He said nothing, emotion clogging his throat, but he kissed the top of her head in thanks.
‘Come on. I’m cold. Mrs Shand has a fire lit and she’s serving tea and crumpets.’
He shook his head, bemused by the sudden familiarity of his old life, and realising just how much he had missed it.
Later, slouched before the fire, the wind beating against the window panes, the Cornish night closing in on Pendeen, he stared into the flames and searched his heart for the guilt he should feel. He came up wanting. Curiously, it was that alone that pricked at his conscience.
‘Did you mean what you said, Jack?’ his mother asked, searching his eyes. ‘Are you home to stay? Will you take over the reins now?’
Jack sat up and fixed his mother with a deep gaze. ‘Mother, wild horses couldn’t drag me away from Cornwall. Yes, I am home for keeps and I will take over the business and finally make my father proud.’
She sat back, satisfied, before reaching for a small bell on the table beside her. She jangled it, and just for a second, he was thrown back to his last traumatic night in KGF, when bells had announced a tragedy in the making.
A pretty young woman appeared in the sitting room in answer to his mother’s summons, mercifully dragging his attention back to the present. Apparently her name was Gloria, but she’d rather daringly introduced herself as Glory.
‘That’s what everyone calls me,’ she’d said, and Jack was sure she’d stopped just short of winking at him.
Gloria Payne was a newly qualified nurse from Redruth who had been hired to care for Mrs Bryant’s daily needs. It wasn’t that Mrs Bryant needed complex medical help; she was simply emotionally fragile after the death of her husband.
Gloria’s role was to help Elizabeth Bryant through this period, make sure a sleeping draught was delivered each evening, be at her side for her walks and run a few errands. It didn’t bother her that she wasn’t really using her nursing training. In fact, Gloria was delighted to swap her parents’ tiny family home in Knox Street for the very grand house in Pendeen, with all the status of looking after the highly respected Mrs Bryant.
But now life had taken a fresh turn, and she could barely contain her excitement. The return home of the fabulously handsome son she’d heard so much about could only make her job more enjoyable.
Gloria Bryant. She liked the way that rolled off the tongue. It was a dashing name, she thought, as she smiled at Jack now. She loved the way he stood at her arrival, his looming presence making her catch her breath.
‘Hello, Glory,’ he said, his smile broad and sparkling in his bronzed face.
Her knees felt weak. ‘Evening, Mr Bryant,’ she said, with her most dazzling smile.
‘Have you come to take Mother for a nap?’
‘A nice bath and to help her dress for supper. Mrs Shand’s got a feast prepared for you, Mr Bryant.’
Jack grinned at his mother and she sighed. ‘It’s so nice to have a man around the house to feed again.’
‘Listen, Glory. Call me Jack, otherwise you’ll make me feel like my father and we can never replace him, now, can we?’
‘I’ll come back for the tray and crockery,’ Glory said to him, as she held the door open for Mrs Bryant. There was a definite glint in her eye and she wanted him to see it.
Jack didn’t tell his mother that he’d named a young Indian woman in her honour. In fact, it never passed his lips that he had married that Indian girl, or that somewhere across the oceans a child of his was growing inside her.
And as the weeks lengthened into months Cornwall began to feel familiar again, especially the joy of the biting winds on his cheeks, the delicious savoury comfort of eating warm pasties overlooking the view of implacable St Michael’s Mount. These were the delights of home, he realised, the small things that suddenly felt important when you’d been denied them.
There were moments when he thought he missed the colours of India – from the jewel-bright saris on the girls to the array of strange and wonderful fruits and vegetables … and the pure dove-grey of his wife’s arresting eyes. Yes, he missed those colours but he didn’t pine for them. That he had to admit.
Jack found he had dozens of ideas about how he could broaden the scope of his father’s operation, not the least of which was property – he would start with pubs and inns, investments he was sure would flourish through good times and bad.
Only in very rare honest moments could Jack admit to himself that he revelled in playing the young squire. People looked up to him and although it was still early days, older men – men who used to ruffle his hair as a boy – were now making appointments to call on him. Yes, all in all, Jack had slipped back into Cornish life with ease, driving his father’s new car, even planning to set up a townhouse in London and another in the north, perhaps Manchester, for his business trips.
His life in India and the events that had unfolded there began to feel far removed, so very distant and dream-like. The memory of a dusty road and that pretty English-style community that had sprawled either side of it felt like a fantasy, especially now he was back striding across the familiar cliffs of St Just, his new terrier, Conan, gambolling alongside.
This life was real. This was the life he had chosen. And it was, he realised now, the one he had always wanted.
He could hate himself for being so hard-hearted but Jack was used to that feeling of self-loathing. It felt like a comfy old coat, familiar and instantly recognisable and, above all, safe. Safe because when he opened up his heart to someone, invariably it resulted in pain.
Iris was the finest example. She was someone he equated only with pain; her memory still prompted a dull ache when he permitted himself to think of her. The gut-wrenching despair of Ned’s death never left, of course. They had parted on such bad terms, had never resolved the issues between them. And Ned died not knowing that the Brent case had been dropped. Henry had taken delight in sending on a telegram attesting to the closure of the case but it felt like a hollow victory. Jack chose to believe it was that case, more than Ned’s suspicions about Iris, that had pushed him into the abyss of anxiety that led to him taking that stupid risk with his life.
And Elizabeth – damn it – he couldn’t even put together the first few syllables of her real name any longer … she was all about pain. So loyal, so trusting, so long-suffering. His guilt over her nagged like an old wound, so he banished it by not allowing himself to dwell on her or his child, due in just a month.
In truth, he had twice tried to write but screwed up the page both times, asking himself what was the point? What could he say to her that didn’t sound like a betrayal? It was easier never to mention the Elizabeth Bryant who lived in India; easier, in the end, to pretend to himself that she had never existed.
47
September 1927
Henry loved the south; it was so much cooler than Bombay, where he was posted again full time, and where he was now setting up a proper home for his new bride, Mrs Arabella Berry. Henry’s promotion had seen him leap-frog another two levels and he was something of a power-broker in the city for the British Government now. His promotion meant annual trips home to London and a far larger expenses account for his housing, servants, entertainment … how could Miss Sinclair have turned him down? Henry liked to tell himself that Bella had married him because he was irresistible, but even when those nasty little internal demons whispered that he was deluding himself, he would gaze at his beautiful young wife, bask in her gloriously sunny smile and remind himself that it didn’t matter why – it only mattered that she had. He would keep her busy with the round of important social engagements, not to mention the palatial new house and the retinue of servants under her command. The gowns, the jewellery, the travel and status – he knew they would keep Bella happy … and that made Henry happy.
In fact, he was looking forward to writing to his old friend, Jack Bryant, and bringing him up to speed. He was sure it would prompt a big smile from Jack to know that Henry, despite all his moans a
nd groans to the contrary, had found the girl of his dreams.
But before he could write that letter there was some business he needed to finalise. He hadn’t been in a position to carry out all of Jack’s requests until now, almost eight months later, when he was back in Bangalore.
He’d spoken to the lawyers and done all that he could, but he was relieved he was finally here in KGF to finish things.
The driver pulled the car in now to the small petty shop run by a man called Chinathambi. He kept the engine idling as Henry, dapper in a white linen suit, emerged, squinting into the sun. He straightened his glasses and walked into the shadows of the shop.
‘Hello, sir,’ chorused two children.
Henry grinned. ‘Well, hello,’ he replied, impressed. ‘Is this … er,’ he consulted his notes, ‘Chin-a-thumbee’s shop, please?’
They giggled at his pronunciation. ‘Daddy,’ they yelled together and an older man appeared at the back.
‘Sorry, sir, sorry. I was just taking a delivery of rice.’
‘No problem at all. What a charming pair. Are they your grandchildren?’
Chinathambi laughed. ‘They are my children, sir.’
‘Good grief, man. Congratulations!’
‘I have many, sir. They will look after me in my old age.’
‘I believe I’m looking for one of your children, actually. A daughter. She uses the name Elizabeth Bryant, perhaps?’
‘Ah, this is Kanakammal.’
‘Indeed. Very pretty name. Where might I find, er, Mrs Bryant? I’ve been asked to contact her by her husband, Jack Bryant.’
The man nodded. ‘She will be at the market, now, sir.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I could wait, I suppose.’
‘She will not mind being interrupted.’
‘All right. We shall go to the market. How will I know her?’
‘I will send her little brother, Marimuthu, with you. He loves cars, sir,’ Chinathambi said, wobbling his head with pride, as he pushed forward a young lad no more than eight years old.
‘Excellent. Let’s go then, Master M.’
His father briefly gave instructions to the boy and then he clambered into the car’s back seat, eyes wide with delight.
It didn’t take long to reach Andersonpet; Henry was impressed by how developed it was all this way out in the sticks. He’d visited KGF once or twice before he’d met Jack but curiously never since.
The boy pointed for the driver to turn. ‘Here, sir. The market.’
‘Jolly good. So, shall we take a walk together?’ The streets teemed with people, animals, carts and stalls. ‘Good gracious!’ Henry added, as they alighted. ‘All this food and these lovely smells make me hungry.’
The boy grinned. ‘I shall find Kanakammal, sir, if you’ll buy me a ladu,’ he said, rubbing his belly.
Henry laughed. ‘I shall buy you two, young man.’
Marimuthu grabbed Henry’s hand. ‘Come, sir.’
Henry followed, mesmerised by the market’s assault on all his senses. His work, his position and now his status had him moving around in the clean atmosphere of a car, with a driver always on call, taking him from the office to his home. It was a novelty to be amongst Indian people again as they went about their daily marketing.
He moved aside as a bullock meandered through the crowd. It had right of way wherever it chose to go. Small, rangy dogs ran in and around the feet of people, scouting for food scraps.
People were calling out their wares, others asking prices, touching and smelling the goods. The colours were alarmingly bright, saris doing battle with fruit to be the brightest. Nobody batted an eyelid to see a shortish, bespectacled white man being led by a young lad through the throng of stalls selling pots, pans, household goods, past the knife sharpener, shoe repairer, basket weaver and hardware stall, moving quickly towards the fresh market.
Here the fragrance of flowers lured him. Henry paused to admire the garland-makers, little girls who sat cross-legged by their mothers or aunts, surrounded by huge baskets of orchids and bougainvilleas and many blooms Henry couldn’t even name. The colours were spectacular; deep reds and creamy whites clashing magnificently with the orangey saffrons and sunny yellows. He strolled beneath the garlands that were hanging up, already prepared and ready for sale, their fragrance enveloping him.
‘How much, Master M?’ he asked.
The boy grinned and spoke to the vendor.
‘She says for you, two rupees, sir.’
‘Twice as much for me, eh?’ he joked.
Henry didn’t mind. Two rupees was a trifle. ‘Please ask her to pick me a beautiful one,’ he said and handed over the money.
The vendor offered to place it around Henry’s neck. ‘No, no, thank you. This is not for me.’
They moved on into the vegetable stalls.
‘What is that?’ Henry said, in awe, pointing to a ridiculously long, dark-green tubular vegetable.
‘A bean, sir.’
‘It’s got to be two feet!’
‘Very nice with dhal,’ Marimuthu assured.
‘And these?’ he said, pointing to a pyramid of ugly-looking pumpkin-like vegetables, with knobbles and gnarled shapes.
‘Gourds, I think you say.’
Henry was impressed. ‘Your English is excellent. I think we should make that three la-doos for you, whatever they are!’
‘They are sweets, sir. Come. I will show you.’
He led Henry to various stalls laden with items vaguely resembling biscuits and perhaps fudges, but there was nothing that struck him as being appetising in the way that a tiny cake, a beautiful piece of coconut ice or a toffee, might strike an Englishman. In fact, to Henry, these sweets looked downright unappealing in their bright, vulgar colours, but he could see the youngster was all but salivating.
‘Show me,’ Henry said.
‘There, sir,’ Marimuthu said, standing on tiptoe and pointing, his face only just clearing the stall’s counter. ‘Ladus!’
Henry regarded the smallish, golden orbs, the size of golf balls. ‘I see. And what are these made from?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marimuthu laughed. He said something to the vendor that Henry didn’t understand but the vendor replied happily enough. Marimuthu looked back at Henry. ‘Rice, cashew nut, lots of sugar, ghee, cardamon spice … I can’t remember the rest.’
‘It sounds perfectly horrible, but let’s have three, shall we?’
Marimuthu nodded gleefully and ordered his sweets, which were duly wrapped in a small square of newspaper and handed to him as Henry offered a rupee, wondering if it were enough. He was given a handful of change, which he promptly gave to the boy.
‘Enjoy,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s find your sister.’
‘Come, sir. I think she will be with the spices.’
Henry followed, although the smell of spice on the air hit him well before Marimuthu led him into the darker covered area where the spices were sold. Here, men ran around with little carts laden with sacks of bright-coloured powders and brown- or grey-green seeds. The smell was delicious yet overpowering and Henry instantly began to sneeze. In fact, he couldn’t stop sneezing as pepper and chilli, saffron and cinnamon assaulted him, setting off a loud attack.
When Marimuthu pointed excitedly and began dragging him towards a tall figure with her back to him, Henry was digging in his pocket for his handkerchief. A woman with a long dark single plait down her back turned and fixed her pale, arresting gaze upon him. Henry felt suspended in motion, his sneeze instantly stopped.
He realised his mouth was open. And then he exploded into a sneeze, which set Marimuthu laughing. He spoke quickly to his sister. She frowned and then beckoned, gesturing for Henry to follow. They emerged from the side of the market and she pointed to a water trough. Henry used it to splash some water on his face, being careful not to get any in his mouth. Brother and sister waited patiently as he wiped his face with his handkerchief and composed himself.
Finally, he sighed, took
a deep breath and held out his hand. ‘Mrs Elizabeth Bryant?’
She nodded, no smile.
‘I am Henry Berry, a friend of your husband’s. I brought this garland for you.’
She regarded him gravely but said nothing.
‘Please, do accept the small gift,’ he pressed, feeling awkward with it hanging from his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, quietly, taking the garland but not wearing it.
Henry hurried on, trying not to blink beneath that austere gaze. ‘Er, well, I have some important business to discuss with you, Mrs Bryant … If I may … Jack, that is, your husband, asked me to conduct these formalities on his behalf.’
She didn’t say anything at first and it was only now that Henry noticed she was heavily pregnant.
‘Um, Mrs Bryant, I have a car. Perhaps we can take you home? I … I don’t have terribly long in KGF and I wonder whether …’
She handed her basket of goods to her brother. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said again before leading him back roughly the way they had come.
Marimuthu saw them to the car. Here, she hesitated. It was clear she hadn’t ridden in one before, but watching her brother’s enthusiasm, she followed suit.
‘Comfy?’ Henry asked, getting in.
‘I am,’ she said, perhaps a little self-conscious as she stared out of the window at the villagers.
‘We’ll have you home in no time. Where shall we head? Perhaps you could tell my driver.’
She directed him and before long Henry recognised KGF. Kanakammal pointed up the hill and they finally pulled into the driveway of a gracious bungalow that stood alone at the peak.
‘This is my husband’s house. Once the baby is born, I will move. I suppose he will want to sell it,’ she said calmly. She didn’t wait for the driver to open the door but was out of the car quickly, despite her size, and up onto the verandah to welcome Henry in.
Inside, it was scrupulously clean and neat. It smelled of sandalwood and linseed oil. He was led into a sitting room where a clock was the only sound, ticking away the minutes somewhat ominously, Henry thought. The furnishings were all thoroughly English, even down to the lace runners on the tables and antimacassars on the armchairs.
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