty Lutz. It didn’t look difficult. He could peel a potato, beat an egg, open a tin of tuna. But tonight he could not do it without rage. The potatoes smelled like the soles of his hiking boots and were so small and gritty they lost half their weight in peeling. As he tried to grate them, one slipped and bounced right away so that he sliced a shred of skin instead. A smear of blood shone on the grater. When he went to find a bandaid he realised he didn’t know where they were kept, so pressed a wad of toilet paper against the cut and returned to the recipe. Baking Powder. Where was that? A left-handed rummage in the cupboard produced an empty box.

  Ellen would not have allowed this. She had noted down whenever a household item was running low; she had kept lists. Of everything. He was still finding them.

  Must Read

  The Cloud of Unknowing

  Les Misérables

  Christ of the Indian Road

  The Four Quartets

  She had suggested they read the same things and talk about them, but he had maintained that novels were a waste of time. When she explained she wasn’t thinking of novels alone, but poetry also and spiritual writings, he replied that the Holy Scriptures were more than sufficient. It silenced her.

  Just as Stanley had always silenced him.

  Projects

  Plant out flower pots

  Baby quilt for Hannah

  Cookbook introduction

  There had been many projects and plans over the years. Especially when the girls were at Oaklands. She said she liked to keep her hands busy, but he knew she was just trying to fill the gulf. That if her hands were occupied they might forget the two small bodies they longed to tend; the bathing – from soft faces to dusty feet – the braiding of hair, the blessing of foreheads in quiet sleep. But the hands did not forget. They ached with the memory and at night in her dreams she would sometimes grasp him and cry out, as if she were drowning.

  Her last project had been the updated edition of the Cookbook. Leota had intended one, all those years ago, but it had been swept aside in the aftermath of the tragedy, like everything else. Fifty years later, when James and Ellen left the hospital in Kanpur and settled in Landour, Ellen came across a dusty file of Leota’s notes and recipes in a mission godown behind Morrison Church and got excited. She gathered a small team of editors for regular meetings in the Community Centre, and roamed the hillside collecting recipes from the motley crew of residents. There was the Dutch vegan woman with a shaved head and expertise on bean sprouts, the Anglo-Indian Brigadier who could name the joints of a wild boar (if only one was still allowed to shoot the damn things!), the fourth-generation khansamma from Goa bringing coconuts and a Portuguese twist, and the ancient spinsters, Dorothy and Iris Winshaft, who had never been to England but preserved the legend of it, as passed on by their mother, like a pickled egg. Their eyes misted over when they recalled Mummy’s Devilled Fowl and Celery Fritters, not to mention her Macaronie a la Teddie and – oh! – her Roly-Poly Pudding. The Book was unfinished when Ellen died.

  Along with her neatly labelled lists, she always had several small scraps of paper lying around which James knew to be her daily, scribbled, on-the-spot, Must Remember notes. They turned up in the pockets of her cardigans, in her Bible, on pin boards.

  phone Hill Queen

  get Vicks

  Bible Study prep

  Paul Verghese for supper

  write Ruth

  Despite Ruth’s rare and unsatisfactory replies, Ellen had continued to write to her and Hannah every Sunday afternoon. Tucking two sheets of blue airmail paper and two sheets of carbon under a page of her diary, she recorded the events of the week. It was cheerful, homey stuff. New paediatrician at the hospital, wonderful music this morning at Hindustani church, the dog roses in flower. No mention of James’ dark days or her own quiet struggle.

  When she had finished, she took the first airmail sheet and wrote at the top, ‘Dear Hannah and Derek’. As the years went on, she added Miriam, Elijah, Caleb, Noah, Damaris, Zachariah and, finally, Jethro. ‘Such beautiful names,’ she would say, and James could hear the yearning in her voice. She only saw them once every three years on furlough and almost ate them alive with her hungry eyes. On another sheet of paper she answered any letters they had sent, of which there was always at least one. Hannah wrote regularly and had her brood organised on a “Write to Gramma and Grampa” rota.

  At the top of the second carbon copy, paler and a little smudged, Ellen wrote ‘Dear Ruth’. At the bottom, she paused. James would watch her trying to think what to say, sitting at her little fold-down secretaire in the corner of the living room, staring into the garden. She generally settled for something uncontroversial. ‘It’s great that you’re exploring again.’ ‘Hannah said you’re helping out at a women’s refuge.’ Or a veiled hint: ‘Hope this gets to you, as we’re not sure of your address right now.’ She had learnt not to ask for more. Expect little and you won’t be disappointed.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  By the time she died, most people around her were using email, but it was not for Ellen. She wanted the paper her loved ones had held, the handwriting, the enclosed photographs, the sticky artwork. She kept them all, the sacred bundles of her daughters’ letters, tied with ribbon and tucked into labelled shoeboxes. They dated back to the girls’ first weeks at Oaklands, when they could barely write and most of the page was taken up with a drawing.

  In the early years, she’d felt the welling of tears at each letter’s arrival, even when the news was good and they seemed happy enough. But if ever they spoke of illness, or missing home, or crying in their beds at night –
which Ruth so often did – Ellen’s tears spilled down her face and into the crevices of her neck. Sometimes she begged James to let her go to them. Always he refused. The girls were just fine and would turn out the better for it. And how could she abandon the streams of impoverished mothers on the maternity ward just because she was missing her own girls? Was she placing herself and her own family above the needs of others? Above the calling of God? All the great mothers of the Bible gave up their children. The mothers of Moses, Samuel, Jesus. Indeed, the great fathers also. Think of Abraham. Think of The Heavenly Father Himself! It was the ultimate sacrifice and surely the sign of a godly parent and the highest love. And if the Father knew when each sparrow fell to the ground, would he not also care for their daughters?

  So Ellen learnt to staunch her tears, to write cheery letters, to smile and wave bravely at each farewell. She never knew the wells of James’ unshed tears, the depths and darkness of those wells, or the great stone that lay across them.

  When he discovered the empty box of baking powder, James crushed it in his fist and threw it, along with the soggy grey mass of potato, into the bin. The Landour Community Cookbook he hurled at the wall and for supper he had fried eggs. Again.

  He washed up in scalding water, splattering Ellen’s old apron and letting his hands swell and flame an angry red. His eyes stung, throat burned. Leaving the dishes on the drainer, slippery with soap scum, he carried a cup of coffee to the living room. It had grown dark, but he did not bother to turn on a light. Setting the coffee on a table beside him, he sank onto the tired sofa, his head falling to his hands. It was soundless, at first. Just a juddering of the ribs and choppy breath, but then it rose till he was shaking and flooded with tears. His sobs pushed him deep into the seat, dragging his shoulders, bending him double as their beating got louder. Louder and faster. Not just in him but beyond him, where it was also a rattling and a voice.

  He held his sobs. The beating went on.

  There was someone at the front door.

  His breath rushed out on a gasp and he looked around him in the dark room.

  Pound, pound, rattle, rattle.

  ‘Sahib!’ the voice called.

  James froze. The voice. His hands clenched the crumpled fabric of the apron, heart raced. That voice.

  Impossible. The man was dead.

  ‘Doctor-sahib!’

  But it was his voice. James got up and made for the back door, legs shaking. He would slip out through the garden and down the hill, escape this madness, run out into the night and never come back. Just as Aziz had done.

  But in the dark he kicked over the small table and there was a crash as his coffee hit the floor.

  ‘Sahib?’

  James turned slowly towards the voice, his breathing heavy, body tense. At last, lifting the apron to the mess of his face, he wiped his eyes and squeezed the dripping end of his nose and made his way to the door. With shaking hands he drew back the bolts. Top, middle, bottom. Three hard scrapes of metal against metal, like the cocking of a rifle.

  TWELVE

  It was Iqbal. With a tray of tea and toast. Ruth stood blinking at him, still muddled by sleep, a shawl clutched around her.

  ‘Chotta hazri!’ he beamed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Little breakfast,’ and he slipped past her to lay down the tray. ‘You can have in bed, if you like.’

  She scratched her head. ‘Um… What time is it?’

  ‘Six-thirty, beti.’

  ‘Oh god.’

  His face fell. ‘Too early? I am mistaking. I wait three days – but you are not overcoming the jet lag?’

  ‘No, no, you’re fine. I just wasn’t expecting… Thanks. But you don’t have to—’

  ‘Pleasure is mine, beti!’ He smiled again.

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  His eyes and mouth went round, anxious.

  ‘I just…,’ she said. ‘They remind me of someone… Not so nice.’

  His eyes narrowed, head nodding slowly.

  ‘Accha,’ he said and brought a dimpled finger to his mouth. ‘Not uttering again.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They stood in fragile silence. Ruth felt acutely conscious of her bare legs sticking out under the fringed shawl. Pasty white legs, prickly black hairs. As if suddenly aware of them also, Iqbal bowed his head and scuttled out.

  Ruth added chotta hazri to her list of Things to be Changed.

  It was one small victory she did achieve, though she lost the larger battle over the sleeping arrangements. Iqbal insisted he was up before dawn every day and would cause her no end of disturbance if she was sleeping on the sofa. It sounded like he would do it on purpose. However, when she hid all the tea towels and waved the last one at him like a flag, he was forced to honour his promise that she could help in the kitchen.

  ‘I’m using this and you’re not having it,’ she crowed. He stared at her, nostrils flared, eyes sparking. Then his face softened.

  ‘I surrender,’ he sighed, bowing deeply and gesturing to the wet dishes.

  James, who was watching from the table, shook his head, lips tugged into a small, crooked smile. For a long time he had tried to help as well, but Iqbal’s protests had triumphed. ‘Doctor-ji is paying all the bills – the food even! – and not charging the rent, so he must leave the house-keeperly things to Iqbal. Is the fair thing, only.’ James was deeply uncomfortable with Iqbal performing the duties of a servant, but the man had insisted he was not: ‘I am friend, only,’ he’d said. ‘A brother. Like wife even!’ and he’d winked. James had thrown up his hands in defeat.

  But Ruth was not easily defeated. Along with washing up, she pestered to learn Iqbal’s cooking. He was most happy to teach her! The desi khana – the Indian food –however, was all in his head and she had to scribble down his tangled instructions as they went along. Half of it was delivered in song, the other half in riddles.

  Garam, garam, garam masala,

  Dhaniya, zira rakhiye!

  Khana rani ke liye,

  Bahot mazedaar chayiye!

  It was exasperating, but Iqbal would just chuckle.

  ‘You have to learn by heart, Rani Ruthie,’ he chimed, holding up a finger. ‘There’s no other way.’

  The western recipes were easier, as they all came out of the Landour Community Cookbook. Ruth went quiet when she first saw the book with the faded green cover lying on the kitchen bench. It was a week after her arrival and Iqbal had promised baking. The book was battered, with a broken spine, and speckled with grease and yellow-brown stains. She turned the pages gently. Some were held together with sticky-tape, others torn. Everywhere, her mother’s neat, small handwriting.

  Delicious! Or, Too much sugar. Or, Re-heats well.

  Next to a recipe for Chocolate Brownies she saw Hannah’s round hand: First prize at Hobby Show! and a host of smiley faces. There were several recipes by Grandma Leota: Ham Scrapple, Good Plain Butter Cake for the Hills. And a couple of pages had dog-eared corners: Omelette, Macaroni Cheese, Tuna Hash.

  ‘The Doctor-ji’s,’ Iqbal explained. ‘Easy peasy.’

  ‘God!’ Ruth snorted. ‘Dad cooking?’

  ‘Only when needed. Three weeks. Then Iqbal is doing.’

  Ruth studied his face. She wanted to ask why he had come but it felt impertinent so she turned back to the book. Next to a recipe for Never Fail Wacky Crazy Cake she saw her own teenaged writing. Large, florid script: Failed!!!!! The exclamation marks continued to the edge of the page. It had been for her mother’s birthday and Hannah was already graduated and back in the States. In the kitchen in Kanpur, Ruth and James had pored over the recipe together while Ellen was at a Ladies’ Meeting. They had argued over which oil to use and whether to check the cake half way or not. In the end neither checked it at all and Ellen came home to the smell of burning and a thick, black tar on her best cake tin. It was a long time before Ruth tried baking again.

  Iqbal tapped a recipe for Cinnamon Buns. ‘Everybody is liking these.’r />
  ‘Oh, yeah. By Mave Fishbacker. She was my friend’s Mom! Let’s make em!’

  He tipped his head.

  By eleven o’clock the pastries were arranged on a floral plate in all their plump, sticky glory. Ruth sat cross-legged in her chair, sinking her teeth into a warm bun. Things melted inside her. It was the taste of Sunday afternoon Bible Club. Never mind the singing and the sermons, you went for the Tea: the steaming hot mugs and the platters of home baking. Even Sita went to Bible Club. The hosts knew fine well that the way to these boarders’ souls was through their stomachs. They were the Fishbackers, who lived at Fir Tree Bank round the hill beyond Sisters Bazaar, and were another missionary institution with several generations on both sides. Came to India with the Aryans, they used to joke. Mr Fishbacker was away in the plains most of the time, but when he came up to Landour he played the piano in honkey-tonk style and shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ Mrs Fishbacker held Bible studies and baked. They both dressed much the same way as their pioneering forebears and the furniture in their rabbit-warren house was shabby. They were other-worldly, unswerving, kind. Their daughter Dorcas was in Ruth’s class, but wasn’t a close friend. Dorcas was boring.

  Ruth helped herself to another bun. The smells of cinnamon and risen bread filled the room and seemed to bring a loosening to James. His hands were lifted, voice stronger than usual, eyes bright. He was arguing with his old friend and sparring partner, the Reverend Paul Verghese.

  ‘There needs to be some way of getting people to talk,’ insisted James.

  ‘You can’t talk to thugs.’ Verghese tapped the newspaper on the table between them. There was violence in Orissa. Militant Hindus burning churches, attacking Christians. ‘Their only language is blood.’

  ‘But we are called to be peacemakers,’ James appealed, spreading his hands.

  ‘You can’t have peace without justice, James!’