by M A Bennett
He nodded.
‘Are you afraid?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
‘Then kiss me, Hardy,’
And I did.
19
It was the dead of night.
We’d been reading for hours, stretched out together on the divans under the bright lanterns, with the brazier burning beside us.
I struggled to find something to say and, as always, found the answer at the movies. ‘It was a lion all along, not a tiger, that was the key.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Rollo quoted this film called The Lion in Winter to me. Then your dad did too, in this diary. He told Gideon that they were jungle creatures, and the dark was all around them.’
‘So?’
‘So, in the film, Richard of England and Philip of France, the heirs of two enemy kingdoms, were secret lovers.’
Shafeen put his head in his hands. ‘Greer,’ he said, his voice muffled, ‘could you just, for once, not see everything through the prism of film. Not everything is a movie.’
I was struck. ‘That’s just what he said.’
‘Who?’ Shafeen looked up.
‘Henry. He said exactly that at the top of the waterfall before he fell. Maybe you have more in common than you think.’
‘Well,’ he deflected, ‘this is not about us. This is about Our Fathers, Who Art In … well, one in the hospital, one in the morgue.’
I resisted the temptation to make an Untouchables reference. I must be growing. I sat up and looked out at the city. ‘Whatever happened to them?’
Shafeen sat up too, mirroring me. He wrapped the leather tie around the diary, reverently, as if it were a holy text, and made a clear space for it on the low table among the remains of the evening meal we’d devoured while reading. ‘We know what happened. Exactly what Rollo said. They couldn’t be together – not at that time. You heard the diary. The Stonewall riots had only just happened, so the gay rights movement was in its infancy. Homosexuality had been illegal until 1967, only two years before they got together at Longcross. And it was only legal between two men who were twenty-one, so they’d still have been breaking the law. Plus, my father was brought up at the very end of the Raj, when gays faced the death penalty.’
I thought of what Gideon had said in the diary. The Raj had it right. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, of course it was true,’ said Shafeen. ‘The Raj wasn’t just some Merchant Ivory fantasy of parasols and pavilions. The British imported their racism and homophobia along with their governance. Both of those boys were raised in times and places where their love would have been unacceptable. If they’d lived in a different age, in different societies, maybe they would have been together.’
‘But then you wouldn’t exist. And neither would Henry. So I’m sad for them. But glad for me.’ I took his hand. ‘God. If they’d met later … in a … kinder age …’
‘We’ll never know. But not then. I guess the world wasn’t ready.’
‘It explains a lot,’ I said. ‘About your father’s love for English things.’
‘Yes,’ said Shafeen softly. ‘After that tiger hunt with the queen, my grandfather sent my father to an English public school with the express instruction to become an English gentleman. I’d always thought that he’d taken that instruction to heart, that he’d somehow never been able to shake off the Raj. Now I know he didn’t love the Raj. He loved Rollo. And he spent the rest of his life emulating the lover he’d lost.’
‘Just like The Jungle Book,’ I murmured. ‘“I Wan’na Be Like You”.’ I sat up on the divan. ‘Speaking of resemblance, no wonder Rollo got such a shock when you turned up at Cumberland Place, looking exactly like your dad did in 1969. You even wear your hair the same – that long, layered 1960s look.’
‘Yes,’ he said soberly. ‘Yes, I see that now. And why he wanted me to join the STAGS Club.’
‘Also why,’ I said slowly, ‘he saved you from the hounds. At the Red Mass, he said you were not to be touched.’ Shafeen hadn’t believed me then. But I could see he believed me now.
‘And at the very end of his life, he thought I was my father. That’s why he said, Kiss me, Hardy.’
The kiss of death – from the boy he had once loved. It was so sad. ‘At least we now know what they did together. And that he wasn’t sorry. Whatever sort of monster Rollo became, I’m glad he got to say that at the end.’
Shafeen’s face was sombre. ‘Me too.’
‘Will you tell your mum?’
‘No, of course not. I’d hate her to think that he … that he …’
‘Never loved her?’
‘Yes. And he did, Greer. He does. I’m sure he does, in his way.’ He was quiet again and we sat for a moment, looking at the light of Jaipur, the floodlit palaces and the moon above.
‘Shall we go back down?’ I suggested.
He turned to me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not just yet.’
He kissed me, hungrily. And, for once, everything was right. Where we were, and what we’d read. The moonlight, the night breeze, the lanterns, the divans. And most of all, the right boy. Suddenly we were lying back in the soft cushions. ‘Is this all right?’ he said between kisses. ‘Are you ready now?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’
20
In the morning, the Princess Himani was at breakfast, looking tired and dejected. We both kissed her, and I caught again that faint scent of Guerlain L’Heure Bleue – her signature perfume. The perfume the Queen of England wore every day of her life except one – when she’d gone on a tiger hunt. Once again, I was struck by the sweetness of the scent, and also that Himani wore perfume to visit her comatose husband.
‘Any change?’ asked Shafeen.
Himani smiled slightly but shook her head. ‘No. No change.’
It was a strange meal. I don’t think I’d ever been so happy, nor so sad. I’d turned a page in the night. A new chapter of my life had begun, but Aadhish still lay in a hospital bed, his story, quite possibly, behind him. Shafeen and I had spent what little of the night there was left on the roof, twined around each other on the divan beneath the stars, and had woken with the dawn to sneak down to our rooms to wash and change. Now we sat opposite each other, not touching, but cradling two enormous, life-changing secrets: what we’d read in the diary, and what we’d done together. And we could not reveal either one of them to the exhausted woman who sat between us. We all sat in silence, going through the pantomime of eating when none of us had any appetite, all of us in our different ways consumed by love.
But after just a few mouthfuls the princess said, ‘My dears, I think I shall have to go to bed. Enjoy your day. Hari will be at your disposal.’ And Shafeen had to help her up the stairs into the house.
When he came back we sat in silence for a moment, as if she was still with us. But then Shafeen wound his little finger round mine and we both smiled – a delicious secret smile. We didn’t talk about the night before. There was nothing to say. We’d said it all on that divan on the roof.
Prem, dressed in his customary white robe and turban, brought some little pastries. Thinking of Ina, I said sincerely, ‘Thank you, Prem,’ when he set them down.
He looked slightly surprised and then said, ‘Thank you, memsahib. It is truly an honour. Yes.’ And he saluted me, as he always did – that strange hangover from the Raj.
Shafeen said nothing and as Prem left I asked, ‘How long has Prem been with your family?’
‘Since forever,’ he said. ‘Long as I can remember. And his father before him.’
‘Does he have a wife and family?’
‘I think so.’
‘Only think? You’ve never met them?’
‘No. I think they live in the suburbs.’
‘How often do you think he sees them? If he’s here waiting on you, I mean?’
‘Really, Greer, I’ve no idea.’
I straightened my cup and plate virtuously. ‘You know, I’m sure, what I
’m thinking.’
‘Yes,’ he said, shifting a little. ‘You’re thinking of Ina.’
‘Your father’s only ally at Longcross.’ A thought struck me. ‘That explains why he was so understanding about you going to Longcross on Boxing Day. You remember? He only agreed when you told him you were going to help a damsel in distress – in your case Ty. That was the language he understood. It was right out of his playbook, his chivalric code.’
He thought about this. ‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Your father considered her a true friend.’ I hammered the point home. ‘Even though she was a servant. Forced into service and seeing her family twice a year.’
‘But Prem is hardly the same.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Because apart from their gender and ages, the scenarios seem pretty similar to me.’
‘Prem is a Dalit.’
‘The lowest caste. An untouchable. I know. But I don’t think you’re making the point you think you are. He’s still a person.’
Prem came back with the tea and went to move The Times to make room for it. The old newspaper that had started this whole goose chase – or rather tiger chase – still lay on the table.
‘No,’ Shafeen said sharply. ‘Leave it.’
I shot him another stern look.
‘I mean, that’s all right, Prem. I’ll keep hold of this for now. You can go.’
‘Yes, sahib,’ said Prem, smiling and nodding as he always did. ‘Would you like me to get the latest one for you? Yes? I know the very fellow, the newsagent, where I get it for the prince. Yes? It is the agent of news on the road to …’
‘For God’s sake, Prem,’ Shafeen exploded. ‘Stop being so bloody helpful. Just go away.’
Prem jumped back at once, wearing a look of unbelievable hurt on his face, like a puppy who had just been kicked. He forgot his customary salute and scuttled back into the house. I turned to let Shafeen have it with both barrels for being so shitty to him, then I saw his face. He’d been under enormous strain, these past few days.
He saw me looking. ‘I just wanted to keep the bloody paper,’ he snapped. ‘Is that so hard to understand?’ Then he relented and put his hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You should be apologising to Prem, not me,’ I said stiffly.
‘You’re right. You’re right. And I will.’ He turned to Rollo’s obituary page again. ‘I just think Father would like to have this when … if … he wakes up. This was the man he loved, after all.’
‘May I?’ I took the paper from him and read the obituary once more. I remembered the Rollo I’d known – the white supremacist, the bad hangover from the British Empire, the monster who chased children of colour. But then I thought of the young Rollo. The one who had, however briefly, allowed himself to love.
‘What are you thinking, with that face?’ asked Shafeen, sounding much more like himself.
‘That if Rollo’d been allowed to be with your father, that if they’d both been able to step outside of their rigid societies, he might not have become what he became. He was thwarted. He must have been really unhappy.’
‘Not being able to live your truth is hardly an excuse for behaving like he did. On all those fun little weekends at Longcross. Even to his own son.’
‘Not an excuse, of course. But maybe … an explanation?’ I handed the paper back.
Shafeen looked at the photo one last time before he folded the paper away. He half smiled. ‘He looks just like Henry.’
I sat up very straight. ‘Say it again.’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘Rollo looks exactly like Henry.’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
‘So it follows,’ I said slowly, ‘that Henry looks exactly like Rollo.’
‘Greer,’ he said, teasing once more, ‘are you having a breakdown?’
‘No …’ I said, feeling my way. ‘It’s just … why don’t we get Henry to come to the hospital?’
Shafeen threw the newspaper on the table among all the breakfast mess and sat back. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well,’ I said, warming to my theme, ‘you know those films where people get a bang on the head and they lose their memory, and then they get another bang on the head and they feel fine again? This could be like that. He’s heard your mother’s voice and he’s heard yours. Beloved, familiar voices. And if Henry looks so like a young Rollo, mightn’t he sound like him too? Henry could be just the shock he needs to wake up.’
Shafeen looked doubtful. ‘Henry’ll never do it.’
‘Why not? You did it for Rollo. You pretended to be your father so he could have a happy death.’
‘You don’t think … You think Father’s going to die?’
‘No, no …’ Although I privately thought things did not look good for Aadhish. Himani had already said that he was still unresponsive. ‘I bet we could persuade Henry. He’s changed.’ Shafeen still looked massively dubious, so I played my ace. ‘He saved Ty,’ I said quietly. ‘I suppose … I suppose … if there’s a lesson to this – all of this, from 1969 and today – it’s that no one is totally good and no one is totally bad. There is always greyscale. There is always nuance.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Look at Rollo,’ I said. ‘On the surface, completely evil. But he must have been good once. Then there’s Henry: nice little boy, screwed up by a father who by then was bitter and twisted, maybe because of having to live a life he didn’t want to live. Henry was a truly shitty teenager, and now …’
‘Now?’
‘Well, maybe he’s changing. Maybe he’s coming back from the dark side of the moon. He must have been brave in the fire to get Ty out of Longcross. Remember his hands when we saw them at the Tiger Club …’ I stopped. ‘That’s it!’
‘That’s what?’
‘Your father,’ I exclaimed, eyes wide. ‘Think about it. He reads at breakfast of Rollo’s death – a man who, we now know, he loved in his youth.’ I grabbed The Times from the table. ‘There’s a big picture of Rollo in his STAGS gear, when he was eighteen (because, look, he has his Medieval stockings on). Then your dad goes chasing off to the Tiger Club, because it was where he met Colonel Monty, Rollo’s dad, and it was always a de Warlencourt enclave. Maybe he wanted to feel closer to Rollo. And when he gets there, what’s the first thing he sees?’
‘Henry de Warlencourt,’ supplied Shafeen.
‘Exactly. Secretary of the Tiger Club. Looking just like Rollo when Aadhish got together with him. He must have thought he was seeing Rollo, alive again and standing in front of him. I think the shock was too much for him.’
‘It literally broke his heart,’ breathed Shafeen.
‘Yes. Henry was the bang on the head. We just need another one to bring him back.’
Shafeen looked at me, his eyes on fire. ‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Yes, but listen. Henry said there’s a tiger safari today, Saturday. And after that he goes back to England.’
Shafeen hesitated for maybe half a second. Then he tore the obituary page out of the paper in one decisive motion and stood up. ‘Then we’d better get going.’
21
It was an anxious journey into the hills.
We’d been slowed down by having to get changed into club-friendly stuff, then Prem couldn’t be found to call Hari, then Hari couldn’t be found to drive us. When he turned up, presumably from some errand for the princess, it was already ten o’clock. Smiling, smooth and silent, Hari drove as fast as usual, but it still wasn’t quick enough for me.
‘God, I hope we get there in time for the safari,’ I said as the car wound upwards into the Ranthambore hills.
‘Greer,’ said Shafeen, ‘let’s call it what it is. It’s a hunt.’ His voice was brutal. ‘This is their MO. It’s just like the trail hunts, remember? You gather with all your privileged buddies, you pretend you’re following a trail of foxes’ urine, but really the hounds are going after real foxes and tearing them apart. It’s the same here.
They say it’s a safari, that they are going to observe these wonderful creatures in their natural habitat. But really it’ll be all bankers and dentists and ex-army types getting out their blunderbusses and shooting the tigers dead for trophies. Just like the bad old days.’
‘Well, whatever it is,’ I said, ‘let’s hope we get to Henry before he sets off.’
Shafeen checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like our chances. Tiger hunts go pretty early. It’s usually a whole day.’
I looked out of the window anxiously at the sunrise scenery and willed the miles away. The car smelled strongly of the Princess Himani’s perfume. It brought to mind something I’d forgotten. A fragment of conversation never followed up; a riddle never solved. ‘Shaf?’
‘Yes?’
‘What did Henry mean yesterday at the Tiger Club? About your mother?’
‘Which bit?’ he asked guardedly.
‘He said, Did you tell Greer what would have happened to your mother if your father died, if we hadn’t come along? “We” meaning the Raj, I suppose. He had a word for it. A word beginning with S that I can’t remember.’
There was a pause. Then Shafeen said, like a sigh, ‘Suttee. He said suttee.’
‘What’s suttee?’
‘When a Hindu man dies, his body is burned. Suttee, or Sati, was the practice of his widow throwing herself on the fire.’
I didn’t understand. ‘But … but … she’d die.’
‘Yes,’ he said soberly.
‘So what Henry meant,’ I said, feeling my way, ‘was that if it wasn’t for the Raj, if your father died, your mother would burn too?’
‘To be fair,’ he said, ‘by the time of British rule, Hindu groups were already campaigning against it.’
‘But it was the British who banned it?’
He didn’t seem to want to admit it. ‘Yes.’
Everything seemed to combine – all the little fires. Mowgli and The Jungle Book and the ultimate power of man’s red flower. The bhut jolokia chilli. Rollo’s foot grinding out the cherry of his cigarette when he thought he had no chance with Aadhish. The fire at Longcross fifty years later, turning each window into an eye of bright fire. St Aidan, the guardian against fire who could not extinguish the white heat of a widow’s funeral pyre. The little fires kindled into one huge conflagration in my mind.