The Repercussions

by Catherine Hall

  Hari was sweating now: little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. “The Pathans were singing it on purpose. They know things about Atash Khan. They saw him with me and were making a joke about us.”

  “What sort of joke?”

  “One that wasn’t especially funny. I… I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Don’t be like that. Tell me, Hari, please.”

  The Pathans had guessed a truth about him, he said, a truth that he had always been careful to hide. It was that truth that he wanted to explain to me now.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I have felt things for you…” My heart quickened. “What I mean to say, Elizabeth, is that I have felt things for you that I have not felt for any other woman.”

  I felt a glorious, soaring surge of joy.

  “Wonderful things. I enjoy our conversations. I look forward to seeing you every day. I feel a tenderness that moves me.”

  I turned to him, looking up at this complicated, difficult man, this man I had grown to love.

  “But it isn’t enough.”

  I shrank back as if he had struck me. “I don’t understand.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then his words came out in a rush. “I cannot feel those things for women.”

  The sky became suddenly heavy and close – the noise from the beach, children’s shrieks, the roar of the waves filled my ears.

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered again.

  Sitting straight-backed, staring out to sea, he asked if I remembered his story about Aditya and the opium. Aditya, he said, had been his great love, from when they were boys. That was the reason he had wanted him to come to Oxford, so that they could be together, away from their families. That was the reason he had followed him into the opium den. He would have done anything Aditya had asked.

  When he had smoked the opium, he said, he had seen things, felt things that had delighted and terrified him. He knew then that he would not be able to keep his feelings to himself for long. And so he had left Aditya to come to Oxford, where he thought he might find someone else to love. He had thought that an intellectual environment might be more – he hesitated – understanding.

  “And was it?” I asked, in a voice that did not sound like my own.

  “A little.”

  “And did you,” I said, my voice cracking, “find love?”

  There was another pause.

  “I thought so,” he muttered. “But he wouldn’t be seen with me. It was bad enough to be… whatever we were. It was worse to be that with an Indian.”

  That was really why he had come to the Pavilion, he confessed, and he was glad he had, because that was where he had found me.

  “It has been wonderful,” he said. “Really. I truly mean it.”

  “But not enough,’ I said. “I am not enough.”

  I felt a sort of closing-up inside, a smothering disappointment. Getting to my feet, I set off down the promenade. The tears soon came: hot, stinging tears of humiliation as I realized that, despite all my desire to find out more about India, I knew nothing about the world.

  I was attracting more glances now, of disapproval, of concern. In an effort to avoid them, I decided to get away from the seafront and make my way home through Kemptown. As I crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a charabanc full of day-trippers, I looked back to where Hari and I had sat. He was still there, still looking out to sea.

  I cannot write what happened next, not yet, not now. All I want is sleep. I am horribly tired. I must sleep.

  Forty-Five

  Happy Christmas, Suze! I woke up early this morning, to a choppy sea and heavy clouds, but I didn’t let that bother me. I got up, made toast and sat, eating it, watching the seagulls circle in the sky, feeling better than I have for weeks.

  Florence had invited me to lunch, but before that I went to put some flowers on Edith’s grave.

  The taxi driver was chatty. “You’d be surprised how many people do that at Christmas,” he said. “Go and see the ones they’ve lost, make them part of the day.”

  We drove past a giant bingo hall, up a hill, past rows and rows of red-brick bungalows and through the Kemptown racecourse. Suddenly we were in the countryside, passing horses munching hay.

  I’d braced myself for avenging angels and Victorian cherubs, but instead the cemetery was a field with views across the South Downs, all the way to the sea. The gravestones were laid flat into the ground, but the grass was dotted with giant plastic tulips, petrol-station carnations and miniature Christmas trees, making it look like a crazy, psychedelic summer meadow. As I got closer, I saw that people had left other things to remember their dead: a bottle of Smirnoff Ice to mourn a teenager, solar-powered lanterns to light up a grave at night, a child’s windmill turning in the breeze. There were flags in football colours, flapping next to little statues, the kind you find in garden centres: gnomes, mermaids, a Venus with amputated arms.

  Families clustered in corners, talking quietly. A group of drag queens who looked as if they hadn’t been to bed stood in their party clothes raising champagne flutes to someone called Peaches. I smiled at them as I passed by.

  Edith’s grave was easy to find, in the newest section of the graveyard: a plain slab of stone – French grey, as you’d have put it – simply cut.

  EDITH BARCLAY

  1916–2011

  IN MEMORIAM

  Taking out the poinsettia that I’d brought, I put it at the head of the grave and stood for a moment, remembering.

  I took another taxi back to the seafront. Like the cemetery, it was busy, full of joggers and dogs and kids running around, high on Christmas excitement. For once the Pier was silent, its lights turned off, the helter-skelter and the ghost train still, but when I got out of the cab, I saw a crowd gathered on the beach. Most of them were wrapped up warm like me, but shivering on the shore was a huddle of people in swimsuits.

  “What’s this?” I asked the woman next to me.

  “The Christmas Day swim,” she said.

  Suddenly, with no announcement, the swimmers dashed into the sea, running through the waves and shrieking at the cold. Most of them ran straight back out again, but some of them dipped down, disappearing under the grey foam. There was clapping and cheering, corks popped and hooters parped. Dogs barked in solidarity, scampering in and out of the water. At that moment, I loved Brighton. Smiling to myself, I set off to Florence’s flat, just off the Hove seafront, in a townhouse on the side of a garden square. People milled about on first-floor balconies, laughing and drinking, looking out at the view.

  Florence came to the door, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

  “Jo!” she said. “Come in, let me take your coat.”

  The room we went into was enormous, a sitting room and kitchen combined, bigger than Edith’s flat. It was filled with light, despite the December darkness, the walls, ceiling, floor all painted white, the only colour coming from the spines of books that lined the whole of one wall. A fire was burning in the grate, smelling of apple logs.

  A table was laid for six – white china on a red cloth, silver cutlery lined up straight.

  Being pregnant was definitely having an effect, I thought. I’d never taken notice of a table setting before in my life.

  I loitered in the kitchen, waiting for Florence to come back. The fridge had photos stuck on the door, and I went close to check them out.

  The doorbell buzzed, and voices came from the hallway, then the kitchen was busy with people taking off coats and scarves, pulling bottles from plastic bags.

  “This is Jo, everyone,” said Florence. “Jo, this is Theo and Anna, Lizzie and Claire.”

  Theo and Anna were the sort of couple that had grown into looking like each other, sleek and blonde, dressed up for the occasion. Lizzie and Claire were jolly, scruffy, dressed like me in jeans and cosy jumpers. Theo opened a cupboard and took down glasses. Florence popped a cork.

  When Theo handed me a drink, I hesitated, then said, “I can�
�t: I’m pregnant.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud. It felt a bit weird.

  Lizzie was the first to speak. “Wow!”

  Claire held up her glass. “To the baby.”

  I felt a combination of embarrassment and strange pride.

  “Did it take a long time?” asked Anna.

  I didn’t want to have a conversation like the ones we used to have at parties, about sperm banks and IVF and the difference in price between clinics in London and flying to Denmark. I blushed and said, “Er, no.”

  Florence, it turned out, was a great cook. I concentrated on the food, listening to the others chatter on, but eventually, as I’d known it would, the conversation turned to me.

  “What about you, Jo?” asked Theo. “Florence says you’re a war photographer.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, so far. I’m… I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Because of the baby?”

  I nodded. “Partly.”

  “And where were you last?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Tough one. With the troops?”

  “No. I’ve been trying to broaden out a bit.”

  She took a sip of wine. “To what?”

  Anna put her arm around her girlfriend. “Don’t worry, Jo, she does this all the time. She’s a barrister. She likes to interrogate.”

  “It’s fine,” I said and, oddly, suddenly it was. “I was doing a project on domestic violence. There’s a lot of it in Afghanistan.”

  “Not just there,” said Lizzie. “I work at the hospital. I see it every Friday night.”

  Theo pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her bag.

  “Girls!” said Florence. “Jo’s pregnant, remember?”

  “Sorry,” said Theo. “We’ll go on the balcony.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I like the smell. I used to smoke a lot.”

  Florence brought an ashtray and they lit up. I gave the air a guilty sniff.

  “Did the photos turn out well?” asked Anna.

  “I think so,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t looked at them since I’d come back.

  “What happens now?” asked Florence. She was looking at me – a gentle look, filled with concern. I didn’t want her to start going on about post-traumatic stress again.

  “What do you mean?” I said, I said, a bit too quickly.

  “With the photographs.”

  “Mmm,” said Theo. “I’d love to see them. Are they going to be published soon?”

  “I hope so, but I didn’t go to Kabul with a commission. I just went out freelance and hoped to find a story. So no one’s bought the images yet.”

  “Where’ve you tried?”

  There was a pause. I was suddenly ashamed of not having got in touch with my contacts, of not having made the effort to get the pictures published. I’d made a promise to Leila. Rashida had paid with her life.

  “I haven’t yet,” I said.

  “You’re pregnant,” said Florence. “You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

  “I will, though,” I said, quietly, more to convince myself than anyone else.

  Later, the others went off to a party. I was going to leave as well, but Florence said softly, “Why don’t you stay a bit longer?”

  I sat on the opposite sofa, keeping the coffee table between us.

  “They’re nice, your friends,” I said.

  She smiled. “They liked you too.”

  For a few moments, neither of us spoke. I listened to the rain beating against the window panes, and the wind whistling down the chimney. Inside, everything was peaceful and right, from the steady flames of the candles on the table to the music playing in the background – soft, rippling sounds, gentle strings.

  “Jo,” she said quietly. “I like you a lot.”

  Her voice broke the spell.

  “I’d better go,” I said. “It’s late.”

  As I left, she gave me a hug goodbye. I leant into her, her hair soft against my face, breathing in musky perfume, then I pulled away.

  It scares me that she likes me. It scares me that I like her too. You’d tell me to stop thinking and just go for it. Funny how I’ve spent years doing exactly that in my work, but never managed it in any other part of my life.

  You know what I’m going to do before I go to bed? I’m going to water the plants. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to keep plants alive. First time for everything, I guess.

  Forty-Six

  ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY’S DIARY

  26th May 1915

  This is the rest of the story, the part I couldn’t finish yesterday. I am going to write it quickly: perhaps that will make it less awful.

  I cannot explain why, after leaving Hari, I ended up in the street outside Robert’s boarding house, why I walked up the steps and rapped the knocker once, twice, three times.

  The landlady was protective of her lodgers and unwilling to call Robert down from his room, but my tears persuaded her, and soon he was beside me, his new, softened self, asking what was wrong. The little sitting room that the landlady had showed us to was filled with gentlemen reading the newspapers, and so, after Robert had explained that I was his fiancée, I found myself climbing the stairs to his room.

  It was a nice enough room, which probably had a sea view if you leant out of the window, but I was in no state to do that. Instead, I sat in the chair that Robert steered me into. He sat opposite me; a little table was between us.

  “Whatever’s the matter, my darling?” Robert said.

  I blinked. I had not thought about what I would say to him. I could not tell him the truth. I looked around the room, seeking inspiration.

  “Things have been so difficult between us since you’ve come back from the Front,” I said. “When you gave me the flowers just the other day it was lovely, but it made me terribly sad because” – here I faltered a little – “I was sad that things were so bad that you had to apologize.”

  Robert nodded, looking grave.

  “We’ve been planning our future for so long,” I continued, “waiting to make it a reality. When you came back and I saw how much you had changed, I was frightened.”

  He looked up at me with sad eyes, like Hari had done just half an hour before. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember that I’m not still at the Front. Sometimes, without a warning, I feel a surge of anger, of madness – just what you need to feel when you are about to go into battle. When it happens, I can’t concentrate on anything else: it takes over my whole being.”

  “I’m trying to understand,” I said. “I’m doing my best. But sometimes, when you’re back there, and not here with me, I find it so very hard.”

  He reached across the table and took my hands in his.

  “Let’s keep trying, darling. I do care for you, very much.”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  As I stood to leave, I let him take me into his arms and kiss me. It was a soft kiss, of the sort he had given me at the end of dozens of dinners or after the theatre – a kiss that did not require anything more from me. I expected then that he would break away and open the door for me to leave, but he didn’t. The second kiss was harder, his lips tense. I stiffened, trying to pull away. Our faces parted for a second, and his eyes looked into mine as he whispered my name and kissed me again, harder still.

  I was rigid with shock as his hands began to move over my body, caressing my back and the nape of my neck.

  “Elizabeth,” he said again, pressing himself closer.

  Suddenly, in one quick movement, he lifted me and took me over to the bed. His breathing was urgent now, his eyes glazed. I felt removed from myself, as if I were watching from the ceiling as he lay on top of me, still covering me with kisses, all over my face and down my throat. His hand crept up my stocking, past my garter, around my thigh.

  I did not protest, did not cry out, did not resist. Not because I knew there was no point to it, because he had changed to this new, other
self, but because I knew that Hari was gone, and so was my chance of getting away, and that we were engaged to be married, and this was how it would be, for ever after.

  After all, I had gone to his boarding house. I had knocked on the door. I had come to him.

  It hurt, as I had supposed it would on my wedding night. I stared at the picture of a woodpecker on the wall until he was finished. After he had groaned and rolled away, I peeled myself off the bed and stood unsteadily to put on my drawers.

  By the time I got home it was late, and Mamma was anxious. I told her there had been an emergency at the hospital. Before supper I locked myself in my room and cleaned myself up at the washstand, then I went downstairs and made conversation with Mamma and Papa.

  Forty-Seven

  Poor, poor Elizabeth. Poor Hari. Poor Robert. I feel awful for all of them. Hari forced to come out to Elizabeth; Elizabeth running in shock into the arms of the only other man she trusted; Robert so unhinged from what had happened at the Front. It’s a bit too close for comfort, Suze, I don’t know if I can read on.

  My own news seems tame in comparison. Yesterday I went for another scan. There were measurements and the identification of organs, and reassurances that the right bits were in the right places, then suddenly the shapes and shadows came together and there was my baby, its forehead curving round into a tiny suggestion of a nose, its thumb in its mouth.

  “Oh!” I said, stunned at seeing it properly, then it wriggled a bit and went out of view. The nurse laughed and said it was camera-shy, and I laughed too at the thought of that.

  I’d forgotten about finding out the sex, hadn’t even thought of what I wanted, but as soon as they told me I felt a surge of happiness. I’m going to have a daughter, Suze, a little girl! I’ll teach her not to pay attention to any of that rubbish in the papers or on the telly about how she should look or dress or behave. I’ll bring her up not to be scared, to believe that she can do anything, not like Elizabeth, thinking her future could only be to marry Robert, not like the women in Badam Bagh, trapped by so many rules and expectations. Not like me, either, who ran so far the other way. Oh I know, she’ll probably love pink and want to play with dolls, but wouldn’t it be fantastic if she didn’t?