by Sharon Maas
He had never failed to come, to help. But tonight he was silent.
It had been tough, so tough, but she had found him again. She had found him in the depths of her soul: the real Rajan, the beautiful being who had led her through the tangled weeds, the thorns of adolescence, who had shown her the way out of her confusion and insecurity and heartbreak. He had shown her a different path, one of strength and courage, one that lifted her out of herself and held her straight and true: he had connected her to the earth and to the heavens and to a sense of self that was solid and sure.
And then he had died.
But there was no death.
In their final months she and Rajan had often discussed death. Rajan had been sure, so sure, that it did not exist. ‘The body dies,’ Rajan had said, ‘and falls away. But consciousness, the life that inhabits the body, lives on.’ He had no fear of death, Rajan had said.
There was the story of the sparrow, flying through a lit hall which was life on earth. Rajan had disagreed. His words had always stayed with her:
What if life on earth is actually a dark hall, he had said. What if we came from light, and return to light? What if this is the night, and real daytime comes afterwards? ‘I think we long for light, for God, for joy, because we remember it. I think the memory is slumbering deep inside us. I think it is all inside us, Rika, and all our stumbling through life is to find that light. I think we return there after we die.’
She clung to whose last words; and so Rajan was not dead. He had returned to the light, and in that light he was alive for her, and pure, and strong, and, most of all, he was with her. Always. And so Rika had reached out to him – and found him.
All these years Rajan had been a living presence in her soul. There he was, always. She had only to turn, turn away from her own weaknesses and problems and dilemmas; turn within, to an outstretched hand. He was an anchor, holding her steady through all the ups and downs of life.
So Rajan had lived on, whole and perfect. Love incarnate.
Rajan was an outstretched hand within her, an invisible hand she could always grasp. A silent inner hand that gave her courage when she felt fear, light when she felt dark, strength when she felt weak. Rajan lived within her. He was her silent mentor, her spiritual guide, her Guru. She clung to that hand, and it had sustained her all the years: through the ups and downs of marriage, through Eddy’s illness and his death, through the trials he had left behind. Helped her to raise Inky. She could speak to him, in silence, just as she had spoken to him when he was alive, and he had given her answers, clear, solid answers, just as he had when he was alive. Have no fear, Rika. All is well, Rika. You are whole, and good, Rika. She could conjure up his face, smiling, beautiful, his eyes melting with love, the way he had been that last evening before – the evening before her life had crashed in upon her.
Rajan was her anchor. He had kept her calm through every storm.
* * *
Except for one memory; that one night of the accident. The fall. The horror. She would never, ever go there, not even with a thought. It was the one horror she could not bear.
She had packaged that horror into a neat little bundle and called it ‘the Beast’, and pushed it into the darkest corner of her soul, never to think about again. Pushed it behind a thick wall, slammed the reinforced iron door shut, locked it and thrown away the key. She had sworn never to see those terrible pictures again, never relive the horror of the night her life fell apart. Rajan’s face, blood-covered – no. Never; the horror was too great. The moment a memory, a thought, slipped into the light of consciousness she pushed it away, back into its prison.
In India she had learnt the techniques; a way to master the mind, to never be in thrall to unwanted moods and thoughts, to master the darkness. She was in charge, in control, not the Beast. That was true independence, true freedom. She had used her techniques to keep it there. To force it back; used all her power to keep it locked away, to never again enter the light of day, the light of consciousness. Perhaps, she had thought, she had hoped, it would wither away and die.
But the Beast, the one thing she was unable to face, had lingered there in the depths. Behind the wall it lurked, in darkness. She had kept it imprisoned for thirty years. But it had brought no satisfaction. No relief. No freedom. Through all the years, all the ups and downs of married life, the joy of motherhood, the struggle for survival, it had loitered, that Beast, reminding her of its presence. One day, it said, one day you must release me.
Tonight it writhed within her, rumbled and prowled, scratched at the door of her awareness, demanding entry.
She had always known that one day, she would have to face the Beast.
That’s why she’d kept the letter.
When it first arrived, soon after Inky’s birth, it had let loose a small earthquake within her. She had told them, warned them, in that very first letter! No mention of the past, please. And no letters from Mummy. No contact with Mummy. Not yet. She couldn’t talk to Mummy, or write to her. Not yet. Mummy was too close to the Beast. She couldn’t deal with Mummy.
And, now here was a letter from Mummy and obviously, it would be about the Beast: Mummy would be asking for forgiveness, or some such thing. She couldn’t deal with that. Or could she? She had turned to Rajan, and he had smiled back from within and said, silently, One day you have to go there, Rika, back to that night. Why not now?
Rajan had wanted her to open it, she’d thought at the time. She had left the letter on the mantelpiece for a week unopened. Inky had been just a baby; her marriage had been intact.
‘Why don’t you open it?’ Eddy had asked, and Rika had been tempted: one day, she would have to face the Beast; she knew it. When she was strong enough.
But not just then. There was the baby, and the marriage, and the start of a wonderful new life. No Beast for now, she’d thought. Rajan was right there too, a strong presence within her, a zone of comfort and safety. It was not the time for unpleasantness. So she had shoved the letter into that Ikea storage box and left it to brew. For years. Eighteen years, while she gathered the strength she would need to one day release the Beast, to face it with courage. Let it out of that mental dungeon and into the light.
She had thought the way to do that was to put the past firmly in the past and forgive Mummy. To melt the ice between them, break the silence. Forgiveness was the first step. So when Marion had tentatively mentioned that she had to go to Canada and Mummy needed care, Rika had taken the plunge.
‘Send her to me,’ she had said to Marion.
But it hadn’t worked out. The moment Mummy stepped into that Arrivals Hall at Gatwick the whole plan fell apart. It was as if she and Mummy had stepped back in time: back to that bickering, mutual resentful state. Needy teenager, bossy mother; that’s what they were, all over again. Would they never break out of it? She had pushed the Beast back into its dungeon.
And now Mummy lay on a hospital bed and she might die or stay in a coma for the rest of her life, and it was all her fault. Just as it was all Mummy’s fault, back then.
Rajan! Help me! What should I do? What can I do?
Nothing. No answer. She was helpless, and all alone. Rajan stayed silent, as if he had nothing more to say.
She could read the letter now. Could she?
What a time to release the Beast! It was a bad time, the worst! Mummy in hospital with her head all bandaged up! Mummy’s head shattered, just like Rajan’s, back then! She couldn’t!
Do it, Rajan said. Read the letter. She could hear him as clearly as if he were in the room with her, speaking out loud.
Read the letter.
Yes. It might be a bad time, but it was the right time.
Dawn was just breaking when Rika got up, had breakfast, and prepared herself for the day. She opened the cabinet door, slid out the Ikea box. The letter lay on the top. She picked it up, pushed it into her handbag, and slid out of the house without waking Inky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
INKY: THE NO
UGHTIES
I woke up late on Sunday morning. No sign of Mum. She must have left early to return to the hospital. Still in my PJs, I made myself breakfast. A bowl of cereal in my hand, I walked over to the phone. The answering machine light was blinking. I pressed the button: ten new messages. I went through them; a couple were from Neville and Norbert, but most were from Marion. Marion! Neither Mum nor I had spoken to her since the accident; we’d been too caught up in events. But it was too early to call her now. I’d do it later. Instead, I now speed-dialled Sal.
Apart from the hasty handing over of the house key so he could feed Samba, I hadn’t seen Sal for a couple of weeks. In fact, not since the day we watched Charade. He was as tied up with his studies and his job, as I was with Gran’s life and her care.
With a start I realised something: I missed Sal dreadfully. I went over to the couch with my cereal bowl and the telephone, cuddled into a heap of cushions, and settled down for a nice leisurely Sunday morning chat. I told him all about Gran, and what I had gone through in the last two days. No, not even two days, though it felt like six. A day and a half. Sal, the doctor-to-be, was both empathetic and knowledgeable. He told me a bit about more about shear injury, and how unpredictable the outcome was at this stage.
‘If she’s got brain damage it would have been better for her to have been killed,’ I said.
‘Don’t say that. It’s not true. Not necessarily.’ Sal replied.
There was a gap in the conversation. I took a few more spoons of cereal.
‘So,’ said Sal after a while, ‘did you hear from George Clooney? Or did you contact him.’
I realised with a start that I hadn’t even had time to call George Clooney; in fact, I had completely forgotten about George Clooney, just as he, apparently, had forgotten about me.
‘It’s been three weeks,’ I said to Sal. ‘I think I’ll write him a note. Nothing like taking fate into my own hands. No sitting around for this girl. And I need a distraction from all this Gran drama. What do you think?’
‘Go for it!’ said Sal. That’s what I loved about Sal: he was always totally supportive.
‘I mean, I don’t think much of the Daily Mail, but it’s just a beginning. He could easily move up to the Guardian or the Independent. What with the scoop on Gran – in fact, that’s probably why he didn’t call. I bet he got a promotion with that story! He’s a good writer.’
Sal chuckled, but it seemed cold.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘And how are you? What’ve you been up to?’
‘Oh, nothing much. The usual. Uni and work, work and Uni.’
‘Can you make it over this afternoon? We can go and see Gran together.’
‘Inky, I can’t come this afternoon, I’m working. In fact, I’ve got to go now to start getting ready. I’ll see you around. Say hi to your Mum and I hope Nan’ll be all right.’
And suddenly he was gone, and the house was hollow and empty. So I went to the hospital.
* * *
Mum was sitting next to Gran, and I saw it at once: the letter, in her hand, still unopened.
‘Hi, Mum!’ I said. She started, and looked up; she had been lost in thought, or in some other place, and had not heard my approach. I smiled, and pointed to the letter.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’
She shook her head, and said nothing.
‘Mum!’ I said. ‘Go on!’
She looked around, and shook her head again.
‘It’s so – so busy here,’ she said. ‘So chaotic! Nurses rushing in and out, taking blood pressure, adjusting Mummy’s infusion – it’s just the wrong – atmosphere. I need peace and quiet.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ I said, exasperated. ‘Just read the damn thing and be done with it!’
And to my surprise, she did. As if she’d been waiting for a final push. She let out a huge sigh, slid her finger under the closed flap of the envelope and tore it open. She began to read, silently, but couldn’t have read more than a sentence or two before dashing the letter aside.
‘I can’t,’ she blubbered. ‘I just can’t!’ Mum, crying! That was a new one.
‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘Yes. Do that.’
So I took the letter gently from her hand and began to read. The handwriting was somewhat spidery, but somehow, reading slowly, I managed to decipher the words:
‘My dearest darling Rika,
Yes, I know you aren’t used to such language from me. But this is how I’ve been addressing you, in my mind, for the last twelve years. Over and over again: dearest Rika, please write, please call, please come home!
My dearest Rika, I wanted to say all these years, aloud, to you: forgive me. Forgive me the years I spent neglecting you, not loving you enough, rejecting you, even. It wasn’t because of you. It was because of me; because I was so wounded, after my worst night. Instead of seeking healing I nursed the pain of losing Freddy. I let it kill the natural love I bore for you and all my children. Love is dangerous, I had learned; love brings the risk of pain and I was afraid to love again.’
I paused, and looked up, to see how Mum was taking it. The words were so untypical of Gran, so serious, so sentimental, even, that I was astonished. And a little bit scared. Mum was too, I could tell; she had buried her face in her hands, but briefly removed them to nod at me.
‘Go on.’
‘And now we have heard from you! At last! You cannot imagine the joy your letter has brought to all of us! To Granny, Daddy, Marion, even the twins! Your aunts and uncles, and cousins! Rika has written, and she has a baby! A little Inka!
‘I know you said we should never ever mention that terrible night again. You said you didn’t want to hear from me, ever again. This tells me that however well you have pulled your life together, you have not forgiven me. And I can’t blame you, knowing what you know. The thing is, Rika: you don’t know the whole story. You ran away too quickly.
‘Rajan is alive!’
* * *
Mum cried out. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘Rajan is alive,’ I repeated. She grabbed the letter from me, and read on in silence, her hands shaking, blubbering as she read.
Once again, I was left out in the cold. Would I ever learn the whole story? When Mum had finished the letter she flung it away and threw herself on to Gran’s bed, almost tangling herself up in the infusion tubes, and cried – cried and cried as if she would never stop. I picked up the letter and finished reading it, in silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DOROTHEA: THE SIXTIES
Dorothea stood rooted in the doorway, but only for a second. Rika, screaming at the window, then swung around to face her mother, shrieking wildly:
‘You bitch! You killed him! He’d dead! Rajan’s dead and it’s all your fault!’
She dropped the torch and ran to the bed, where she buried her head in her pillow and pummelled the mattress with her fists.
‘Oh Christ!’ cried Dorothea, and ran to the window, picking up the torch on her way. She shone it down to see what Rika had seen. The circle of light searched the bushes below and finally found Rajan, his head stuck on the fence, his half-turned face blood-streaked, the stave poking out from the top of his skull.
‘Oh shit!’ Dorothea ran, taking the torch with her, out the door, along the passage joining the Annex to the house. She flew up the stairs to the bedrooms and pummelled on Matt’s door.
‘Matt! Matt! Wake up! Wake up!’
But she couldn’t wait; she opened the door and barged in, lunged towards the bed and shook Matt until he was wide awake and sitting up.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Quick, get up, it’s an emergency! Rajan fell on the fence. It went through his head.’
‘Good God.’
Matt shot out of bed in a trice, grabbed his medical bag and ran out the door in his pyjamas.
Dorothea ran to Humphrey’s door and Ma Quint’s. She shook them
both out of slumber, gave a breathless account of what had happened. They ran downstairs; Dorothea stayed behind and rang the hospital for an ambulance. She replaced the receiver and took a moment to catch her breath; for it seemed she had not been breathing.
Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Her brain red hot, burning; mind black but for the one thought: No. No. No. Not again. Don’t let this happen again. Oh no, God, not again. Please not again. Over and over and over, the jackhammer: No. No. No. Not again.
She joined the others downstairs. She could not look. She had seen, already. There was Matt, doing something, shouting something. She could not hear what he was shouting, because of the scream in her own head. No. No. No.
Basmati was already there, and she was screaming, the shrill panicked scream of a mother for her lost child. Dorothea laid her hands over her head and shook it as if to banish reality, shake the nightmare out of her brain. But the nightmare was real, and the horror, and she could not shake it away.
But then the real Dorothea, the practical head-on-her-shoulders Dorothea, slipped through the cracks of shock and heard Matt calling:
‘Have you called the ambulance? And we need the fire brigade too! They need to cut through the damn pole!’
Dorothea ran back upstairs, dialled 999 again, this time demanding a fire engine. She deliberately refrained from adding that there wasn’t actually a fire. Cutting a man down from a fence spiked through his head might not be considered an emergency—who could possibly survive?
Back down to the yard.
Humphrey had his arms around Rajan’s body and was holding him up, preventing his head from slipping further down the stave. Dorothea looked away. She could not bear the sight. Rajan’s head! His beautiful face, bathed in blood, his body limp and lifeless. Not again. She had seen. She knew. The stave had pierced right through the top of his head. He was gone. Gone. Gone already.