And for the three weeks left of my leave, we met there, every day. If the boy wondered why his mistress and her brother-in-law ‘moved furniture’ so often, he didn’t say and I’m positive he didn’t think about it. His brain worked slowly, barely able to manage the job in hand and never ready to go on to the next. Of course, if anyone had come to the cottage and asked for us, he would have told them that we were inside. But we were lucky, nobody came.
Towards the end, we became bold and careless, creeping out of the farmhouse after Mother and Billy had gone to bed and racing hand in hand down the lane to spend our nights together on that narrow army bed. I had sneaked a blanket out of my room and she had found a small candleholder and a supply of candles. It was there in the flickering yellow light of those few stolen nights that I experienced the most powerful emotions I would ever have. My passion for Elizabeth knew no bounds and hers seemed equally intense. Our lovemaking was fervent and at times so crudely animalistic so that I was left exhausted by my ardour. But every day I came back eagerly for more and found my girl equally ready and joyous.
One early morning when I had only two days left before I had to report back to headquarters, I asked her again to leave the farm and come with me. “Please, please, my love,” I begged, “I can’t bear the thought of being parted from you again.”
She wouldn’t. She talked about the shame of being found out and the hurt it would give to all our family, particularly Mother.
“But that wouldn’t matter,” I said, “we’d be in India, no-one would know. We could marry out there.”
She rolled over away from me and her next words were so quiet that I could barely hear them. “But I’d be a bigamist,” she said, and her voice choked on a sob. “I made vows, in church. I promised.”
“Billy made vows too,” I cried, desperate now to convince her. “Hasn’t he broken them? You owe him nothing.”
She turned back to me. “That would make me as bad as him, then, wouldn’t it? I’m a better person than that.”
I was angry and spoke hastily. “Sleeping with your brother-in-law doesn’t make you a better person.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was sorry. She gasped and I saw her face cloud over and her mouth droop. When she raised her eyes, I was sick to see that old distant expression she normally reserved for Billy.
Quickly, I took her in my arms and held her close. “Oh God, I’m sorry, so sorry,” I said, horrified at my cruel and clumsy remark. “That was stupid of me and I didn’t mean it. I’m desperate, can’t you see? I don’t think I can live without you.”
Her body softened then and she held me too. We lay back on the bed listening to the birds beginning to twitter in the oak trees at the back of the house and saw the first rays of light creep in through the small gothic window.
“You will,” she said, dreamily, “and so will I. In a way, we’ve been lucky, can you see that? Our love is so strong, so deep, that even when we are thousands of miles apart, I’ll just have to close my eyes and I’ll be back here, in this little room, feeling your body next to mine. For the rest of my life, I’ll know that someone loved me and I’ll never let that go. I am yours and you are mine. We’ll never be free.”
She was so right. I have never been free from her. Even now, when she has been dead for more than thirty years, I think about her every day. I can see her lying on that bed, her dark hair wild and tousled and her naked body relaxed and offered willingly to me. Elizabeth was both the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.
Mother knew. As I said, she guessed straight away but she kept it to herself. I think she became more careful and certainly her relationship with Elizabeth changed. It was if she felt that she had lost control and that from now on, everything that happened was without her input or even permission.
Outwardly, she was her old bustling, interfering self, but now she watched all the time. When Marian and Albert came round for Sunday dinner, she kept up a constant chatter about inconsequential things, so that they were kept occupied in answering her and given no opportunity to consider the other occupants at the table.
“For heaven’s sake, Mother,” said Billy as he attacked the huge joint of beef with the carving knife, “give it a rest. I can’t think what I’m doing.”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, William Wilde,” she said, her face all red and her shoulders twitching like one of her bantam hens. “You’re not so big that I can’t give you a clep.”
“What?” said Billy, the carving knife and fork held aloft as astonishment swept over his face. We all sat in silence, contemplating the scene of our little Mother giving Billy a clep and suddenly, the damn of awkwardness was burst and we all collapsed with laughter.
“By God, that would be a sight to see, Mother Wilde,” said Albert as he eagerly accepted a loaded plate of juicy rib meat from Billy. “You could sell tickets for that. Five rounds in the beast market.”
“Well,” Mother grumbled, forced also into a smile, “there was no call for that,” but she calmed down and we were able to enjoy a family get together as in the old days.
Later, before the visitors left to get back to their smart house in town, Albert and I took a turn round the garden. He was getter fatter by the week and had that smooth, cared for look that the rich always seem to achieve. He hadn’t changed in temperament though; he was still jolly and kindly. I knew that he and Marian had their differences, but he remained friendly with us and didn’t blame us really. It was only once that he let drop that remark about Marian being put off babies by being present at my birth, that he gave the game away about their married life. If it was true that he had other women, then who was I to blame him.
“Back to the barracks next week, then,” he said as we leant over the field gate.
I nodded. “Got to report Monday, eleven o’clock.”
“Then what? Back out East?”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “My regiment is still out there and I can’t believe that they will let me stay back here. I’ve got special experience now.”
He lit up a cigarette and offered me one. “If you like, I could have a word with one or two people. I’m not without influence, you know.”
I suppose I should have taken up his offer. If I’d remained at headquarters visiting home every two weeks or so, in time, I might have been able to persuade Elizabeth to leave. But somehow, I couldn’t. Albert was a civilian and I was a soldier and eight years of indoctrination into loyalty and respect for doing things the Army way, stopped me. To tell the truth, apart from wanting to be with Elizabeth, I was sick of hanging around at home, being a general dogsbody. I missed the responsibility of my rank and the regimented lifestyle. It surprised me to realise this for I’d always considered myself as something of an outsider, being teased for my book reading and wanting to look at the sights, but when I thought about it now, I could see that the teasing was only good natured banter. I missed my mates.
So I shook my head and rejected Albert’s offer. “I don’t think so, thanks,” I said, “I’m a twenty-year man, through and through.”
He took the brush-off well, and reached up a podgy hand to clap me about the shoulder. “Ah well, Richard, remember, the offer is still open, if you change your mind.”
I left in the early hours of the next Monday morning, walking across the fields to catch the milk train. Mother and I had said goodbye the night before but although she cried and pressed me to her, I think she was glad I was going. Maybe the atmosphere at home would go back to normal with my departure.
“It’s time you found a nice wife,” she said, mopping her eyes. “Someone to take care of you in that heathen land.”
“Right,” I laughed, “next time you see me, I’ll be accompanied by a lovely Indian girl. Sari, bangles and nose ring. The lot. And you couldn’t complain; I’d have just been following orders.”
She put her hand to her mouth and looked at me with genuine concern. “You wouldn’t do that, Richard, love, would you. You’d break
my heart.”
I shook my head and gave her a kiss. “No, Mother, don’t worry. It’s too cold here for Indian girls.”
Elizabeth met me at the Gate House later on. Billy had been up with a calving and she had stayed to make him tea and a sandwich. He was kinder with her than he had been when I’d first come home. Almost like they’d been when we were youngsters. I think she was more relaxed and it allowed him to be also. As long as there was no sexual contact, they could live in the same house almost happily.
She was quiet as we undressed and got into the bed and our joining was silent and desperate. I started to plead with her again but she put her hand gently over my mouth. “Don’t, Richard,” she begged, “no more. I couldn’t bear it.”
So I just held her and we lay sleepless until it was time for me to go.
“You know,” she said suddenly as we were getting up, “my mother left my father. She ran away with a soldier who took her to South Africa.”
I was surprised, this was the first I’d heard of it and I paused with one shoe on and the other on the floor. “I thought you said she was dead.”
“I did,” she said. “I told everyone that. My father was too ashamed to let people know. That’s why we had to leave home.” She thought for a moment and then added. “Maybe she is dead now.”
It was a secret I had never even thought about. I remembered her arriving at our house in those first months after Father died. Elizabeth striding up our drive with that hat jammed over her long wild curls and the ragged cuffs of that pretty blue dress. I loved her then, me too young to realise that her boldness was only a front. And now I loved and had loved her, even more.
“Shall I write to you?” I asked, “Will you write back?”
She shook her head. “What would be the point? It’s better to have a clean break, don’t you think?”
No, my heart cried, I don’t want a clean break. I want you to feel as bad as me. I want you to hurt and ache and long for me every day as I have for you, but I said nothing. And when we parted, all we did was hold each other for a moment before I walked back to the house, down the lane and she hurried quietly through the woods to slide quietly through the kitchen door before Mother arose.
I took my farewell of Billy in the milking parlour in full view of the men who were bringing the herd through. “Goodbye, Billy,” I said, wrapping my arms round him in an embrace.
He looked miserable. “Look after yourself, our Dick,” he mumbled, “I shall miss you.” Tears gathered in his eyes and dropped unheeded on his cheeks.
“Come on, none of that,” I said. “I’m going to keep in touch.”
He thrust a hand in his pocket and took out a roll of notes. “Here,” he said, “take this. I’ll brook no refusal mind. It’ll get you started saving or something, ready for when you come out.”
When I examined the money later, sitting in the deserted compartment of my train, I saw that he had given me two hundred pounds, a very generous sum in those days. My stomach turned when I thought what I’d done to him. I’d made him a cuckold even though he didn’t know it and here he was, kind-heartedly giving me money. I didn’t spend that money for years. It went into the bank and lay there with bits and pieces I had spare over the years, gathering interest until years later, when I found a proper use for it.
So we hugged and shook hands and I left. I could hear him shouting at the lad as I walked away but I didn’t look back for fear of seeing Elizabeth in the window or at the dairy door. I didn’t have the guts for that.
My spell at headquarters lasted less than two weeks. Just long enough to get examined by the doctor and re-kitted with new hot weather clothes. By the end of the month I was on the P&O, sailing east, back to India.
Chapter 19
I got back to Meerut at the beginning of July when the monsoon season had just started. Warm rain beat down incessantly, soaking through our uniforms when we were on the parade ground and dripping through the holes in the roofs of our barracks. For some, it brought a welcome relief from the exhaustingly dry heat of the months leading up to it, but the humidity sapped the strength of those not used to it. I was one of those for the first few weeks and suffered quite a bit until I got back in the swing of things.
My mate Lewis Wilton welcomed me back. It had been nearly two years since we’d seen each other, because he’d stayed behind on the plains when I was seconded to the Frontier force. In my absence he too had been made up to sergeant and proudly showed off his stripes. How he’d achieved the rank I don’t know, for he was as keen as ever on the drink and unless restrained by more cautious pals, he would look for a fight as enthusiastically as before.
I asked the Colonel if I was to be sent back to the Frontier. I wanted that posting; the call of the mountains was very strong and I longed for the clean cold air. But I was to be disappointed.
“No, Wilde,” the Colonel said, “it’s pretty quiet up there, at the moment. It’s here that we have trouble.”
I knew about the Freedom Movement, of course. We had been pretty ruthless, I think, in putting it down over the last few years and it should have petered out by rights. But we had reckoned without Mr Gandhi who had such determination and bravery. His Non-Cooperation movement kept us constantly on the hop. It didn’t matter how many we imprisoned or even executed, there were always more to take up the banner of independence. I know now that we were fighting a losing battle and that it was one we deserved to lose, but attitudes were different then and we thought we were doing the right thing. After all, many Indians who agreed with us, but they were the rich ones, the merchants and some of the Westernised Rajahs. Our leaders listened too much to them.
I hated this form of soldiering, pushing people around and escorting well-educated men to prison. Once, I had to take three men to the prison on the Andaman Islands. What a trip that was. There was me, three privates and our officer to accompany the prisoners. We went first by train to Calcutta and then boarded a ship for the three day sail to the islands. I played chess with one of the prisoners, a doctor he was, on the train. He had the set in his suitcase along with a selection of books. I took to him immediately, partly because he seemed to be such a good and gentle man. He had studied in England and except for his looks, you would have thought he was the same as one of us. We talked about books, he loved Dickens and Hardy too and he introduced me to the works of E.M Forster.
The officer, Captain Parker, didn’t like this chat about books. He was always a bastard, poorly educated but moneyed and a show off. I knew no-one who respected him, certainly not the Colonel, although he went to great lengths to hide his contempt and I think had sent him on this mission to get him away from the company for a few weeks.
“Wilde,” he said, “haven’t you got something better to do than hang around this prisoner?”
I dared to be obstructive. “I don’t think it does any harm, sir, we’re just passing the time.”
No orders existed about how to treat these prisoners and I was within my rights. But he didn’t like fraternisation and had to think up some excuse to get me away.
“Go and relieve the men so they can get their meal,” he said and marched back to his compartment.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the prisoner, “we can talk later, if you like.”
On board ship we talked a lot. One day we stood by the rail watching the huge wash of scrambled water leaving a white trail in the flat blue sea. He asked me if I was married.
“No,” I said.
“Have you not found a suitable young lady yet?”
I thought of Elizabeth and sighed. “I have, Doctor,” I said, “but she is already married.”
“Oh dear.” He shook his head and patted my arm. “There will be someone else, maybe.”
“I don’t think so.”
He looked so sorry for me and quizzical at the same time that I found myself telling him about Elizabeth and my brother. Why I should have done so, when I never talked about my home circumstances to anybody, I don�
��t know. Perhaps it was because I knew I would never see him again.
“So you see,” I said, when I had finished my tale of unrequited love, “she won’t leave the farm, no matter how unhappy she is.”
For a while he said nothing, simply stared out to sea where flying fish had now appeared to accompany the boat. They leapt in and out of the waves, droplets from their jagged fins glistening like diamonds in the bright sunlight, as all the time they kept in line with the passage of the ship.
“I think you and she have done the honourable thing,” he said finally. “Keeping the family from shame is more important than personal happiness.”
The fact was that I hadn’t told him the whole story. In my version, Elizabeth and I loved each other from a distance; it sounded more romantic that way. And after that I didn’t mention my home life again because I felt guilty pretending to be honourable.
When he and I weren’t talking, he spent his time with the other two prisoners, both younger than he and one of whom, a lad of about eighteen, was frightened of what was in store. I watched one afternoon from a distance as the doctor spoke quietly and encouragingly to them, patting the youngest man on the arm and pointing towards me and smiling. Later I had an opportunity to ask what he had been saying.
“I was telling them not to too alarmed. I said, ‘Look, here is an English soldier, he is an educated man and not a bully. There will be others like him.’”
I doubted that. From what I understood, the government generally chose the firmest sort of men to run the prisons. I couldn’t imagine many literary discussions taking place between prisoners and guards in the Cellular Jail. But it would be an unkindness to tell him that so I merely nodded.
“I’m not an educated man, as such,” I said, “just a farm boy who has read a lot. You have been to university and mixed with clever people. That is what I would call educated.”
Dr Rai considered this slowly as he did nearly everything I said. I could imagine him with his patients. They would come into his surgery and tell him their problem and he would sit back in his chair and think for at least a minute. I wondered if their illnesses would make them impatient, anxious for an instant answer with relief of symptoms, or whether they knew what they must expect when they consulted this man. Probably the latter. What is a minute in a lifetime.
The Love of a Lifetime Page 24