The Letter

by Sylvia Atkinson

  Jean, who had been waiting on the draughty stairs with her hands clamped firmly over her ears, crept into the room. “Oh Maggie she’s gorgeous… What a mop of hair! She needs a brush already.”

  “If you like you can hold her” Margaret said, wrapping a shawl tightly round her daughter.

  “I don’t know if I dare. Maybe I’ll drop her,” but their mother couldn’t wait; cradling her grandchild she searched for a family resemblance.

  “She’s awfi like you were Jean… except you hardly had any hair.”

  “It’s still baby hair. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody,” Jean complained taking the baby.

  “For goodness sake hold the bairn without squeezing the life out of her. Steady… steady… mind the heid!”

  Lapsing into the language of home Jean said timorously, “I’m trying Ma but I’m awfi feared I’ll hurt her. Oh… she’s so soft. See Maggie, little blue veins on the rim of her forehead and eyelids. Open your eyes baby so I can see their colour.”

  “They’ll be blue, silly” Margaret said with maternal authority. “All babies have blue eyes… then they change. Don’t they ma?” Her mother didn’t know if this applied to babies with Indian fathers.

  “Well I want her to have blue Riley eyes like ours!”

  “Stop it you two! You’re no bairns!” said their mother for once glad of their bickering. “Jean, it’s no a doll you’re holding. Tuck in the shawl… Maggie, you have to give the wee girl a name.”

  “Ma It doesn’t matter what I choose. Ben will decide.”

  “Goodness knows when that will be! We must call her something!”

  “Jean, you choose.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes but don’t be upset when Ben changes it.”

  Jean didn’t think it would happen. He was gone for ever. “I’d like to call her after me, but one Jean’s enough. Let’s call her Jessie. We’ll share the same initial.”

  Jessie slept throughout their deliberations. Indeed she slept on through the procession of adoring uncles and Mary, who had long since charitably forgiven past differences.

  A parcel containing a pink, lacy matinee coat arrived from Nan, Margaret’s eldest sister. Her husband Davey was doing well as a cabinet maker in Colchester. Their daughter Sheila was a year old. The enclosed note invited Margaret to stay. The girls would be company for each other in the coming years.

  Margaret guessed from her mother’s happy singing that while she rested Jessie was regularly taken to her grandfather. She had no idea that he paid the rent and all her expenses.

  * * * * *

  A telegram arrived from Ben. The baby was to be named Pavia. Most people complimented Margaret on the unusual choice. Jean preferred Jessie. Eventually Pavia ceased to be a novelty, acknowledged by Ben and cherished by her Scottish family.

  Letters began arriving regularly from India. Margaret read out some of the everyday happenings. Jean was not impressed, calculating that her brother-in-law was deviously preparing Margaret to join him.

  Pavia was quite a handful, crawling madly at nine months; making a dash for the stairs at every opportunity. “I’ll be glad when she can walk.” Margaret said, retrieving her daughter for the umpteenth time. Jean, who had done her share, agreed, but their mother advised that then they’d really have to be on their toes.

  * * * * *

  Jean spent the lunch hour combing the grand Edinburgh stores for a teddy bear. They were all the rage and outrageously expensive but the boys chipped in to buy one for Pavia’s first birthday. The toddler slept with the golden bear chewing its ears, refusing to be parted from it.

  * * * * *

  A package arrived containing the necessary papers for Margaret’s passage to India. They were to sail from Southampton in four weeks. “We’re going to your daddy… across the sea on a big ship.” She said excitedly to Pavia.

  “Train…” Pavia said as if she was trying to correct her.

  “No darling that was to Aunt Nan’s but we’ll go on the train to catch the ship.” Margaret was having enough trouble explaining to a child. She didn’t know how to broach it with her mother.

  Pavia did it for her that afternoon in infant drawl. Margaret filled in the rest. The details of the proposed journey escaped Margaret’s mother, who couldn’t understand her daughter’s faith in a man who had technically abandoned her. She hurried home to enlist her husband in putting a stop to this rash adventure.

  A heartbroken Jean was sent by their father to bring Margaret and Pavia home. There was no mention of the past but a great deal of discussion surrounding the wisdom of travelling unaccompanied to a disease ridden country so far away. The consensus was that Margaret and Pavia remain in Scotland. The family would continue their support and perhaps in the future, Margaret would be able to resume studying. It was a safe sensible solution but held no appeal for Margaret. Travelling so far was exciting; yearning to be with her husband she didn’t see India through their eyes.

  * * * * *

  Ben sent a money draft and suggestions for clothes to be bought for the voyage. The weeks flew past in a plethora of entreaties and fraught packing. Pavia, fretful and miserable, clung to her granny who travelled with them to Southampton. All too soon they were on the dockside exchanging kisses and inadequate words, “Maggie I canny bear to let you go but your duty is with your husband… Pavia deserves to be with her faither. You will have to make a different life but… Oh how I’ll miss you both. I canny stop worrying… Write as soon as you get there to let us know you’re safe. I’ll pray for you… God only knows if I’ll see you again.”

  Margaret looked over the side of the huge liner. Far below on the quayside carnival crowds waved; among them, her mother, a small still figure, searched the lines of passengers high above. Margaret called to her but the sound was whisked away on the wind. She moved Pavia from astride her hip holding her above the rail. Seeing her granny she almost slipped from Margaret’s grasp and had to be pulled to safety.

  In those seconds Margaret lost sight of her mother but the festive quay was awash with a sea of identical bobbing black hats. Then there she was, arms wide, pleading to the empty air. Margaret mouthed hopelessly, “I love you” while the gangplank rattled on board and the vessel’s deep resounding horn signalled the end of any change of mind.

  She hurried aft. The spectators on shore were beginning to drift homeward but the lone figure of her mother, dwarfed by cranes and pulleys, remained staring at the ever widening strip of water tearing them apart. The ship, guided by sturdy tugs, headed for the open sea.

  Pavia whimpered. A fellow first class passenger suggested the nanny be sent for to take the child below, for the wind was getting up and they’d catch their death of cold.

  The cabin steward was waiting but Margaret sent him away. The enormity of the decision to leave Scotland and its effect on her mother laid bare by the terrible parting, brought on a deep sense of foreboding. Lying on the bunk, resting her frozen cheek against Pavia’s, mother and daughter fell asleep on tear-sodden pillows.

  * * * * *

  The practicalities of life on board took over. There were cocktail parties, dinners in the opulent dining room, deck quoits, bridge, and a host of entertainment. Margaret was the sole passenger in first class without a nanny or companion but she wore the appropriate evening dress, cocktail and deck outfits. Her manners were perfect, and she cultivated an air of understated wealth.

  The ship passed through the Mediterranean docking at ports in countries that had once jumped out from the pages of Margaret’s school books. She didn’t go ashore, preferring to spend the voyage with Pavia, who, shepherded by the steward, navigated the decks like a seasoned sailor.

  Egypt unfolded as they sailed through the Suez Canal and into the Red Sea. The distance and exotic landscapes steadily increased, together with the he
at and the flies.

  INDIA

  Chapter 10

  Bombay to Bareilly 1935

  “Bombay in the morning,” Margaret whispered the words over and over into her pillow. Tomorrow she would be in Ben’s arms. Sleep evaded her and dawn with its promise of a new life an eternity away. Pavia was fast asleep, her peaceful breathing scarcely audible against the noise of the ship’s pulsating engines taking them ever nearer the shore. The long lonely voyage and dreadful separation from her family vanished as, through the cabin porthole, Margaret watched the rosy fingers of dawn creep slowly across the sky.

  Energised with anticipation she put on the green crepe dress she had worn for her wedding and, unable to find the pins for her hair, gathered it up inside a wide brimmed hat. Pavia protested sleepily but was speedily dressed and carried on deck. The ship docked majestically, eliciting a spontaneous cheer from passengers and crew.

  A loud babble of voices floated up from the quayside where a multitude of people of every shade of brown from deep dull black to rich coffee cream scurried like insects far below. Red, orange, white and black turbaned heads swarmed everywhere. Enormous nets filled with a hotchpotch of cargo swung out wide of the ship to hang in mid air like drunken trapeze artists. Half naked sinewy men competed with the peak-capped pristine, white uniformed port officials whose glinting whistles marked their authority. Orders were barked, arms waved and whistles blown in an attempt to control the mass of writhing humanity.

  Margaret fruitlessly searched for Ben. In Edinburgh he stood out from the crowd. Here he was indistinguishable among so many of his countrymen. Maybe he wouldn’t recognise her as she was failing to recognise him? Tears pricked her hot eyes threatening to mingle with the stinging sweat, forming small beads on her forehead.

  She made her way down the gangway carrying Pavia, who dislodged her mother’s hat releasing a cascade of copper hair. Away from the shelter of the covered deck the unremitting sun pierced Margaret’s blue eyes, blurring the buzzing scene in front of her.

  On the quay, hordes of men pressed forward, hemming her in. Fingers touched her hair, rough voices called out to one another. Terrified, Margaret could go no further! Pavia began to scream! Ben was there. His servants cut a swathe through the crowd, lashing out with wooden canes, striking the bodies of the venturous. Margaret winced to hear the dull thumps of the canes hitting their targets and the ensuing sharp cries of pain. The noise reverberated in her head. Pavia began kicking and crying louder and louder, everywhere was in motion.

  An umbrella appeared from nowhere shielding them from the rising sun. A woman stepped forward and, under orders from Ben, took Pavia from Margaret. Immediately the frightened child renewed screaming, refusing to be quiet until reunited with her mother. Robbed of her charge the servant truculently trailed behind them to the waiting car while the growing rabble emitted a frightening cacophony of sound. Once inside, with Ben seated beside her, Margaret asked nervously “What are they saying?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

  “But why are they so interested in me?”

  “They are common people… easily influenced. We have a legend about a beautiful fairy with red golden hair who brings good fortune to everyone she has contact with. They believe in such things and think it might be you.”

  “But are you sure we’re safe?”

  Ben laughed, “They are not threatening you… merely calling out Charu, Charu… which means beautiful.” Gazing into Margaret’s eyes he took her small white face in his healing hands, “I give you Charuni as your Indian name. You will always be my beautiful one.” With her pulse racing Margaret sank into the mahogany-coloured leather upholstery.

  The chauffer drove along Bombay’s sweeping marine drive. Numerous horse drawn carriages followed behind, too many for Margaret’s belongings, but the endless retinue of servants took advantage of the extra space to ride in style.

  The teeming city with its imposing architecture, riot of colour and contrasting squalor assaulted Margaret’s eyes. Their cavalcade stopped in front of what appeared to be a gothic palace, covered with carvings of monkeys, peacocks and lions. Domes and spires sprouted from the roof and stained glass windows studded the entire building. She was amused by a plaque, which proclaimed the building to be Bombay’s railway station; an imposing statue of Queen Victoria trumpeted the power of the Raj.

  Immediately they stepped out from the car filthy, rag-clad beggars thrust out their open palms for money, gesturing towards their mouths. Some waved mutilated limbs; others pushed emaciated infants with huge hungry eyes in Margaret’s face. She had no money or food to give so strove to keep Pavia out of their reach while Ben’s servants beat off the clutching hands. Uncomfortably hot, and thirsty, with no idea where they were going, Margaret blindly followed Ben. There were so many things that she wanted to ask her husband, so much to say after all this time. His brief touch in the car was enough to reawaken her desire for him.

  Coolies competed to assist the luggage-carrying servants, hindering any possibility of smooth progress. Indian travellers made way, British passengers turned their backs.

  The guard paced the platform where a throbbing steam train was ready to depart. The last servant jumped on board as the guard dropped his flag and the train lurched forward. They were off.

  Margaret gasped at the inside of their private carriage. It was like a doll’s palace with ornate curtained windows, a brocade covered couch, easy chairs and a carved writing desk complete with pen stand. Silver filigreed glass lamps dotted small tables. Tucked away was a bedroom with a washstand and bijou bed made to scale.

  Servants deftly brought trays with glasses and jugs of water. Dishes of sweet pastries, sticky white balls of syrup, fiery mixes, nuts and dark aniseeds were spooned in turn into Margaret’s hand. She tried to be polite but the mixture of tastes and hot flavourings made her nauseous.

  It was difficult to juggle the food, while restraining Pavia from touching everything within reach and listening to Ben’s running commentary. “Our journey will take approximately three days. The servants travel separately but will attend to everything we require. The ayah is the woman who took Pavia from you at the port. She will look after our daughter, amuse her and generally perform the daily tasks required for a small child. You will not be troubled by such trifles.”

  Margaret reacted strongly to this suggestion, “I’m certainly not going to hand Pavia to some unknown servant to look after!”

  Ben said firmly “This is the custom and so it will be. The ayah will follow your instructions. Indeed she will always be in your presence unless you choose otherwise.” With that he held Pavia for the first time cooing and petting until she returned his affection with chuckles and infant caresses.

  “Dada… Dada” Margaret repeated.

  “Papa,” corrected Ben.

  The ayah brought a cup of warm milk and, after a little persuasion from her mother, Pavia allowed the servant to feed her.

  Heavy eyed with heat, Margaret was losing the battle to stay awake and reluctantly retreated to lie on the bed. She must have slept for hours for on waking the muted lights of the sleeping quarters highlighted the sleeping figure of Ben. She opened the room’s divider. On the other side Pavia was curled on a soft cot with the ayah asleep on the floor. All was well.

  Peeping out through a chink in the bedroom’s heavy brocade curtain Margaret’s reflection bounced back at her. The train clattered noisily through a railway station lit by flaming brands attached to the sides of low buildings. On the platform groups of men huddled beside burning braziers which illuminated their faces like renaissance paintings in Edinburgh’s art galleries.

  Ben was different now, in control, not the spontaneous lover who threw caution to the wind. Margaret had presumed so much without asking and the journey to his home was much longer than she anticipated. She was looking forward to meeti
ng his family and had made up her mind to like them, especially his sisters. Maybe his mother would be at the station to meet them. Margaret blinked away the tears. It didn’t matter when and where the journey ended, as long as Ben was there.

  She rested her head on the tepid window swaying with the movement of the carriage. Isolated from anything she had ever known, with no clue as to where she was heading, she was filled with misgivings.

  * * * * *

  Ben organised the servants who boiled water for drinks and washing, cooked food and kept Pavia fed and amused. The train chugged deeper into rural India passing scattered villages with houses made from mud and straw, interconnected by dirt roads. Women in brightly coloured saris, frequently with babies slung to their back, gleaned the fields, or walked balancing bundles of sticks on their head in the direction of the village. Buffaloes pulled ploughs with barefooted farmers guiding the furrows, bullock drawn carts laden with produce wound down dusty lanes.

  Alarmed by the sound of banging overhead Margaret opened the carriage window and looked up. Scrawny men, surrounded by cloth bundles, were travelling on the roof. They were equally surprised to see a Memsahib boldly looking up at them. The rail route was often blocked by a cow wandering onto the track causing the engine to stop or slow to a walking pace. The men on the roof leapt off, standing in lines parallel to the track to urinate

  Customs and a language with which she could make no connection bombarded Margaret. She recognised from the way the servants, porters and officials deferred to Ben that he was powerful and important whereas it was as if she was invisible.

  The ayah didn’t understand her. Margaret tried using signs and gestures which resulted in the servant doing as she was accustomed. Time after time, in sheer frustration Margaret sent the woman back to the servants’ quarters only to recall her. Ben didn’t intervene, unaware of his wife’s increasing sense of uselessness and segregation.