Seahorse

by Janice Pariat

  “But what will you do?”

  I said something suitably vague—see some friends, get some work done. “Also Santanu’s around…”

  She looked doubtful. “He’ll be busy with the poet.”

  And Maher, I wanted to add, but held my silence.

  Later, I stood aside, watching the party unfold; Bublé, on loop, was singing about a winter wonderland for the third time now, someone had brushed against the tree and it stood woefully lopsided, and the buffet table had lightened, as had the bar. I checked my phone surreptitiously, but it stared back grim and blank. Only once, a hopeful blip.

  An email from my sister. A chain letter, containing a novena started by Mother Teresa in 1952. Not sharing it placed me in immediate danger of, among other catastrophes, dying, losing my job, losing my family.

  I hit delete.

  It had been many Decembers since I’d headed back to my hometown for Christmas.

  My father, retired now from his job at the hospital. My mother said he spent most of his time in the garden, growing masses of purple hydrangeas, lines of pale roses, and an assorted variety of orchids. Gardening, I thought, was as solitary an undertaking as healing people. Initially, my mother would ask often about my plans to visit, but I think she’d grown resigned now; I could hear it in her voice. Rather in the silences that had replaced the questions.

  My sister, long married, with her young children, working as a nurse at the same hospital where my father had retired from.

  How close, and how distant, the threads of our journeys.

  One evening, after what seemed a century of waiting, it was there.

  A new unread message. Bright and shining.

  Myra didn’t begin with an apology—perhaps, for her, it hadn’t been long at all—and asked instead if I had plans for the December holidays. I held my breath, swiftly scanning the lines. Would you like to come up to where I live in the country?

  She understood, of course, if I had made other plans, and if so, we could work out something else… maybe early in the new year. I would have liked to hit reply immediately—I’ll come I’ll come I’ll come—instead I paced my room, to walk off a sudden sharp burst of energy. I still had a choice to turn away and let things be. Like the man at the end of Acte sans paroles. To do nothing. But I’d already thrown the pebble in the pond, and this was one of its inescapable ripples. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the tolling of church bells. From nowhere came the image of a girl at the bottom of a stone tower, her hair the color of golden corn, fresh as the English countryside. Suddenly Myra, in a grey dress, walking sleepily across a sun-lit lawn. And Nicholas, always Nicholas.

  I sent her a reply late that night. Saying I looked forward to taking a break from the city. If she could send me her address, suggest suitable accommodation…

  The next morning, already, I had a reply.

  I could stay, she suggested, at a bed & breakfast in the village closest to her house—“The Mildmay Arms is small but, to my knowledge, exceedingly comfortable”—for three days—“So we may, depending on the weather, perhaps drive to the moors… which are well worth a visit.” I pre-booked it all online, my room and tickets, and waited.

  A week after the Christmas party, I traveled out of London.

  The journey felt momentous.

  The carriage was soggy with the smell of damp clothes and lost hope that they’d ever dry. A man in a billowing black coat read The Times, a woman fed a toddler in a buggy, two teenage girls giggled into each other’s ears sharing secret after secret, a gangly young man with a guitar case stepped in, glanced around, and stepped off.

  Leaving London by train was like pulling out of the innards of the city, still caked with the industrial grime of the Victorian age. The tracks were vast exposed veins, cutting and crossing, flanked by buildings with rattling rooms shaded by dirty curtains. Some were higher, floor upon floor of boxy windows, through which I could see people watching television. A vision of some forgotten dystopia. Sometimes, the screens were left on in empty rooms with images dancing like mad ghosts.

  Or the tracks were backed by warehouses with empty car parks hedged by tall wire fences. On some, ballooned colorful graffiti—“Hang the bankers.”

  This was a city visited by a whale, and the creature had died.

  Slowly, like long drawn breath, the buildings fell away, and we came upon quick glimmerings of wilderness—a hedged station, a cluster of bare oaks, the hint of open space, until it unfurled and opened and stretched into all the horizon. In summer, this must look different, the grounds brimming with radiance—although even now, it surprised me, the muted beauty of the earth. Rinsed and rained upon until only the resilient colors remained. As the afternoon drew on, a light mist rose above the fields, the earth’s silvery aura.

  It pleased me, my reflection on the glass. The quiet suspended stillness of this space.

  We stopped at increasingly desolate stations. At one point, we were shuttled off into a bus for a stretch where the railway lines were submerged. The weather reports, I overheard someone say, predicted continuing storms. At times, I dozed, lulled by the motion of the bus, the low roar of the engine.

  At a small, barren station, I waited on the platform, the winter light already fading around me. I was almost there—this was the shortest leg of the journey. A thin rain trickled down, timid and indecisive. Myra had offered to pick me up—“there may not be any taxis waiting”—but I assured her I’d manage. We’d meet the next day in the village for an early lunch.

  Back on a carriage the world rapidly fell behind. Time, I’ve often thought, could easily be captured inside a moving train. When the natural light outside has faded until it is even with the artificial light inside. And a passenger, looking at the window, sees two images at once. The dim landscape rushing past and the interior of the carriage, reflected with its motionless occupants.

  Moving and still. All at once.

  Moving and still.

  When I arrived, the late afternoon was already wrapped in darkness. The carriage door parted with a gasp and a handful of people stepped off. I gave way to an elderly lady with a shopping trolley. Apart from the open gates, everything else about the tiny station looked shut and empty, sealed within itself. I’d stepped into a strange, diminutive world, in every way contrary to London. A shiver ran through me—the cold, and a fleeting rush of panic. I had never felt more alone.

  Myra was right; there weren’t any taxis waiting. The other passengers settled into their cars and drove off, or walked off into the surrounding darkness. I followed. Armed with a map in case I failed to remember directions—left from the station, down South Street, first right into Long Street, another right into Mill Lane. An empty taxi passed by, and I wondered, for a mad moment, how much it would cost to drive back to London. A loud, uncontrolled laugh almost bubbled from my mouth. A quietness hung in the air like I’d never experienced before, in my hometown, in Delhi, London. The chilly, wintry silence of a cold country. A car sped up the road and turned, toward my direction, blinding me with stark all-encompassing headlights. It swerved off and, all of a sudden, it was just me, the slick wet road and the rain, suspended in the yellow glow of lamplights. The heft of old houses, leaning over the sidewalk. A Tudor building incongruous among stone façades, a lit pub, a line of closed shops. My coat wasn’t keeping out the chill; I longed for a hearty dinner, a warm bath, and a bed with white bedsheets. In that precise order.

  The B&B stood along a line of gated houses with their own gardens. Walking up to the door, I could see, in the dim light, a strange assortment of items on the lawn. Mostly rugs, in heaped abandon, bits of oddly-shaped wood, tin trunks, and standing tall and anomalous—a shiny full-length mirror.

  Perhaps, they’d set up a flea market. Or an outdoor art installation. I rang the bell.

  “Oh,” said the lady who opened the door. She might have been in her late fifties, with curling peppery hair, and a thin, wide mouth.

  “Oh dear,” she
reiterated after I’d given her my name, “we’ve been trying to call you.”

  I’d lost steady mobile phone reception hours ago, and when it returned, it didn’t hold for long.

  They’d been flooded, she said, breathlessly. Never happened before, or at least not since the ’40s, but they’d had the fire engines in for three hours the day before, and four today, pumping out water. “Coming in faster than we could get it out.” She was terribly sorry but the B&B was closed.

  Couldn’t I have a room upstairs? Just for tonight.

  The council, she said, wouldn’t be happy with that. She was truly sorry…

  “We’ve been trying to call you,” she added unhelpfully.

  Was there anywhere else I could stay? In my head, the hearty meal, warm bath and bed receded. I was left with an aching tiredness.

  “Let me call the Stag for you.” She moved to the telephone on the counter. The floor was damp, and in places, still puddled. In the corner, the sofa huddled, a heavy, soggy mass.

  “Oh, I see… thank you,” I could hear her say. It didn’t sound promising.

  They were full up, she informed me, and not with ordinary customers. “Flood victims… from villages on the Somerset Levels… using the place for temporary accommodation.”

  Was there, I asked on impulse, a train back to London?

  Yes—she glanced at the clock on the wall—in an hour. Although, with all the disruptions, it would probably get in very late. If at all, I thought ominously.

  She began to apologize again… if I wanted I could take the train to the next village… although there wasn’t a guarantee of any vacancies there either.

  “Do you have a phone book?”

  “Yes, we do. Somewhere here…”

  She scurried behind the counter, and brought out a bulky tome marked by the dusty air of disuse. I flipped to “T”, and glanced through the pages. Stopping at a name. I had no idea if it was the right listing; but it was the only Templeton in town.

  I thanked her, and walked back out into the night.

  My phone had a single feeble signal bar. I’d try the number while walking to the station.

  I dialed. It rang three times. “Hello,” said an unmistakeably male voice. For a second, I had a wild thought—could it be Nicholas? But his voice was deeper, older, too different, it wasn’t him.

  “Hello… is this the Templeton residence?”

  “Yes.” The word was clipped and curt.

  “May I speak to Myra, please.” I waited to be told that no one by that name lived there…

  Instead, “Who is this?”

  “I’m Nehemiah… a friend.” I added quickly, “From London.”

  I couldn’t decipher the silence on the other end. Was he waiting for me to elaborate?

  “Just a moment.”

  Perhaps not.

  “Thank you…” I began, but could tell he’d already placed the receiver down.

  I could hear muffled voices, footsteps.

  Finally, Myra came to the phone.

  “Nem? How did you get this number?”

  “From a directory.”

  “A what?”

  “The telephone directory… but, Myra, listen…”

  “Are you here? Have you arrived?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, yes?”

  “Myra, I’m here but I might have to leave now… for London.”

  “What? Why?”

  The signal, faint as it was, dropped.

  I called back.

  “Nem, what happened?”

  After I explained—that there wasn’t a place for me to stay—our conversation hung around a pause.

  “I’m so sorry Nem…”

  I said I was sorry too.

  “This wretched weather…”

  I was almost at the station now, the cold had deepened, the rain strong and steady.

  Rather than the weather, I was discomfited by a thought—why didn’t she ask me to stay over, at least for the night?

  The signal dropped again. This time I didn’t call back.

  On an impulse, I ducked into The King Arthur, the pub I’d passed earlier. I could feel the stares as I walked in—a scattering of men mostly, white, middle-aged or elderly—but I was concerned with little else apart from the expedient task of acquiring a drink.

  “Glenfidditch please… large.”

  The man behind the counter was suitably swift and surly. Soon enough, whisky blazed down my throat, inspiring a lucid, familiar warmth.

  I was tempted by the coal fire, blazing at the other end of the room, but I had little time—and space. A group of locals occupied the table closest to the hearth, and perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to challenge their territorial authority.

  Where, I wondered, would I find some dinner?

  I mulled over the last few sips, not wishing to step back outside.

  Suddenly, a beep from my pocket. A phone call.

  A private, undisclosed number.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you on the train?” It was Myra.

  “No, it’s at…”

  “You can’t go back. You must come home.”

  I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course… where are you?”

  “In a pub at the moment…”

  In half an hour, she said, she’d pick me up from the station.

  At that time of the evening, it was an abandoned movie set. The ticket counter closed, the gates indiscriminately open. I waited by the entrance, trying to steal some shelter from the rain. Behind me, on the other side, the platform stretched long and empty.

  Soon enough, a car turned in from the road.

  “Nem!” I heard my name but was bathed in the glare of headlights and blinded. The engine turned off. I blinked, still sightless. A door slammed. Quickened footsteps.

  “I’m so sorry…”

  Myra looked red-cheeked and flustered, her tweed coat unbuttoned, her beret askew.

  “It’s alright… I haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Oh, but you have… and walking around in this rain.”

  Before I could offer or protest, she picked up my suitcase, walked to the car, and threw it into the back seat. It was an old Austin, dark blue, with shiny silver bumpers and hub caps. I squeezed into the front; it smelled of leather, mud and dust. Myra slipped into the driver’s seat, placed gloved hands on the wheels. “Right… we won’t be long…”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She looked across, her face outlined in shadow. “Don’t be absurd.”

  A twenty-minute drive took us through winding country lanes, flanked by tall hedges, dipping and rising. Sometimes so narrow that, at one point, she had to stop at a lay-by to give way to an oncoming car. With the rush of darkness on either side, the world had ceased to exist. I wondered how she managed, a life so remote, and why, what kept her there.

  I didn’t ask.

  We spoke about the train journey, the weather—there would be time later to speak of other things.

  Soon, the lane opened out into a road, the night stretching on all sides apart from the patch of yellow headlights.

  “Not far now… the house is just beyond the hollow.”

  The road sloped low and deep, cutting through a forested hill, an ancient path carved out by centuries. And then we rose, and turned left, through a gate, and down a gravelly drive leading to a double story house, with white stucco walls and Georgian windows. Instead of opening the door, Myra stared out at the building as though she could barely recognize it. She started to say something then stopped. Hesitated. Then she turned to me, “Just a word about my father… he isn’t the easiest person to be around.”

  I wasn’t certain how to react. What should I say? Polite thanks for the warning, or request for elaboration. I opted for neither.

  Was he the one who’d answered my phone call?

  She nodded.

  I tried to make light of it,
saying not to worry, she’d never met mine.

  “No, you don’t understand…” she fiddled with the car keys. “Just… he can be a bit difficult.”

  “I hope it’s alright… me staying over…” I couldn’t believe it hadn’t struck me until now to say this.

  “Of course.” She was suddenly vehement. “We couldn’t possibly have let you spend the night in a station…”

  “I was going to find a manger.”

  She laughed and we stepped out. The countryside silence was interrupted by the strains of a piano. A rhythmic repetition of chords, deployed, admittedly, not with the greatest skill. Perhaps her father liked to entertain visitors with recitals.

  “This way.” Instead of heading toward the house, Myra walked down a paved path leading to what looked like the garage. I followed, the stroller suitcase bumping behind me on the gravel. Like magic, a motion-sensor bulb switched on, flooding us in golden light. The ground floor was fitted with a wide green garage, and a flight of steps on the side, overgrown with climbing plants, led up to a wooden door.

  “You’re staying in the loft,” explained Myra.

  The top floor had been converted into a studio, with space enough for a modest circular dining table, a large wrought iron bed, a cupboard, and fitted in the corner, a fridge and sink. The low roof sloped over us, with skylights cut into it like rectangles of darkness. A painting took up the space of an entire wall, drawing all attention towards it. An explosion of fruit, insects, and flowers scattered across a canvas of unwavering Mediterranean blue. A Dutch still life broken free of stylistic constraints.

  “My mother painted that,” she said, “a few years before she died.”

  It contained, I wanted to tell her, all life.

  We stood, for a moment, in silence, before Myra moved to the door. “I’ll leave you to freshen up… supper is at a half seven. Come downstairs before?”

  It was unusual, her precise delineation of time. Perhaps her father was particular about these things.

  “Who was playing the piano?” I asked.

  She smiled—“You’ll meet him”—and was gone.

  With twenty minutes to spare, I unpacked my suitcase. A gift-wrapped box of Neuhaus chocolates for Myra from Harrods—they’d cost me a week’s rent. I realized then I hadn’t brought anything for her father. But it couldn’t be helped since, originally, I wasn’t meant to meet him. I placed a pair of trousers, shirts, socks into the cupboard; they filled little of the cavernous space. Finally, from my coat pocket, the jade ox figurine, which I carried with me everywhere. I placed it on the table, next to a bowl of potpourri.