“I was so wet behind the ears I might have forgotten about it, or put it down to Mrs. H. being a clot, but then a few nights later, I went into the sitting room and Jack was sitting there reading a letter. He was weeping. When I asked him why, well, you know Jack, well, you don’t really, but he’s sometimes hideously honest.” Rose heaved a big sigh. “He confessed straightaway.”
“About what?”
“About his other woman.”
“Oh no.” Viva put her hand on Rose’s arm. “How horrible. Was it true?”
She didn’t have to ask, Rose’s lovely profile was all bent out of shape at the thought of it.
“Yes, it was. He didn’t have to tell me; in some ways, I still think it might have been better if he hadn’t. Even though it finished when he married me, all the time when we were on the ship he was seeing her. He said he’d found it hard to say good-bye. I was so shocked at first I prayed the baby would die and then I thought I would probably have to kill myself. I know that sounds dramatic but I felt so far from home and so awful.”
“Was it somebody you knew?”
“No.” Rose took a deep shuddering breath. “Her name is Sunita. She’s Indian. She’s a beautiful, educated Bombay girl. When I asked him if he loved her, he said he felt immensely grateful to her, that she’d taught him so much, and that she was a fine person. In other words, he loved her.”
“Oh, Rose, what a thing.”
“It was.” Rose was stroking her horse’s mane and breathing in and out hard. “It was the worst thing ever and I was too proud to tell anyone.”
The horses moved through a line of trees, sunlight dappling Rose’s face.
“That was why I insisted on coming up to Ooty that time with you. But when I got there, I felt such a fraud. I was crying so much I’m surprised I didn’t wash the baby away, and you were both so thrilled for me.”
“Oh, Rose.” Viva felt sick. “You should have told us. That’s what friends are for.”
“Viva,” Rose gave her a straight look, “that is a little rich coming from you.”
Viva ignored this for now. “So what did you do?”
“Well, I’ve really never felt so mis. I felt I loathed him for a while and I’ve never loathed anyone in my life before, apart from one awful girl at school who was nasty to everyone. One of the most infuriating things was the way he apologized to me; it was so stiff.” Rose did his voice. “‘Look, sorry, Rose, but men are men and these things happen.’ And then he went all sulky as if somehow this was my fault. Oh, I was livid. It wasn’t that I wanted him to grovel, but I was so hurt and the worst thing was that I had actually started to really love him. Not like in books, or in plays, but small things: like having his arm around me in bed, caring about what he ate, even worrying about his constipation—he’s one of the few people I know in India who get it—don’t laugh, Viva, it’s true.” She wiped some of the sweat off her horse’s neck and flopped some of it on the grass.
When they reached the lake, three herons flew away with a light flapping of wings.
“I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this.” Rose looked pale as they sat down together on the rug.
“I think you’ve been very brave,” Viva said. She could never talk about herself out loud like that.
“There was nothing a bit brave about staying.” Rose took off her hat and shook out her hair. “What were my alternatives? To go back to Hampshire, divorced and expecting a baby? It would have broken their hearts, and besides, I’d been telling them in letters what a whale of a time we were having here. So much has gone wrong for my mother since the war, my brother dying and then Daddy being so ill, I feel she needs things to go well for me.” Rose closed her eyes in pain. “Jack didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“Does he talk about her?”
“No, well, yes, but only once when I insisted on it. He could think of nothing bad to say about her. I rather admired him for it. I only needed to look at his face to know he still loved her, maybe still does.”
Viva looked at her in astonishment. Rose was so fair.
“I felt horribly jealous, if it hadn’t been for Freddie, I can’t say what would have happened. The actual birth was awful—I’ll tell you and Tor about it later, not now. It happened at home by mistake and we were miles away from hospital. Jack came back that night, and when he saw me from the door with Fred in my arms, he broke down and cried. He got into bed and said he was sorry and that he would protect us until his last. It was such a funny old-fashioned thing to say but it meant so much, but by then,” Rose batted the apology away like a fly, “I didn’t need it. Everything had changed again. He got into bed and put his arms around me and Fred lay on top of us, and when I looked outside and saw, I don’t know, how huge the world was—the moon, stars—I knew I’d never felt more in my life. I can’t even properly put it into words. I also knew that if I’d left him, I would leave half of me behind.”
“Heavens.” Viva was bewildered, for Rose was actually glad, or so it seemed. She would have left him like a shot.
After lunch, Rose fell asleep on the rug with a biscuit in her hand. Her confession seemed to have exhausted her. Viva went to check on the horses, who were tethered and munching grass, and then she went back and lay beside Rose, thinking how self-engrossed she must have been in Ooty not to have spotted that Rose was in such distress. She often got this wrong, she decided, this idea that there were lucky people in the world, like Rose and Jack, blessed with good looks or money or parents, who somehow glided through life and didn’t have to go through the same things other people did. But it wasn’t true. Everyone seemed to suffer, just differently.
She was struck, too, by how Rose had told her own story simply and from the heart. How Rose had assumed Viva must know about this catastrophe if they were to be properly close. And the truth shall make you whole. But could you only know another person to the extent that they were prepared to show their true selves to you? That thought gathered at the edge of Viva’s mind like a cloud.
She could easily, at that moment, have told Rose about what had happened at Ooty, about Frank, and Guy. Rose, who’d proved rather unshockable, would have understood, and maybe have some sensible advice for her. But her door seemed jammed—opening it too frightening—there might be a howling wasteland beyond.
A more painful thought followed: that all the energy Rose had spent on trying and, by all accounts, succeeding in loving a flawed man, Viva spent in not caring, on a kind of willed heartlessness. She did it, at least this was her excuse, so she could work and survive. Who was right?
Viva’s scar was beginning to throb; it was all too complicated. If only she could reduce what Rose had told her to a manageable thought, something she could believe in, applaud, feel sorry about.
When she was a child, her father’s scientific mind had often perplexed her by answering a question with a question. She remembered asking him one day, “How do you make an aeroplane?”
He’d said, “What is the purpose of an aeroplane?”
She’d said, “To fly,” and then he’d made her work out what it would need to fly: wings, lightness, speed, and so forth.
So what was the purpose of men and women together, apart from the obvious baby-making thing? Shelter? Protection? Women’s suffrage was already changing the rules. So was it to help you make love? To increase your understanding of love by branching out beyond yourself? But that sounded hopelessly high-minded and romantic—some people clearly did terrible damage to each other—yet how could you possibly really know before the damage was done? This was surely the greatest gamble of all.
She was trying to think of it in purely abstract terms when Frank’s smile—his dimples, the sudden sweetness of it—made her squeeze her eyes tight shut. She mustn’t think of him again like that. Her chance had gone. It was over.
Chapter Fifty-two
When Rose woke up, Viva was lying next to her with her eyes wide open.
“What are you thinking, Viva?” she said.
“That we should ride home soon; Tor will think we’ve been eaten by a crocodile.”
Rose suddenly felt furious with her. Both she and Tor had been shocked at how ill Viva looked. It wasn’t just the bruised eyes, both of them had agreed; all her fire seemed to have gone. Even her hair seemed less shiny.
“Say something to her while you’re riding,” Tor had said. “I would but I’ll only put my foot in it, and you know how prickly she can be.”
So Rose had tried, and because Viva was a good listener, she’d said far more than she’d meant to. It had been so long since she’d confided in anyone, and now she felt angry and stupid, because Viva had just stood up and brushed the crumbs off her jodhpurs and was smiling at her in a superior, chaperone-ish way, as if she felt sorry for her. Any moment now, Rose could almost feel it, she would bring out that blasted notebook and pencil of hers and then she would definitely want to crown her.
She took a couple of deep breaths. “So aren’t you going to say anything?” The words were out before she thought of them.
“About what?” In the sunlight you could still see yellow and green bruises around Viva’s eyes, and the row of small holes where the stitches had been.
“About yourself?”
“But I thought we were talking about you, Rose. I’m so sorry.”
She pulled a pencil out of her pocket and rotated it between her fingers—a nervous habit of hers.
“You don’t understand, do you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rose.”
“About saying things.” Rose moved a couple of feet farther away from her. “You know, friendship. I tell you something that’s important to me and then you say something about you that’s important to you. It’s called letting your guard down.” Rose was shocked to hear herself practically shouting.
“Rose!” Viva moved away from her so quickly she knocked over the hip flask. “I do tell you things. Sometimes.”
“Oh, rubbish,” shouted Rose. “Absolute rubbish.”
“This is not a game of tennis,” Viva roared. “Why do I have to confide in you just because you have?”
“Well, drop it then, Viva,” Rose bellowed back. Two swans flew across the lake, their wings flapping like sails, and the horses’ heads shot up, but she couldn’t stop herself now; it was such a relief not to be pretending. “Just drop it. I’ll overlook the fact that you’ve lost about a stone in weight; that you look absolutely done in; that someone tried to murder you in Bombay and you don’t want to talk about it; and that Frank, who is clearly mad about you, has been sent away with no reason, or none that you want to talk about. Let’s just talk about ponies and Christmas pudding. I’ll pretend not to notice any of that—it’s just silly little Rose who has all the problems and makes all the mistakes, and Viva, the magnificent, is still divinely in control.”
“How dare you say that.” Viva’s fists were balled.
“What do you want me to say?”
They glared at each other.
“Well, you could start with Frank. Most friends would at least tell each other what happened.”
“Nothing happened,” said Viva. When her jaw set like that, Rose was almost scared of her. “We had a brief whatever it was, but I needed to work, to finish my book, to get on with things, to try and earn my own living. I don’t have a mummy and daddy in the background to help me along.”
“No, you don’t,” Rose admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you can tell lies about yourself.”
“What lies?” Viva’s voice was cold.
“About how you feel.” Rose felt her sandwich starting to congeal in her stomach. She’d never had a proper row with a friend before.
“Don’t you dare judge me.” Viva’s eyes had gone as black as coals.
“I’m not trying to judge you, I’m trying to be your friend. Viva, please,” she touched her gently, “sit down.”
Viva sat down at the far end of the rug and glared toward the lake.
“Look,” Rose tried again after a long silence, “it’s absolutely none of our beeswax, but we do care. We were with you in Ooty; we saw you with Frank, you seemed mad about each other.”
Viva shifted her legs, moved her head rapidly from side to side, then said, “All right, if it makes you feel any better, I made a bloody great mess of the whole thing. Now do you feel better?”
“No, of course I don’t,” Rose said quietly. “That’s mean.” She stretched out her hand, but Viva ignored it.
She stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry. But I’m hopeless at this sort of thing. Thank you for trying, really, but I think we should go home now.”
“Say something, Viva,” Rose pleaded.
“I can’t. There’s nothing really to tell; it’s all such a muddle in my mind.”
Viva’s sigh sounded like a dry sob from deep inside her. There was another long silence.
“All right.” Viva had turned her back to her and her voice was muffled. “Do you remember the night Frank came to Ooty, to warn us about Guy? After you went to bed, he came to my room. He stayed the night. Are you shocked?”
“Of course not.” Rose gave her a soft punch on the arm. “Things happen in India that are different from home, and besides, it was so blindingly obvious!”
“Was it?” Viva looked up reluctantly.
“Yes, it was.”
“How awful.”
“Why awful?”
“Because it’s so secret.”
“You both looked so different, sort of spellbound. I remember feeling jealous, thinking that’s the way I hoped I’d feel on my honeymoon.”
“I didn’t feel spellbound, I felt, well, it doesn’t matter now. It was so confusing.”
“But,” Rose was perplexed, “forgive me, but did something go wrong?”
“No.” Viva’s voice was almost inaudible. “That part was wonderful.” She gave a soft squeak of pain.
“So you sent him away because it was wonderful.”
“I felt so guilty, because he’d come to warn me that Guy might have been killed in the riots. I was sure he was dead.”
“It wasn’t your fault that Guy did what he did.”
“Look, Rose.” Viva’s face was white. Her bruise had lit up like an angry flower. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it and I don’t, so can I stop now?” She stomped toward the horses so fast she almost stumbled on a rock. “I really do want to go home now,” she said.
Tor was standing in the kitchen when Viva walked into the house. She shut the door so hard that a wreath fell onto the veranda. She heard her shoes click up the corridor and then the door to her bedroom close.
Rose was hanging up her riding hat in the corridor and looking toward the closed door.
“Rose, what happened?” said Tor. Her heart sank.
“Disaster,” whispered Rose. “She’s absolutely livid. She really does hate talking about things.”
“Shall I go?” Tor mouthed. “I could take her a cup of tea.” She lifted an imaginary cup to her mouth.
“I’d leave her for a bit,” said Rose. “I really do think she wants to be on her own. Is it all right if I give Freddie a bath?” she said loud enough for Viva to overhear. “He could probably do with one after his ride.”
A row of paper chains had fallen from the hall ceiling; Tor picked it up and wore it around her neck like a stole and felt her spirits plummet. While the girls had been out riding, Jack had telephoned to say he was back temporarily in Peshawar, but it was looking unlikely that he would make it for Christmas. He’d started to explain but the line had sounded like a forest fire. Rose would be upset. Viva was hardly the life and soul, and with eight days to go before Christmas, Tor now envisaged quiet meals with herself overdoing it as usual, an exhausting hostess. All the decorations that had thrilled her a few days ago now looked silly and childish, an unwelcome dig in the ribs reminding them to have fun.
Toby (oh, how sweet and uncomplicated he suddenly seemed) would wonder why she’
d been so excited about asking all these tricky people to stay.
These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by birdlike chirrupings coming from the direction of Freddie’s room and then a gurgle of laughter. Tor opened the door to his room. Fred was being lifted from underneath his mosquito net by Rose. He opened his eyes when he saw her, smiled and wiggled his fingers.
She followed Rose into the bathroom, where Jai had filled up the old zinc bath with water. Freddie’s nightdress was unbuttoned, and Rose lowered him into the water after testing it carefully with her elbow.
“Freddo, darling, Mr. McFred, who’s a pretty baby boy,” she crooned lapping water up his fat, creased little legs. The baby gave a reckless, gummy smile and then kicked his legs out. How nice it was, reflected Tor, rolling up her sleeves and kneeling on the other side of the bath, to have at least one jolly person in the house.
“Do you think Viva’s going to be all right?” she asked Rose, in a low voice.
“I hope so,” whispered Rose. “But she is infuriating sometimes. I mean, we did talk about Frank a bit, but it really was like pulling teeth, and then she got, well, you saw her stamp in.”
“So what to do?” Tor hissed back. “It’ll be so awful if nobody speaks over Christmas.”
“That’s unlikely,” said Rose in her more normal voice. “Here, pass me the flannel, Tor. Fred’s got cradle cap. If you put that towel on your knee, I’ll pass him to you. Careful, he’s slippery…Wheeee!”
The dripping baby was held up in the air and passed from friend to friend, landing up on Tor’s knee.
“You are a burra baby,” Tor told him, kissing his toes, “and a fine horseman.” She clicked her tongue and bounced him up and down on her lap. “This is the way the ladies ride, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.” When she bent down to kiss him again, he shot a jet of urine into her eye.
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