The Letter

by Sylvia Atkinson

  Suleka wrote constantly trying to persuade Margaret to put off the divorce but Margaret refused to be swayed. She wanted to marry Tommy but more than that she wanted to be done with Ben. It would be hurtful and unwise to tell Suleka how much she despised him. A worrying break in correspondence was accounted for by a telephone message. Margaret replied at once,

  Kohat

  Dearest Suleka,

  Thanks for your very kind phone call and the wonderful news of the birth. I was sorry I wasn’t here to take your call. I’m frightfully busy and telephoning is often rushed so I thought I’d write. I hope you are recovered and enjoying baby Chimini. Even though she is only a few months old I feel certain she will enjoy the company of all the children. Mother must be feeling much better with you at home. It was good of your husband’s family to allow it.

  Try to get a carpenter to fix up some of those wooden toys. There is a delay in my pay but as soon as I receive it I will send money down for my children’s expenses. It is so very cold here that I had to spend money on extra clothes. The cost of the cloth is exorbitant!

  I am on night duty and do not get a chance to go up to the city. As soon as I can I will send you another parcel of wool.

  Now be careful all of you. Love to the children.

  Yours affectionately

  Charuni

  * * * * *

  Margaret had been worried that she might be sent to Europe, alternating how she would tell the children with the fact that there might not be an opportunity to say goodbye. In saner moments she realised this was extremely unlikely for the Japanese were in a pole position to strike India. She asked her commanding officer to try to find out where Tommy was. He said that the British attitude was she was not a relative, and there was a war on, so it was unlikely that he would find out anything. The fighting and possibility of invasion was heating up, a rationale for his absence.

  She strove harder to become indispensable, working more unsociable hours than anyone else. In between she packed a trunk to send to Suleka. There were soft hanks of purple, blue and pink wool to make cardigans for the girls, mouth warming cinnamon, nuts, dried fruits, almond-nougat with cherries, and delicious sweets for the boys. In addition she put in bolts of fine grey and brown woven cloth and embroidered shawls, bought from Jammu salesmen in Peshawar’s bazaar. Suleka could please herself what she did with the material.

  Pavia was nine, Saurabh seven and Rajeev four. She’d missed their birthdays. Their father had got what he wanted and was in no hurry to involve expensive lawyers. Margaret decided to temporarily leave things as they were in exchange for trying to get his agreement for a Christmas visit to the children.

  Suleka telephoned. Margaret was thrilled, “I’ve embroidered names on the children’s Christmas stockings… It took an age. I’m glad you chose short names for your girls. We can hang the stockings on the bed head like we used to…”

  “Charuni…” How ever it was said Suleka knew the effect would be disastrous, “You’re not invited.”

  “Who says so?”

  “My brother… He tore up your letter.”

  “I’ll telephone.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you…”

  “Don’t cry Suleka… it’s not your fault…”

  “Friends .?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  “For ever…”

  Margaret put down the phone. She didn’t feel the hot red wax blistering her hand when she sealed the string on the parcel.

  In church on Christmas Eve, surrounded by colleagues carolling their hearts out, she visualised Pavia and Saurabh caught up in the excitement of bedtime; sweetly singing Away in the Manger. They might be too old for Father Christmas but would play along for Rajeev. A chilling thought struck Margaret: without her there would be no need to celebrate Christmas at Aakesh.

  * * * * *

  Winter had penetrated Margaret’s bones, increasing her dark mood. In nearby Kashmir the melting snows changed the peaceful rivers to torrents sending them tumbling down to the thirsty plains, making the passes relatively snow free. She joined some nurses on an expedition to see the renowned pink blossom of the almond trees.

  April was a delightful month for an adventure. The merry band missed some of the first flush of blossom but the air was filled with the fragrance of a million spring flowers blooming on trees, shrubs and creepers. The nurses made their way to the ancient city of Srinagar where they hired a luxurious wooden houseboat moored on the river Jhelum. They followed its course through the heart of the city, past willow-shaded channels, canals and under curvaceous low bridges. Deep green rice fields, water lilies, lotus and intricate Mughal gardens littered the riverbanks. Lines of doongas, the floating homes of the river people, swayed in unison. Women, seated at the prow, pounded grain and called to one another across the tranquil water.

  The crew of the houseboat tied up at regular intervals and Margaret and her friends explored the labyrinth lanes of rich red brick and carved wooden houses that stretched into the town.

  There was a constant flow of activity between the water and the land. Homes, schools, shops and mosques jostled for position along the crowded banks. Endless roof gardens and orchards tumbled down towards the river; lattice carved windows of buildings added a touch of timelessness.

  In the evenings the boatmen lit small bukharis. The smoke from these wood-burning stoves perfumed the air like incense. Servants brought bowls of rose scented water for hand washing, cinnamon tea and delicately spiced food; apricot stuffed lamb, fish in coconut, saffron rice, breads and fruits, relics of their Persian ancestry, washed down with sherbet.

  The party relaxed on luxurious carpets or reclined on cushioned couches. The moon on the water and the reflection of the light from hundreds of lanterns, suspended from innumerable shadowy boats, shut out unhappiness.

  * * * * *

  Kashmir with its glimpse of paradise had been a haven of healing from which to draw the strength Margaret would need. Her father wrote with bad news: Nan’s husband Davey was dead, killed by a sniper in Burma while serving with Wingate’s Chindits. The remote jungle and nature of the mission meant his body lay where it fell. Nan was left with five young children. The last, like so many others, would not know her father. Willie was right, only this moment is certain.

  The Japanese, building up their reserves to attack India, had cut the road link between Imphal and Kohima. Residents caught in the fighting were either killed or interned. Planes flew day and night supplying and evacuating troops or bombing the enemy. Willie was up there, and although Margaret didn’t want another dead brother-in-law at least she knew where he was.

  She’d wheedled out of headquarters that Mike Calvert, and his group of Special Forces were with the Chindits. Tommy must be with them. These men were engaged in hand to hand combat with the enemy, suffering terrible casualties. Horrific stories of soldiers captured by the Japanese were well known. Those who escaped were often mentally and physically scarred beyond healing.

  Men living on the edge of death seldom made commitments, but Tommy had given his word and Margaret trusted him to keep it. She shut her ears to the rumble of aircraft and the possibility that he was dead. Somehow he’d find her, even in Kohat.

  May brought a letter from Suleka,

  My Dearest Charuni,

  Your replacement, Sandyia, has returned to her brother and is running their school. She has taken Pavia with her. Don’t be upset my dear friend but my brother has another son. If he wants to see him he will have to go there. Saurabh and Rajeev remain here . . .

  I remain your sister. No one will ever take your place in my affection.

  Sandyia hadn’t settled for rural life with its lack of intellectual company, sick mother-in-law and persistent interference from Vartika and Hiten. Why hadn’t Margaret done the same, taken the children, taken control, fo
rced Ben into fighting for them?

  A son posed a threat but Hiten would protect Saurabh and Rajeev’s interests, so tightly bound up with his own. Pavia gone with Sandyia was a death blow.

  What to do? What to do? If Margaret had someone to help… but she didn’t even know where Sandyia lived. She sent letter after letter to Ben beseeching him to return their daughter.

  * * * * *

  Depression is a poor companion. Afraid to be alone in this melancholy state Margaret took refuge in the mess where the wireless underpinned conversation. A huge cheer roared throughout the room bursting out into the night. Hundreds of voices began singing, shouting, whistling sending the noise echoing through the mountains. Berets and caps were thrown in the air. Men swung each other round, slapping backs, pumping hands and kissing every woman in sight. Giddy from dancing she asked her partner what was happening.

  “What’s happening… ? We’ve landed in Normandy! The Jerries are on the run. The whole bloody world has landed on the beaches, Yanks, Canadians, the whole caboodle.”

  Drinks were poured, toasts were drunk and Vera Lynn transmitted at full volume. Margaret was nearly late on duty.

  The disinfected wards with dimmed night-lights were

  at odds with the festivities. A soldier groaned. The surgical pain from his amputated leg and the unusual racket outside had got the better of him. “Nurse… What’s going on?”

  Margaret told him. The ward erupted into a symphony of waving limbs, towels, pillows, bedclothes, toothbrushes and anything to hand. One by one critically ill men asked, “Does this mean we can go home?”

  “Soon,” she reassured them, but where would she go when it was over?

  Chapter 29

  June and July passed with more allied victories in Europe. Margaret was half listening to Victor Sylvester’s big band concert in the mess when the popular wireless programme was interrupted by an announcement, “Yesterday our brave boys were honoured by Field Marshall Montgomery in a Normandy quarry…” Boos and cat calls drowned the rest.

  “Get him off. We want news of the Japs! There’s a war on here you know!”

  “My brother’s over there…”

  “Somebody shut him up!”

  The volume was turned up until it crackled. In standard BBC English a list of decorated men was read out, “ . . . Fifth Parachute Brigade, Airborne Signals Section, Corporal Thomas Waters…”

  Margaret said, “Corporal Thomas Waters… Did he say Corporal Thomas Waters?”

  “Got the Military Medal…”

  “He’s my fiancé! But he’s a sergeant? “

  “He’s a hero!”

  The mess toasted Tommy and his comrades until the rafters rang with his name.

  Secrecy was paramount throughout Tommy’s missions

  in The East but to be transferred to Europe… perhaps when they last met he had an inkling of what lay ahead? Margaret wished she’d asked him more, but he wouldn’t have told her. He might be half way across the world but he was alive; being together was just a matter of time.

  * * * * *

  She dreamt of making their home in India. It would have to be a city, probably Delhi. They’d have a summer home in Nainital; she’d put the children in school. They’d ride through the hills… honeymoon in Kashmir… the war couldn’t last much longer.

  France

  My Darling Girl,

  It’s been pretty hectic here one way and another and impossible to write. Unfortunately the action isn’t over. I am still on active service and expect to be on the move any day.

  I hope you and the children are well and that you think of me often. I know it’s selfish but wait for me. Nothing’s changed. I meant every word I said when we last met,

  Well sweetheart I promise I’ll get back to you but it looks as if we’ll have to wait for the end of this bash. Try to get a letter to me if you can. I had to drop rank but I’m due for promotion. I might make it to Officer and give you the life you deserve.

  Your sweetheart,

  Tommy

  Didn’t Tommy realise she loved him for the man he was? Rank had nothing to do with it, but she wondered why he’d had to drop rank for such a dangerous mission. The protocol used by the army to determine these things was beyond her.

  * * * * *

  Moving easily across cultures Margaret built a reputation

  as a translator. A new post was created combining nursing with assisting Indian staff taking over British roles. Margaret enjoyed the work immensely, visiting outlying districts where she made contact with civil administrators. She was getting a feel for the politics of Independence. The best openings were going to be in Delhi or Calcutta. She intended to secure a posting, or civilian job, in one city or the other. She surmised Tommy was involved in what the papers described as ‘Mopping up Operations,’ in Europe.

  She continued to write loving letters to the children without expecting a reply. Suleka wrote, although the intervals between letters were getting longer.

  My Dear Charuni

  Pavia and Saurabh are with their father at Dehra Dun for a holiday. Ben is in charge of the health of many Japanese prisoners of war who are interred there. However I am expecting them back at Aakesh any day. The children have been very mischievous. They climbed to the top of a hill and could see the Japanese in the camp far below. Then they crept nearer and the prisoners saw them. Immediately the men started to encourage them to come nearer. Pavia and Saurabh were fascinated and amused themselves by hiding behind trees and rocks, then bobbing out and waving. In this way they were almost at the perimeter fence when an Indian soldier spotted them and quickly marched them away.

  Of course they were unaware of the great danger they had placed themselves in. Ben was very angry and is organizing sepoys to bring them here. He will miss them. Rajeev continues to remain at home. Saurabh will be sent away to school and Pavia will return to Sandyia for her studies.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Suleka

  It was distressing to know that Pavia was with Sandyia almost permanently but this would change when Tommy returned and Margaret gained custody of the children. Fortunately the new job was so hectic it occupied her full attention. A spell on night duty would be a break from translating. A letter came with an English stamp but, not recognising the handwriting, she stuffed it in her pocket to read in a quiet moment.

  The patients settled down to sleep without incident. Every bed was full and most of the men were on the road to recovery. Devoid of their daytime personality, the slumbering men became uncanny shapes under military blankets like exhibits in a museum. She spread out the letter under the dim desk lamp.

  Denaby

  Dear Margaret,

  My son Thomas Waters has asked me to write to you on his behalf. He has been very badly injured during a training exercise. An Officer pulled the pin of a live hand grenade. As it landed Tommy threw a waste paper basket over it and was caught in the blast.

  Tommy told me you planned to marry and his army duties prevented it from going ahead. You promised to wait for him and he believes you will have kept your word. He wants me to tell you he releases you from your promise. You see he will not be much good now.

  He thanks you for waiting this long and hopes life will work out better for you in the future.

  Yours sincerely,

  Albert Thomas Waters

  The careful handwriting ran with her tears. It was some moments before she realised the doctor was there. He coughed self-consciously. She blew her nose and showed him the letter. “Poor chap, what rotten luck.” The stock response but then added genuinely, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “It hasn’t really sunk in. I need time to think … get it in perspective or what ever one does when faced with this.”

  “Be sure to let me know if I can h
elp.” he said, conti-

  nuing on his round unaccompanied. The night dragged on. Margaret’s patients became Tommy, so far away, being cared for by anonymous nurses.

  At the end of the shift she escaped to her quarters. Fixed a stiff whiskey, downed it in one, and then topped up the glass. She couldn’t remember the exact moment she fell in love with Tommy. It evolved alongside their friendship and he had so many friends. Burmese, Indian and Ghurkha soldiers would do anything for him. He valued them as much as their British counterparts.

  Faces of men tragically burnt and disfigured flashed before her; countless hands held through nightmarish pain. Tommy with his zest for life… the injustice replayed… perhaps she was a jinx? She flung the half empty glass across the room smashing it against the wall. Splinters flew everywhere. A wet stain baptised the white distemper.

  The letter gave no details of Tommy’s injuries or the hospital name but if he told his father what to put in the letter, there was hope. She wrote,

  Kohat

  My Dearest Tommy,

  I seem to be shuttling backwards and forwards always searching for you. When I started to read the letter from your father I was afraid you were dead. We have both been through too much to let an accident get in the way.

  My love, fight. Use your great courage. We can’t be robbed of our chance of happiness. I love you and will wait forever. No one can take your place. We are meant to be together and until that day comes you are seldom out of my thoughts and prayers.

  Your own,

  Margaret

  She addressed the letter to Tommy’s father entrusting him to deliver it.