They’re tricky things, unattributed until an event has already happened. Coincidences magnified in our mind, given the weight of instinctual foresight.
At Wintervale, I often dreamed of Lenny.
Was it a sign, I still wonder? Could dreams presage death? Tragedy? Look how many words we’ve invented to speak of knowing the future. Omen, portent, forewarning, augury. All these signals we should somehow recognize.
I dreamed I visited Lenny’s grave. Wandering lost, searching for it among weathered tombstones. Finding it on a hillock, under the shade of a sal tree. A quiet spot, away from the rest. His grave blanketed with wilting flowers, with candles burnt down to uneven stumps.
I’m sorry I didn’t visit sooner.
On the wooden cross, a name, a date of birth, and death.
I’d forgotten to bring a token, to show I’d been there to pay my respects.
Empty-handed.
I’m sorry.
Sitting beside the grave, on short, prickly grass, above me the leaves whispering in their own tongues, gesturing in the breeze. Everything around me carrying traces of him. Then they too falling, wilting and dropping to the ground. My friend was part of something larger and more secret than I would ever know for now.
The morning I went riding with Philip I was greeted with a well-aimed jibe. “You’re up,” he said, “well done.”
He had reason to provoke, I suppose.
The previous evening, after my visit to the stables, I fell asleep and almost missed dinner.
I was woken by a soft yet persistent knocking at the door.
It was Mrs Hammond.
“Sorry… but I’m afraid everyone’s waiting.”
I rushed over, and found them seated at the dining table, their plates empty.
“I’m sorry… I was tired… and took a nap.”
Graciously, Myra said it was alright.
Philip remarked that he was glad I was having a truly relaxed holiday.
“I head out early with the horses… think you’ll be able to hustle out of bed by seven?”
I flushed. Yes, of course.
Which was why I was standing outside the stables, shivering in my riding gear. Philip had brought the horses out, all saddled and bridled. Since I didn’t have boots, I was attempting this in wellingtons.
“I’d be careful with those,” Philip pointed out. “If you fall off, there’s a risk your foot could get caught… they don’t have smooth soles…”
“If I fall off,” I muttered.
I found myself wishing I hadn’t ever asked about the horses. Least of all, agreed to go riding in the dead of winter. After the alarm sounded that morning, I’d lain in bed wondering if I could escape this somehow, come up with an excuse—and I hadn’t.
“General’s tougher to control sometimes… so you can ride Lady,” said Philip.
I was relieved; she was smaller too, and less intimidating. Before I mounted, I wondered whether it was worth reiterating to my host that I hadn’t ridden in a while. I stroked Lady’s neck, trying to recall it in order—I could picture my instructor’s face, all those years ago, his elfin features. His voice. I wished there was a mounting block. I stood on the left and faced the saddle.
“Adjust your reins,” said Philip. “Shorten the one inside.”
I lifted my left leg into the stirrup, reached for the pommel, and slowly pulled myself up, sinking gently onto Lady’s back.
“You haven’t ridden in a while, have you?” asked Philip.
“No.”
“Don’t worry.” He sounded cheerful, if not reassuring. “We’ll take the easy track today, show you a bit of this part of the country.”
Now, I slowly eased into the rise and fall, remembering why, for me, this had always been a source of delight. For the moment, the day was overcast yet dry, the clouds a light and smoky grey. My mood, like the morning, lifted. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.
Off the main road, Philip led us along a desolate farm track. Apart from the clop of hooves, the air hung cold and quiet. Here, the smell of dung grew fainter. Instead, a mix of wet leaves and old mulch lifted up to us, sweet and decadent. Soon, we crossed a maple wood that edged, he told me, an abandoned limestone quarry. At the end of the farm, we came to a ford—normally easy to cross, but the recent rains had swelled it to a fast-flowing stream.
“This way,” shouted Philip, and we diverted, taking a longer route that led us over a stone bridge.
“You’re alright riding uphill?”
I hesitated. I’d never done it before. The grounds in Delhi were routinely plain and flat.
Couldn’t we, I suggested, stick to something similar?
“Stunning views from up Middle Hill…” said Philip, as though he hadn’t heard me, “come along…”
It became apparent that he would outline exactly what I was required to do on our ascent. He seemed pleased about playing tutor; I wonder if he mistook me for one of his school boys. We made our way up slowly. Philip rode behind, calling out instructions—lean forward slightly over the saddle, stay centred, balance carefully, inch your feet back. Finally, when we made it to the top, we found most of the valley cloaked in low rumbling clouds. It gave me a strange pleasure to see our efforts thwarted, as though to prove this ridiculous idea was his alone. Nevertheless, I was treated to a description of what we might have viewed—on an especially clear day, it was possible to see as far as the River Parrett delta where it joined the Bristol Channel.
To be polite, I said I was certain it would’ve been beautiful. That this was atmospheric in its own way, despite the world being hidden away. Eventually, what made us leave was the wind, swift and icy, unfailing in its energy.
The skirmish happened on our way down.
We’d descended about halfway, carefully picking our path, when Lady stumbled on some loose rubble. It would have been alright if I hadn’t lost my balance and swayed back, spurring her forward, fast, and then faster, at a canter. Despite the flash of blinding panic, I managed to stay centred, and somehow retain my balance until we reached level ground, and I drew her to a stop. I turned around, laughing in relief, ready to receive some sort of commendation. But Philip’s face was marked by a look I’d once seen on Myra’s, long ago, at the riding club. Before he even caught up, I could sense his displeasure.
“What was all that about?” His tone betrayed little. Perhaps a stain of displeasure.
“She slipped, I think…”
By this time he’d dismounted. “She has a weak knee,” he said, inspecting her. She could’ve been hurt, badly. It wasn’t the correct thing to do, go galloping down a hill.
“I’m sorry—” I stuttered, unsure why I was apologizing, but it was my first and instinctive reaction. To placate.
On the way back, we rode mostly in silence.
Often, he glanced at Lady. I could’ve told him she was alright, moving as normal, but he didn’t ask, so I said nothing. When we reached the stables, I offered to help unsaddle the horses and rub them down. I allowed Philip to show me how to do this methodically—starting with the curry brush in gentle circles at the jaw, down the neck to the shoulders, the entire body, and finally to the inner and outer parts of the legs. And then a quick damp towel rub. Their hooves, he said, he’d clean himself; I could go freshen up.
“Good job,” he threw at me when I was at the door.
And since I didn’t know how else to respond, I said thank you.
The next day, I couldn’t move.
I’d had a warning of this when I went to bed inflicted by soreness, but I was unprepared for the onslaught of pain in the morning. It was an effort, to stand and dress, to walk down the loft stairs.
Somehow, I made it for breakfast. At half-past seven, I rang the doorbell at the main house. When no one answered, I let myself in, and headed to the dining room.
The table was laid but empty.
I peered into the drawing room, the Christmas tree, still flickering, looked c
omical in daylight, and then the kitchen, but not even Mrs Hammond seemed to be around. During the day, the rooms, softened with natural light, lost some of their formality.
I decided to head back to the loft for breakfast. Maybe even catch a nap. Either the family had already eaten, or they’d all headed out without me.
It was Myra, tousle-haired and sleep-heavy.
“Oh, it’s you.” She wore a silk robe, silvery grey, with long kimono sleeves. “Tea?”
“Yes, although I’d prefer something stronger…”
“This early? Well, why not…”
It was, I explained, for the pain.
“Are you sore from riding?”
That might be a slight understatement.
“Come.” She gestured for me to follow her to the kitchen.
“Where’s Mrs Hammond?”
“You forget I live in India.”
“Ah, yes, of course, I remember. Didn’t Nicholas have a battalion of household help?”
She filled the electric kettle, and plucked two cups off a shelf.
“No milk, no sugar, please.”
She pulled a face. “Disgusting. Have you not developed a taste for English builder’s tea? Strong, full-bodied, milky.”
“No.”
The kettle rumbled behind her.
“What happened to breakfast?” I gestured to the dining room.
“Dad drove to London early this morning.”
I’d forgotten.
“I love these Saturdays,” she continued. “They only happen once or twice a month, but they’re such a luxury. I sleep in… Elliot sleeps in… you should’ve too.” She tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“Except I thought I’d make the effort to show up on time… for breakfast.”
Myra laughed, pouring water into the cups. The tea leaves unfurled, turning rusty. “You did well. In vain, but I appreciate your good intentions.”
“When is he back? By lunch tomorrow? I’ll be gone by then…”
“Don’t think your father would agree… he’ll be happy to see me leave…” The tea was sharp and strong, almost bitter. “Did you say he was a schoolteacher?”
“He was headmaster… at a string of public schools… here, Canada, Cape Town, Australia…”
“That explains why I feel like I should snap to attention whenever he’s around.”
She smiled. “But today, he’s not.”
I added more hot water into my cup, lightening the color. “Where’s Elliot?”
“Upstairs,” she said. “My little monster’s watching TV.”
Later that morning, the weather cleared just enough to inspire Myra to set out on a picnic.
“But Mummy, it’s winter,” protested Elliot.
“I might have to agree with him on that,” I added.
“Hush now. We’ll take our sandwiches to the river. Let’s go… so we don’t lose the light.”
According to her, the more I exercised, the less it would hurt. (I’m certain, I muttered, that’s what they said in the army.)
We strolled down the main road, and then turned off into the dirt track flanked by blackthorn hedges. It was hard to believe the world could be so quiet, sunk to the sound of our voices, the grasp of stone, mud, and grass. On the way, we met an elderly couple walking their black Labrador. I marveled that even in this weather their clothing was so light—the gentleman in a dark green bomber jacket, and the lady in a violet fleece jumper. They looked the picture of resilience, their skin reddened by the winter air, their strides even and purposeful. The man nodded curtly at us, while his wife was more vociferous—“Lovely to see you dear… how big your son has grown… and how is your father?”
Myra introduced me to them—Geoff and Elizabeth—as her friend from London.
“Where are you from?” asked Geoff.
“From—”
“London,” interrupted Myra. “Born and brought up in the city.”
I couldn’t catch her eye, so I smiled on, pretending I wasn’t surprised, or puzzled.
The lady did better than her husband at hiding her incredulity.
After a few minutes of small talk, during which time Elliot and I petted the dog, we parted.
“That’s Geoff Ritchie,” whispered Myra, “Remember? My dad was telling us he’s filing a court case for his land…” She cast a glance back at the couple. “If I was their neighbor, I’d ram a fence into them.”
“They might not feel it. Did you see how little winter clothing they were wearing?”
“I’m sorry I lied about your origins.”
“Yes, why did you?”
She pulled a face, mischievous, like a child’s. “I don’t know… to shake them up a little… baffle them… I have a feeling they subscribe to things like “England for the English”.”
“They probably think I’m Elliot’s father.”
“He’s much too good looking to be your child.”
When we reached the end of the lane, where the blackthorn ended at the stream, we took a left. A right would have led us to the weeping willows. Elliot wasn’t permitted to splash at the edge of the water. It was cold, said his mother, and, also, since the stream was swift and swollen, unsafe.
Elliot looked massively disappointed.
“How about a story…” I offered.
“About the man who could speak to birds?”
I laughed, amazed at his recollection. “Alright…”
He looked up, his eyes wide and shiny as marbles.
Myra slipped her arm through mine.
“Once, a man was walking through a forest…”
“What was his name?”
“His name was… Stefan. So, Stefan was walking through a forest, when suddenly a storm broke… the winds rose, clouds gathered, and lightning flashed… he ran to take shelter under a tree…”
“But grandpa says we mustn’t stand under a tree if there’s lightning…”
Myra laughed into a gloved hand.
“And your grandpa is right. He was running past a tree, to get to a cave, but before that… what did he see in the branches? A bird’s nest…”
“What kind of bird?”
And so it continued, until we reached a clearing where Myra wanted to stop. “More, please, more,” pestered Elliot. Eventually, we reached a compromise; I promised to read him a story later, before bedtime.
We sat on a bench—dedicated to “Arthur, who so loved this place”—and unpacked our basket. Chunky roast beef sandwiches, mince pies, Victoria sponge, and hot chocolate in a squat flask. Across the churlish water, the countryside swept away from us, patches of field hemmed by neat hedges, distant low-lying hills, and clusters of poplars like fine pencil drawings etched into the sky.
It was a rare sort of happiness. An inkling, a rush, a feeling that somehow this, and only this, was where we were meant to be. Nowhere else in the world would come close.
After our picnic, I showed Elliot how to skim stones on water—one, two, sometimes three quick skips. He had to hunch low, balance on the balls of his feet, and fling—“Fling,” he said joyfully, enraptured by the word, by its carefreeness. “Fling! Fling!”
Before the light faded, we headed back. It was much too cold to stay out any longer; the wind whipped about us, tugging at our coats, stinging our faces.
The next time I visit, said Myra, we’d drive to the moors. “You should ask Mrs Hammond for moor stories… giant black hounds and ghostly lights, and a rock that’s supposed to be a man turned to stone by a witch…”
Moors, like forests, were mystical places.
When we were almost home, it started raining, cold, sharp pebbles falling hard on the ground. I hitched up Elliot for a piggyback ride, running through the gate, and across the gravel. He screamed with laughter.
That evening, we lit a fire in a room at back of the house, a smaller, less formal place, and cheerful, with butter-yellow walls and floral curtains. Originally, explained Myra, it had been used as a “lady’s letter-writ
ing room”—“Can you imagine? The things these walls must know.”
For supper, we warmed a pot of leek-potato soup, buttered some rolls, and ate sitting on the floor, the firelight flickering on our faces.
“Do you do this every time Philip’s away?”
Myra nodded, happily.
And in the spirit of celebratory excess, even though we were all sated, she dug out leftover apple crumble from the fridge, and served it drenched in custard. The other night I’d been too tired to enjoy this; it was delicious, tart and sweet, creamy and crumbly. A few card games, and a round of snakes and ladders later, Elliot was asleep on a cushion, his thumb in his mouth. I carried him upstairs, light in my arms as a bird, dressed him in his pajamas, and tucked the covers around him.
His curly dark hair, the shape of his nose.
In the low glow of the night lamp, all could be revealed.
When I came back downstairs, I found Myra opening a bottle of wine. “Daddy’s finest.” An opulent cabernet sauvignon from Château Saint Pierre, St Julien.
“Tell me about your time in London,” said Myra. “Your work, your friends… everything…”
And so I did, slow and halting at first… unused to talking about myself in this manner… the journal I joined on Nithi’s persuasion… its almost closure… my bid to get away for a year from Delhi… its serendipitous fruition. “All because of Santanu, of course…”
“And Santanu, what does he do?”
I told her.
“What’s he like?”
I laughed. “A bit of an old soul, in love with a poet.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I didn’t reveal what he’d disclosed before I left London. When we stopped at the bar on our way to the Christmas party. Yara and the infinite heart. Bold, beautiful Yara with dark eyes stained by silver light. I suppose Myra could say he hadn’t known her long, that if he were to lose her, it wouldn’t be all that difficult. But time and love have little to do with the other. On occasion, love is a burst of light, and the intensity of a week, a month, a year could scarcely be replicated in a lifetime. Brevity should not be scorned, for it bears no indication of the absence of depth. Else, dismiss the sunrise, the arietta, the haiku.
Seahorse Page 20