The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘I could fall in love. Perhaps I have. But this is love for a day and if I was very lucky perhaps, love for two days. And anyway, she could be my sister. We don’t need to say much to each other. She could be – and indeed she is – my lover. If everything were different, if all the cards were dealt again, if this and if that and if the other, for God’s sake, she could be my wife.’

  A stab of desire swept through him and his hands tightened. Indignant at this rough handling, Bamboo skittered aside and even humped his back.

  Nancy looked back over her shoulder. ‘Can’t the squire from Scotland Yard keep his seat?’ she asked derisively.

  The scrub-covered hillside gave way to occasional stands of trees, thickening as their way led on until they were riding, side by side now, down a jungle path, the alternate shade and sunshine illuminating Nancy’s face and casting it into darkness. Flights of raucous green parrots flashed across their path, mercifully ignored by patient Bamboo. Monkeys gibbered a strident warning of their approach, fleeing showily through the tree canopy overhead, and at times Joe fancied he could make out larger, darker shapes dimly imagined in the shadowy foliage at the foot of the trees but decided that if Nancy was not prepared to give them her attention, nor should he.

  Topping a jungle-clad ridge, their road turned downwards towards a village presided over by a rhythmically creaking water wheel, turning and turning and lifting buckets to send a flush of water down the many irrigation channels. Thirty or so mud-walled houses with thatched roofs huddled companionably together, set out to no obvious plan and with no eye for drainage or ventilation as far as Joe could make out, but scattered, it seemed, haphazardly about a central square in which stood a venerable peepul tree. In the windless day spires of smoke rose from many households, bringing with them the sharp smell of dung fires and cooking.

  Chickens ran noisily about, occasionally being ejected forcefully through the low, dark doorways. A fat brown child staggered on short legs to the edge of the village and squatted with complete unconcern in the dust. As they reined in their horses and stood waiting, a cascade of children poured out to greet them and then, overcome with shyness, stopped dead. But they were quick to respond to Nancy’s greeting and soon surrounded them in a chattering group. One of them broke off a stalk of sugar cane and offered it to Bamboo, others ran back to the nearest house, to emerge proudly with a tray of sweet cakes, and after a while a woman came forward with a bowl of milk.

  ‘If this was all there was to it,’ Joe thought, ‘I could be happy here.’

  ‘Is this Lasra Kot?’ he asked. ‘Is this where we’re to meet the ferryman?’

  ‘It’s Lasra Kot, yes, but we’re not here to meet a ferryman.’

  ‘But didn’t your note say …?’

  ‘I did but it wasn’t true about Naurung’s message. There was no message. I made it up.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I thought we had deserved a day off from police work. I wanted you to see India as it really is. I know you have no time for it and are rather desperate to go home but I just didn’t want you to disappear with Calcutta and the station as your lasting, your only, impressions of the country. The station is unreal. It’s more British than Britain, an invention, a parade. Calcutta is unreal – two extremes of wealth and poverty, both disgusting to a man I am beginning to think of as seeing as I do in spite of his being a policeman.’

  A young girl in a bright red-bordered sari came hurrying from one of the houses and spoke to Nancy in what Joe guessed to be Bengali.

  ‘This is my friend Supriya,’ said Nancy. ‘And there are other people here I ought to see. Why don’t you tie the horses and take a seat? I shan’t be very long.’

  She indicated a small temple, little bigger than a summer house. ‘Take a seat over there.’ She unpacked some small parcels from her saddle bag and Joe led the ponies away to stand in the shade.

  Gladly he went over to the temple to sit in the shade himself. He lit a cigarette and watched as a girl in an azure sari emerged from one of the houses and spread a carpet under the peepul tree and invited Nancy to sit.

  At once a shy procession began to form up. Mothers – themselves little older than schoolgirls – with babies in hand or babies at the breast, infants tugging at their skirts, began to gather round Nancy. Each child in turn was led up for her inspection. She looked at eyes, she looked at ears, she felt limbs, lifted draperies and ran an exploring hand over fat brown stomachs, the whole operation accompanied by gales of giggles from the children and laughter from their mothers. From time to time she took a tin of ointment from her pack and gently spread it over an affected part; she applied drops to sore eyes; with a skilled hand and a tight cotton noose, watched by the interested Supriya, she dealt with the ticks that she explained were endemic in the valley.

  ‘Conjunctivitis and diarrhoea,’ said Nancy over their heads to Joe in a businesslike voice, ‘those are our main problems. You can’t teach these people anything about “personal hygiene” – they’re probably the cleanest people in the world – but, oh boy! are there things they should learn about culinary hygiene and if only I could teach the children not to do their tuppences all over the place we’d be half-way to solving their problems. Still, I think I’m making progress and Supriya here is becoming my valuable assistant.’

  She turned and spoke to Supriya who blushed and wriggled, bowed and salaamed with much gratification. Joe watched her with tenderness as, after each inspection, Nancy planted an affectionate kiss on each brown cheek which was immediately proffered to her. Briefly Joe remembered her speaking of the American soldier: ‘He had, in a way, become my baby.’ Were these small brown children elected to fill that gap?

  As her inspection drew to a close, Nancy was obviously subjected to a barrage of questions most of which seemed to relate to Joe himself.

  ‘They assume,’ said Nancy, ‘that you are my husband. And look, Joe – seriously now – for the purposes of this conversation we have to be married. The idea of an unmarried lady in the deep jungle with an unmarried gentleman would be incomprehensible and impossible.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather awkward?’ said Joe. ‘Supposing the Collector should call?’

  ‘Oh, he often does. They assume he’s my father so that doesn’t present a problem. But the fact that we have no children does. That they can’t understand, and perhaps you’d like to know that they assume that it’s all your fault!’ She turned and, speaking in Bengali, obviously had this confirmed in a shrill chorus.

  ‘One of their problems,’ she said, ‘is that they’ve never seen such a white sahib before. It’s all right though – they guess that you come from the far north. They assume the scar on your forehead is the mark of a wild animal, a panther perhaps. Oh, no – there’s going to be a legend about this!’ And judging by the flood of questions which ensued and the peals of laughter which Nancy’s responses elicited, the legend was growing.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ thought Joe.

  ‘Aspirin and quinine,’ Nancy said in an aside to Joe as she handed packages to Supriya. ‘I’ve taught her how to administer them. They’re beginning to trust me. They call me in now for eye problems, ticks and tapeworms and for childbirth. It was difficult at first to make them understand that it’s not wise to wait for four days when a girl is in labour. Trouble is, they think it’ll turn out all right if they say enough spells. The first baby I delivered here was four days overdue, it was the girl’s first baby and it was my first baby if you see what I mean. Terrifying! I added my prayers to their spells and got busy. They worked on the top end, combing her hair and plaiting charms into it, and I worked on what you might call the business end. It was a boy and they both survived. And now they think I’m very good at delivering boys and if they call me in it’s likely to be a boy. Supriya is able to help me now and her little sister, Malobika, is keen to learn too. So maybe I’m having a beneficent impact, or something of the sort.’

  More sticky cakes were produced from one of the huts
and another bowl of milk. Nancy explained that as a child she would not have been allowed cakes or sweets. ‘What a lot of nonsense!’ she said. ‘Mind you, if they’d been lying open in the bazaar with all the flies in Bengal on them it would be a different story, but up here what harm can it do?’

  They took their farewells at last, remounted and, accompanied by a contingent of children to the edge of the village, they turned their ponies to follow a track which led to the stream that fed the village water wheel.

  ‘Well, what did you think of the real India?’

  ‘I thought Lasra Kot was charming. But I wouldn’t call it the real India.’

  ‘No?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Then what is?’

  He shook his head, wishing he had not so casually introduced a false note into their day, but Nancy waited for him to go on. ‘I’ve been spending my lonely evenings in Calcutta reading, trying to understand this strange place where I’ve fetched up. I came across an Indian writer called Sri Aurobindo …’

  The tightening of Nancy’s lips gave away her opinion of Joe’s reading matter.

  ‘Yes, I know he was imprisoned by the British – all the best people are at some time or other! – and he’s generally considered a trouble maker, an insurgent, whatever word you’re using at the moment, but he had something to say which has stayed with me – “We do not belong to past dawns but to the noon of the future.” Naurung, his father, their friends, they are the noon of the future, if you like. Not a romantic vision perhaps and certainly not a reassuring one but, for me, that’s where the real India lies.’

  He instantly regretted having spoken the truth. Her look of shining confidence was for a moment dimmed by foreboding and he feared that he might have spoiled their day. But she recovered her good humour quickly and said cheerfully, ‘Then I haven’t shown you enough. Come this way. We’ll take the road into the hills.’

  They went on to climb beside a rushing stream. The track became more stony and led between great creeper-clad boulders until it ended by a pool and a waterfall.

  The tension between them was by now extreme.

  Nancy threw her leg over the horse’s head and slid to the ground, leading him to the water to drink.

  ‘I’m hot,’ said Joe and, feeling gently round the back of Nancy’s neck, ‘you’re hot too. Can you think of any reason why we shouldn’t swim – I mean – is it safe?’

  ‘Safe?’ said Nancy, breathlessly. ‘Oh, I think so. As high as this it’s very cold and surely safe to drink.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Joe. ‘What about water snakes?’

  ‘Well, if you get in first and splash about a bit it ought to be safe for me.’

  She turned about and stood very close to Joe, her hands on his shoulders. ‘I have never swum alone with a man in my life and, come to think of it, I’ve never undressed in broad daylight with a man either. Perhaps this hasn’t meant much to you – I’ve no idea of your private life – but I’ll tell you, it’s meant a very great deal to me. More I expect than you could conceivably imagine. And we aren’t within miles of the end of our investigation but I can see that there will be an end and then you’ll go back to your London flat and I’ll go back – I’ve never been away – to my life as the Collector’s wife. And happy enough to be that. But something important will have happened to me. Tell me, if you can, will you be sad when we have to say goodbye to each other? Because goodbye is what we’re going to have to say. I shan’t die but I shall be sad and I’d like you to be a bit sad too.’

  ‘Nancy, you don’t know the half of it!’ said Joe. ‘The moment hasn’t come but I know it’s coming fast and I shall be very sad. This is the Land of Regrets all right! And I think you’re wonderful … I think you’re very beautiful. But much more than that, I think you’re bright and clever and brave and …’ There was a long pause. ‘I’d trust you with anything. I’d trust you with my life.’

  ‘That’s a very nice thing to say. I shall treasure it – when it came to the point, you’d trust me with anything. What more could anyone expect to hear? And I’d say exactly the same thing to you.’

  For reply, Joe kissed her for a very long time, clumsily trying to unbutton her shirt as he did so.

  ‘Come on, Joe! For a man with your savoir vivre you’re a terrible unbuttoner! Let me do it. You could be unbuttoning yourself if you like,’ she added and then, in a conversational tone, ‘These have to be the least erotic clothes we could have chosen! And you haven’t seen it all yet! Not knowing – or rather not being certain – how the day was going to turn out, I’m wearing the most sensible pair of knickers I possess! Just the thing for riding but …’ her voice trailed away while they kissed each other some more, and she finally concluded in a slightly strangled voice, ‘… but not what I’d choose for dalliance.’

  ‘And I’m not dressed for dalliance either,’ said Joe. ‘In the best of circumstances, it takes me a very long time to get out of these jodhpurs!’

  They emerged at last, naked, and hand in hand on the edge of the pool.

  ‘Swim first?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy, glancing down at him in some embarrassment, ‘but only if you can contain yourself.’

  ‘All clear of snakes, are we?’

  Nancy stepped off the edge of the rock they were standing on, straight into deep water, and Joe jumped after her. The water was surprisingly cold. Nancy looked down at him once more. ‘Not such a big boy, after all,’ she said. ‘Does that always happen in cold water?’

  He looked down with appreciation at Nancy, turned to jade green under the water. ‘You look like a bronze statue,’ he said. ‘Do Indians have Naiads? If so, you will always be the Naiad of this pool and I will always leave a bit of my heart here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy, ‘I believe you will.’

  They swam the circuit of their pool; they stood for a moment under the waterfall.

  ‘Bronze, ivory and coral,’ said Joe. ‘Bronze curls, ivory skin …’

  ‘And coral?’

  ‘Coral nipples,’ said Joe, stooping to kiss them.

  ‘The cold water shrinkage system doesn’t seem to be working,’ Nancy said. ‘Time to be ashore.’

  Joe made an untidy pile of their clothes and, hand in hand, they sank down on this. Nancy was, to Joe, exotic and familiar; exotic because strange, familiar from their night in Calcutta, tasting as he had remembered and smelling as sweet as he had remembered. They made love with much passion, punctuated by Nancy who squeaked an inconsequential question requiring no answer. At last they fell apart from each other and lay back, each wrapped in silent thought.

  After a few minutes Nancy began to stir and abruptly sat up. ‘Tell you something, Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry!’

  ‘Good Lord! That’s right. So am I! I’d forgotten – we’ve got a perfectly good picnic.’

  They settled together to lay out their picnic on a cool flat rock, with appreciative murmurs from Joe as he unpacked sandwiches, two bottles of the inevitable India Pale Ale and a mango each accompanied by a silver fruit knife and fork.

  They ate in companionable silence, neither feeling the need to fill the gaps with inconsequential chatter, each lost in thoughts for the moment unsharable.

  ‘No coffee, I’m afraid,’ said Nancy at last.

  ‘Who wants coffee?’ said Joe, leaning over to lick an errant drop of mango juice from between her breasts.

  ‘I do, actually,’ she replied. ‘But there’s something I want more than coffee and that’s you.’ Flushing slightly at her own boldness, she added hurriedly, ‘Look, I’m not sure how men … how you … work. Is this all right?’

  ‘It depends who you’re with,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll tell you – with you it’s abundantly all right!’

  As they rode slowly back together Nancy said, ‘Tell me, Joe – I don’t know anything about you. Where do you come from? What’s your world? What’s your family?’

  ‘I wondered when you’d get around to checking my pedigree!’
he said easily. ‘I’m from Selkirk, the River Etrick, a place called Drumaulbin on the Borders. My father has a place there. It’s quite big – three farms really – but even so there isn’t enough to support two sons in affluence and I left it to my older brother to take care of and went to read Law in Edinburgh. But then the war came along and I joined the Scots Fusiliers. I and half a dozen lads from Drumaulbin all joined up together and set off south. Blue bonnets over the border, you might say.’

  ‘But you didn’t go back to the Law after the war?’

  ‘No. By that time I’d got so identified with the Fusilier Jocks I wanted to do something for them which I didn’t think I could do as a douce Writer for the Signet, called to the Scottish bar, so, after a certain amount of thought, I joined the police.’

  ‘Now why on earth should you do that? I mean, it’s not the place where you’d expect to find a gentleman, is it?’

  ‘Well, I thought, in general, boys like the ones I was fighting with have a pretty rotten deal one way or another. I thought I could do more good as a bobby than as a lawyer.’

  ‘What nonsense! Men don’t join the police to do good!’

  ‘Don’t judge us all by the example of Bulstrode! But you’re partly right. I had another compulsion. I was wounded in the trenches – shot through the shoulder …’

  ‘I noticed! Someone did a good repair.’

  ‘But while I was away from the front recuperating they kept me busy. I was given intelligence work to do. Interrogation of prisoners. I found I was rather good at it and when I came out I wanted to do more. There’s been a big shake-up in the police force since the war. Everyone has a picture of friendly but stern blue-caped bobbies ticking little boys off for stealing apples but it’s not like that at all. There are so many changes, so many developments – fingerprinting, telegraph communication, the flying squad – and I want to be there in the forefront pushing the force in the right direction!’