by Irene Black
Ashok put down his suitcase in the hall and gathered up the mail. Frantically, he searched through it, letting each unopened envelope fall out of his hand when he had checked that it was not from Hannah. When the last envelope had fluttered to the floor, and with it the hope that he had carried with him from Bangalore, he went into the living room. At least his armchair was still waiting for him, welcoming if not warm. He flopped down on it and let the anguish of his dashed hope sink in. Ganesh, purveyor of good fortune, gazed down at him from the poster in the corner. Ashok avoided his glance. He could do without being patronized by the elephant god. The two whisky glasses were still on the sticky coffee table where he had left them, after Dr. Patel had brought the packages. One month ago. The absurd thought struck him that perhaps Mrs. Maxwell had walked out in disgust at his slovenliness. Rubbish. She knew him too well for that.
For some moments, he stared at the answerphone, afraid to push the play button. There was just a slim chance... It hadn’t even occurred to him that Hannah did not have his ex-directory number.
With a supreme effort of will, he pushed the button and played through the pile-up of messages that had been left. At least half of the callers were answerphone-phobics and telephone sales people who slammed the receiver down without leaving a message. Normally, Ashok would have been irritated. Now he was glad. He was in no mood to return social calls. Most of the messages that had been left were non-urgent calls from friends, wondering if he was back. One was from an awkwardly embarrassed Mrs. Maxwell saying that she was sorry she couldn’t go on working for him as she was starting a full-time job in the New Year. Ashok wondered how long she’d known. The final call was from Dr. Patel, who had left his message that morning.
“Welcome back, my dear boy, and felicitations on your forthcoming marriage. That family is well known to my mother-in-law, and I understand you have indeed made an excellent choice. You will please dine with us tomorrow, that is Friday evening. We look forward to hearing your news.”
Insult to injury. Salt into the wound. He sat, sunk in despair until his bones ached with cold and he started to shiver. His discomfort jolted him into decision. No. He would make his excuses and not go to the Patel’s. He was due to start back at the hospital on Monday. There he would be unable to avoid Dr. Patel, although opportunity to discuss private matters was, thank goodness, limited. At any rate, he would cross that bridge later. At least he would have an unmolested weekend. He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. Dr. Patel would be at the hospital. His wife would be doing her ante-natal clinic. He picked up the receiver and dialed their number. The housekeeper answered.
“Ashok Rao here. Please thank Dr. Patel for inviting me to dinner. Unfortunately, I have picked up a severe cold and must therefore decline the invitation.”
If he sat there in the damp chill long enough, he reflected, it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy. He forced himself up and switched on the central heating. Slowly, he and the flat began to thaw out. Jetlag caught up with him, and he lay down on his still unmade bed where, finally, he fell into a deep but troubled sleep, filled with fears for Hannah.
It was not simply that his feelings for her were still strong—indeed, they seemed to grow in strength with each passing day. It was also the helplessness, the fear that something had happened to her; after all, her departure was less than a week after the Salers affair had come to its grotesque conclusion. Perhaps it had all been too much. Perhaps she had snapped. Perhaps she was wandering around India in blank incomprehension. Perhaps she’d fallen foul of the innumerable dangers lurking there. Perhaps...
The next day, he swallowed his pride and telephoned Duncan at Hamilton and Forbes, giving a false name to the secretary who put him through.
“Duncan. Ashok here. How are you?”
A split second then an over-effusive reply.
“Ashok. Good to hear from you, old man. I’m well. And you?”
“Yes. Listen. I just got back. Is Hannah back yet? I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her?”
Ashok could almost hear Duncan’s mind ticking over.
“Er...’fraid not, old man. Don’t know where she is.”
“But she told me you’d always know—because of the impending US publication of her book.”
“Yes, well, the book’s out now. You missed the storm. But I’ll send you a copy, if you want.”
Ashok swallowed hard. Keep your temper, he said to himself. Don’t make even more of an enemy of him.
“Don’t you have any idea where she is? Look, I’m really worried. She just disappeared—”
“Well, that’s Hannah for you. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“At least you can let me have her UK address.”
“Sorry, old man. Haven’t got it on me. Anyway, it won’t do you any good. She’s not there.”
“I thought you didn’t know where she is.”
“I don’t. But I know where she isn’t.”
That’s it, Ashok decided. Enough of this idiot’s cover up.
“Okay, Duncan. I’m not stupid, you know. So you don’t want me to trace her. I don’t know if that’s her doing or yours. At least tell me if she’s safe.”
Mind ticking again. A telephone time bomb.
“I think we should terminate this conversation, Ashok. It was nice talking to you.”
The phone went dead. Fuck you, Ashok thought. He slammed down the receiver.
Bracing himself against the unaccustomed winter cold, and hoping that his car would start after its long sleep, he decided to take himself off to Burfold. Hannah had told him she had a cottage there. He knew it was somewhere near the village green. The drive took him an hour. Speeding down the A3 in his ageing Saab 900 channeled his anger and anxiety, and it wasn’t until he heard the police siren that he realized he’d been doing eighty-five. Damn. Better not try the medical emergency line with this lot, he decided, or they’ll offer to escort me. So he admitted guilt, meekly, only wishing they’d get on with it and let him continue his journey.
By the time he reached Burfold, he was in a foul temper, in keeping with the weather, which had turned to sleet. It was lunchtime, and he parked in the car park of the Red Fox Inn, recalling with a pang that it was from here that Salers had first followed Hannah home. He asked around the bar for the whereabouts of the cottage of the writer Hannah Petersen. Nobody seemed to know, or at least they weren’t prepared to divulge the information. He couldn’t blame them. At least it meant they were not telling all and sundry where she lived.
A cheese ploughman’s and a beer later, he set off on foot around the green, eyeing up each cottage as nonchalantly as possible in order not to arouse suspicion. Although the sleet had stopped, it was bitterly cold and sludgy underfoot. He remembered that she had mentioned that the cottage was down a dirt track and that it was not, therefore, situated directly on the green itself. This narrowed down his search. He continued to explore, inspecting every path, drive, or dirt track that was anywhere near the green.
After a good hour’s investigating, he spotted a fairly wide, hedge-bordered lane. A wooden sign nailed to a tree had the words “Drake Lane” carved into it. A road sign at the beginning indicated that it was a dead end. Not a dirt track, Ashok thought, but worth a try. He headed down the lane. There was a large house some fifty meters along it, beyond which the lane narrowed and the tarmac petered out and became a sandy track. After another fifty meters, the track ended. On the left, behind an unruly assortment of hawthorn and elder, nestled a small but attractive half-timbered cottage. Ashok knew, without a doubt, that it belonged to Hannah.
He turned onto the gravel drive leading to the front door. The lawn on each side of the drive was soggy with winter neglect. Most of the garden, he noticed, was at the front of the house, with only a small, fenced in strip at the back separating Hannah’s property from the field behind it. The shed, whose slamming door had brought Hannah out of bed that November night when Salers had rushed her, was half-concealed behind shrubs
at the far right of the front garden. The scene that had taken place that night forced itself into Ashok’s imagination. He saw the shed door banging, Salers’ sinister presence, Hannah lying on the wet grass in front of the shrubs, Duncan’s car turning onto the drive, and the glare of its headlights. He shuddered at the thought of her vulnerability, holed up there alone in the middle of nowhere. Damned plucky, he thought. Or foolhardy. Not sure which.
He made his way around to the back of the cottage and peered first through the kitchen window. Modern but rustic. All neat and tidy. No sign of life. Next to the kitchen were French windows, which led onto a small patio. Through these he saw Hannah’s neat living room. In his mind, he could see her working at the computer on the desk in the corner. Careless, he thought, to leave it in such full view while she was away. Uncharacteristic. A sign of how distracted she had been at the time. He could see through the open door into the hall and noticed that some of Hannah’s post was neatly stacked on a hall table next to a black telephone. Someone’s been in.
“Can I help you?”
Ashok wheeled around to see an elderly man in tweeds and Wellington boots, standing behind him, leaning on a stick. Beside him, a senescent spaniel stood panting—more from the effects of overweight than over-exertion, Ashok reckoned.
“I’m looking for Miss Petersen. Do you know if she’s back?”
“And who, might I ask, are you?”
“An old friend.” The man looked wary. “I’m—from Oxford,” Ashok added hastily, as if this were some sort of pedigree that would place him beyond suspicion.
“Oh. I see. Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Miss Petersen’s away for some time, I believe. She went off quite suddenly before Christmas. Some secret assignment, I suppose, knowing her line of work. She didn’t know when she’d be back, but I said I’d keep an eye on the place. I live at the house back down the lane. I saw you walk past and thought I’d better check.”
“Oh, so it’s you who’s been picking up her post.”
“No, not me. I haven’t got a key. It’s that publisher fellow—what’s his name? Ford?”
“Forbes. When was he last here?”
“About a week ago.”
A spark of hope flickered.
“Did he say if he’d heard from her?”
“Mm...yes, I think he did. Bit vague, though. Said she was well but in no rush to get back, it seems.”
“Did he say where she is?”
“Oh no. He wouldn’t tell me that. As I said, she’s always involved in some cloak and dagger stuff.”
“Yes. Well, thanks, anyway. I’d better be going before it starts snowing again.”
“Nice lady, Miss Petersen. Always ready for a chat and a cup of tea, y’know. Never put on airs and graces. I felt so sorry for her last year. Some maniac was giving her a hard time, but the police—well, you know what they’re like.”
“Did you ever see him, this maniac?”
“Well. I thought I did, once. I was taking Bert for a walk up the lane—late one evening, round about August it must have been—when this man suddenly appeared—thin, and very white. Real shifty. I don’t know if he’d been hiding in the hedge or what. He saw me and shot off towards the green.”
“Did you report it?”
The man laughed. “I tried. Just made me look a fool.”
“Poor Hannah,” Ashok said, half to himself.
“Why don’t you leave her a note?”
“Would you hand it to her?”
“Why not post it through the letter box?”
“No,” Ashok said, a little too quickly. “I’d rather you made sure it gets to her.”
“Any reason why it shouldn’t?”
“Um…well, Mr. Forbes and I…it’s rather personal.”
Hannah’s neighbor frowned. “Look. I’ve a feeling this is something I’d rather not get involved in. Ford’s looking after things for her. I wouldn’t like to deceive him. Sorry.”
The expression on the man’s face was set. No point in pursuing the matter. It was closed.
Ashok nodded. “I understand. I’ll call again.”
This inauspicious start to Ashok’s return to Britain was to set the pattern for the coming weeks. Bouts of depression and withdrawal from social contact punctuated his private life. He made no attempt to find a new cleaner, unable to bear the idea of another Mrs. Maxwell intruding on his privacy. Once a week, he cleared the papers off the floor and added them to the pile on the desk, which gradually built up in front of the Ganesh poster until it was almost entirely obscured. If he had time, he half-heartedly passed the vacuum cleaner over those parts of the floor that he could reach without having to move the furniture. Since he ate at the hospital, his kitchen remained mostly untouched, with the exception of the occasional coffee cup or whisky glass when the going got really tough. Some evenings, music provided him with escape. Others would be spent in silence, searching. He would travel in his mind over every moment that he had spent with Hannah, from their first meeting to their final, ecstatic hours together at the Chamundi, in the desperate search for anything that could provide a clue to her disappearance.
The US publication of Fair Game had fuelled a controversy that even lingered on in Britain for some weeks. Hannah had exposed a network of corruption that shocked America. Ashok followed up every press report, but her whereabouts remained a mystery. Rumors abounded in the press—she was investigating the Russian Mafia; she’d been kidnapped in Burma; she was probing into the activities of a major oil company in Africa; she’d adopted a new identity to protect her from Bannerman’s wrath—rumors that Ashok read in despondency and fear. Darkest of all were moments spent imagining her dying alone in some Oriental gutter, coughing up blood and gasping vainly for breath though sponge-choked lungs.
Once a month, he made a pilgrimage to Burfold. It was always the same: the cottage, untouched except for the pile of mail getting higher on the hall table. As winter faded into spring, the cottage took on a new persona, seemed less austere and isolated as new buds broke out on the trees and the lawn began to sprout new shoots. This gave Ashok an idea. He had seen through the shed window that Hannah kept her gardening tools, including a lawn mower, there. When and if she returned, the lawn would need attending to as a matter of urgency. The door was locked, but the window, although rusted solid, was slightly open. He rummaged in his pocket for a scrap of paper, finally tearing the last paying-in slip from his checkbook, and wrote.
Dear Hannah,
I’m so worried. I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I need to know that you’re OK. Please ring or write. At least do this for me.
Fondly
Ashok
Underneath, he added his home and hospital address, his telephone number, and the date. He folded the paper and slipped it through the window. He watched it as it floated down and came to rest facedown on the lawn mower. Good, he thought. As long as Forbes doesn’t decide to mow the lawn.
After that, he always checked to see if the note was still there. It was, and the grass grew higher.
In June, he received a letter from Janaki.
Dear Ashok,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and mind. I myself am well. My parents also.
This morning I have learnt of my success in entrance examination for MSc degree programme at University of Agricultural Sciences in Bangalore. This, God willing, will be leading to eventual PhD at BTU.
Now I will be living in Bangalore I will have opportunity to visit your family often, and to help your sister Priya with marriage arrangements. To this I am looking forward very much, and to your return in December next year for her wedding.
I hope you will soon write to me and tell me about UK.
May this year continue to bring you the brightest of joys, the warmest of friendships, the nicest of memories.
With deep regards,
Yours sincerely,
Janaki
He scribbled a short reply.
Dear Ja
naki,
Nice to hear from you. I am very happy for you and wish you success in your studies. Perhaps you will write and tell me exactly what you will be doing. Most of it I should be able to understand—to some extent at least.
What would you like to know about England? It is very different from India. Very less people.
He racked his brain for something else to say to her. Words came painfully and slowly. It was a duty, but one that came without pleasure.
There are many cars here. London is getting very noisy and polluted.
Stop being mean, he said to himself. Stop putting her off.
The gardens are beautiful at this time of year. Everything is breaking into flower after the winter. There is a lovely village that I know. It has an old white inn with low, oak roof-beams. And a village green with a duck pond, where people play cricket. And a little half-timbered cottage with a lawn, and sweet-scented elder and hawthorn hedges covered with pink and white blossoms.
Please convey my best wishes to your respected parents,
Yours sincerely,
Ashok
As much as Ashok withdrew into himself at home, his professional life blossomed. He developed the capacity to shut out all private preoccupation and switch entirely and unshakably into work mode as soon as he entered the hospital. He was highly regarded, widely praised, and sought after by patients unwilling to place the care of their eyesight into less sure hands. Dr. Rao’s reputation grew with each considerately handled consultation, each successful cataract operation, each reattached retina, each comforting bedside reassurance, each kindly pat or smile.
Time spread like a film of hydrocortisone across the past, dimmed pain, and calmed inflamed passions. By the end of the first year of his return to England, Ashok was able to look beyond the still festering wounds of his time with Hannah.
He began to take more interest in Janaki’s letters, and his replies gradually became less stilted, more sincere. Hannah, yearned for and undiminished, became in his mind an ethereal, untouchable dream; a warm and loving memory; a mythical, vanished goddess. Janaki was reality. They could make a life together. It would be okay. Genial if not fervid.