‘You misunderstand. I’m using your sudden outburst to demonstrate that all of us walk a line somewhere between love and bitterness, anger and calm. Most of the time we can balance the emotions well enough. There is nothing more revealing about a person than when you glimpse their emotions in a raw way. And when you do, it adds an intimacy that cannot be reached unless you were there . . . unless you were part of it. Not only was I the reason for your fury but I was the recipient of it verbally, emotionally and physically. Skin on skin, Isla . . . don’t tell me that’s not intimate.’
I was so taken aback by his suggestion that all I could respond with initially was a gusting sound of surprise mixed with fresh embarrassment.
‘Sorry. Is that too familiar of me?’
‘I’ll say.’ I tried to sound disdainful but it came out as more self-conscious than ever. ‘I mean, that’s reaching, isn’t it?’
His lips pursed slightly in an expression of doubt . . . or was it indifference? ‘A woman’s hand on a man’s cheek. What’s more intimate between relative strangers?’
‘But the action was violent! Surely that can’t be construed in this manner.’
‘Ah, wait, but you are hearing the word intimate as meaning tender. Not in this instance, no. It was indeed violent, full of hurt and offence, but you were nonetheless intimate with me because you touched me, just as you were the night before last when you cradled my feverish head in your lap. I could feel your thighs through your thin frock.’
He had me trapped with reason. I couldn’t deny the logic. He helped me out of my awkward silence.
‘Anyway, that’s why perhaps I’ve told you something no one else here knows. I feel we have a connection.’
I nodded, finding my equilibrium, and even smiled. ‘All right, Saxon. I’ll give you that. We are connected through my rage.’
He grinned, delighted by achieving his point.
‘Who runs the plantation?’
‘My brother.’ He said it in a tone that clued me in to plenty that he didn’t add.
‘I’m presuming you don’t see much of each other.’
‘You could say we see nothing of each other. The last time was upon our mother’s passing. That was more than a dozen years ago, and a dozen more years could pass and I doubt I’d think on him.’
‘No love lost, clearly.’
‘None. But the feeling’s mutual and so it’s an easy relationship, to be honest.’ He drained the cup. ‘We communicate via letter mostly but only for business reasons and usually via our bank or lawyers.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Why?’ He speared me with a glance of interest.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m an only child and often wished I had siblings.’
‘It’s not always fun. I think if our sister had survived, though, we might have been a different family.’
I blinked. His voice was achingly tender as he said this and I felt I was haplessly trespassing into an area of his life that hadn’t been traversed in many years. ‘I have spoken to no one of this, not even my wife,’ he admitted with a sad snort that was half laugh, half despair.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —’
‘I know,’ he said, his expression changing fast to a brief laugh of reassurance. It was warm and genuine, eyes wrinkling with pleasure.
‘You should laugh more often.’ It slipped out.
‘I probably should but I need to be amused or in a state of pleasure to do so and I’m rarely either.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ I said. I looked into my empty cup. ‘Well, shall we head back?’
‘I think I’d like to show you the tea gardens sometime, Isla.’
I felt my breath become trapped in my chest. My throat gave a soft clicking sound that only I heard but I knew it to be the unmistakable siren of internal alarm. And this was not Saxon’s fault for saying something so affectionate. It was my surprise at how instantly inflamed I felt. I was horrified by my own thrill at his offer. We both knew it was not going to happen – impossible to arrange, given our circumstances – but that he’d choose me of all people to share a secret with and to invite to such a private place kindled far more pleasure than it should.
‘And I would certainly love to be able to return to England having seen a working tea plantation; we drink enough of the stuff and yet none of us know how it finds itself steeping in our teapots.’ I was prattling. Could he hear the nervous pitch of my voice, or the vibration of my heart beating a little too fast?
If he did, he was gentleman enough not to show it. ‘Yes, it’s a pity because I think of all the people I’ve met in this place, it would be you who would derive the most interest and pleasure from it. It’s a serene spot nestling in the foothills.’ He gestured for us to walk and I fell in step. ‘On a clear day, Isla, it feels as though you are moving among the gods. Above you sweeps the firmament of heaven, while below you the tiny lives of people unravel as they go about their daily work . . . and around you . . . oh, Isla, surrounding you is the humbling grandeur of the Himalayan peaks. Always wearing wraps of snow like the ermine-furred popes looking down upon the worshippers. It doesn’t matter what season it is, Kangchenjunga is always dressed in virgin white.’
‘Katch-chan?’ I struggled to find the syllables he’d uttered.
‘It’s a Tibetan word that we’ve mangled to sound as close to it as we can get our lazy tongues around: Kang-chen-junga,’ he repeated slowly. ‘He bows to Everest but it’s the highest peak in India. The people of Darjeeling and Sikkim call the various peaks of Kangchenjunga the Five Treasures of Snow.’ His tone became wistful. ‘I used to love waking up to that vista each morning. I never tired of it. I’d never have left it unless I had to.’
‘To study, you mean?’
He cleared his throat. ‘To grow up,’ Saxon said. His voice now had a gritty quality to it and I heard only bitterness in his tone.
‘So, you’ll be running a clinic in Siliguri, you said?’ I brought us back to the thread of our earlier conversation.
‘Yes, as soon as duties for the Vicereine’s visit are completed, I’ll leave.’
‘Saxon, are you sure you’re well enough? It’s only been —’
‘And now you’re mothering me, Isla,’ he cautioned, but playfully.
I warded him off with my palms upraised. ‘All right, all right. I’m holding a clinic of my own south of the city. There are some children there who could use some of your care and . . . happy antics.’
‘Yes, Matron mentioned. One favour deserves another. Let my team know and I’ll organise to attend.’
‘It’s the day after tomorrow,’ I said with a wince, expecting him to take back the offer.
‘Fine. I’ll be there. Thank you again for taking care of me when I needed help and especially for . . . ’ He gestured into the main ward, unsure, I suppose, of how to convey his thanks wholly.
‘I admit I enjoyed every moment.’
He winked at me and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to read into the action but I presumed my words were not well chosen or specific enough.
I turned away, making a furious promise to write to dear Jove tonight in a firm attempt to set myself back on course with my emotions. They were suddenly and alarmingly moving slightly beyond my control. I didn’t appreciate the new affection filling the previously dark and empty corner that Professor Vickery had claimed in my life. Now it seemed to be bulging with admiration and laughter, with inspiration and something I dared not entirely confront but I knew was there, hiding in the shadows. I refused to let it come out of hiding but I knew it smiled softly at me from the depths. It wasn’t mocking but it was daring me to confront an aspect to my life that perhaps just a few weeks ago I couldn’t have thought possible, not even vaguely plausible.
I cautioned myself that what I needed to do immediately was school myself on how to enjoy Vickery professionally but not permit that dangerous stranger called affection to get any further grip on me. It must never show its smiling fac
e from those shadows. Never.
I kept my promise and wrote to Jove. It was a happy letter, full of the challenges and triumphs of my work. The babies we’d safely delivered, the women we’d set on a new and better course for future pregnancies, how we’d reduced the death rate, and I came clean to him about what I called an emergency visit to tropical diseases because of one doctor being momentarily bedridden. I didn’t elaborate on this, making it sound part of a chaotic week and not to be repeated. I was gilding the truth but my heart felt easier for telling that truth and for writing down Saxon’s name in a letter to Jove. I spoke of my admiration for this doctor even though I found him prickly and difficult. I wanted no secrets between Jove and me. We’d agreed to be honest with each other in everything, and here I was breaking that promise.
As I stopped speaking of my work and wrote words of love to him, I found it easier to rationalise Saxon’s shadow falling across the pages of my letter. I managed to convince myself that telling no direct lies constituted honesty, just as my Parker ran out of ink. It seemed somehow prophetic. The pen had been a gift from Jove on the day of my departure.
‘Only released a few months ago,’ he’d said, as I had opened the box and sighed with pleasure at the sight of the onyx-coloured fountain pen that glittered with gold finishes in its satin pillow. Jove was a modest man but I could hear his pride in this gift so carefully chosen: beautiful, practical, sentimental. And one only perhaps he could so easily afford to give. ‘It’s a vacuum filler.’
At my frown he had explained. ‘No more messy top-ups with ink that runs down the side of the pen or staining your fingers.’
He watched me unscrew the pen with fascination. It felt heavy, yet marvellously weighted for my writing hand. ‘I spent some time choosing what I hope is the right weight for you,’ he said, as if he could listen to my thoughts. ‘Ah, there,’ he continued, delighted, ‘that opaque sac allows you to see how much ink you have remaining. It also holds twice as much as traditional ink pens.’
‘I love it, Jove,’ I had breathed, genuine in my pleasure.
He had shrugged, suddenly bashful. ‘Well, call me an old romantic but I decided the ink from this pen will connect us over thousands of miles through the words you’ll write often to me. And I will kiss every page as though I’m kissing you, until your return.’
Recalling that scene now made me well up and I hurriedly dragged away the tears with the back of my hand and got on with refilling the pen from my bottle of Quink to finish the letter with some amusing anecdotes about the weather, a slightly runny belly I’d experienced and details of the Vicereine’s visit. I sniffed as I sealed the letter, feeling a pain of disloyalty awaken through me, although I kept repeating in my mind that I had nothing to feel oncerned about.
I moistened the tissue-thin airmail envelope, licking lightly at the gum-edged triangle that would seal my words all the way to London, but my mouth was dry. Even the letter itself was mocking me for the treachery that was unwittingly building in my heart.
13
Our clinic was underway in Entally within central Calcutta. It was a mixed, depressed population of poor Christians, Hindus, Muslims and Chinese. Curiously, I noted that some Europeans resided in and around the Entally Post Office area but because the municipal slaughterhouse and the Chinese tanneries and piggeries were within Entally environs, it meant the wealthier Hindu population came nowhere near it.
The smell was powerful. It was an overwhelming stench of death that pervaded the day we operated from this village, one of nearly two score shanties of the region. I’d taught myself in the opening hour of day one how to breathe through my mouth and essentially hold my breath when I wasn’t talking to a patient. Fortunately the queue for the clinic seemed to stretch well beyond the village and out into greater Calcutta – or so it seemed. Lily suggesting the tail was somewhere near Bangalore, in the south of the continent, made us smile, for there was little else to find amusement in.
While beautiful in its simple concept, my intention to run only an obstetrics clinic did not match the reality. It seemed that everyone – whether they had a weeping sore or a fever – was in that queue. I had persuaded several doctors to join me, donating their time, and was filled with silent pride to note that half-a-dozen had turned up. Miles was not among them and I think he likely would have been had we been on friendlier terms. I’d only seen him once since the incident at the Calcutta Club and he’d been polite but distinctly cool. I was not one to chase anyone’s friendship and so I echoed his mood – cordial, professional, detached. I realise now that probably wasn’t wise; it would only have taken a dedicated smile from me just for him, a message of friendship lurking within, to have healed some of whatever his personal rift with me was.
However, Saxon Vickery had kept his word and while I’d ensured any male doctors were kept a considerable distance from our female clinic tent, I was drawn to him, watching him examine a sick infant lying all but lifeless in her mother’s arms. The child’s gaze was glazed, unfocused, but what troubled me most was the woman’s resignation. It occurred to me that she was already accepting that her daughter was going to die. I could tell from his body language that Saxon believed no such thing.
It impressed me once again how well he spoke the native tongue. He even had the gestures to go with his perfectly pitched instructions to make himself understood, often using those hand signals or a particular dip of his head that didn’t require words at times but communicated plenty. And, as I suspected, if anyone could, Saxon could and did win a shy smile from the mother. He was urging her over something; I was smiling at the vignette, which looked as though it would have a happy ending, when Lily interrupted me.
‘Dr Fenwick? I need your help with someone, please.’
‘Of course.’ I gave a final glance at the poignant scene of Saxon stroking the cheek of the sick child and was taken by surprise at the stirring within, like no feeling I’d experienced before. It was hard to describe. Although it was stemming from this new connection to Saxon, it really was more about the natural and gentle way this man laid a hand on the infant – healing and soothing, so full of tenderness. I would defy any woman not to be moved to see a man behaving so compassionately towards a baby. However, it was still more than that for me; it was, I now realise, the first time that I had felt the motivation and, indeed, inspiration to be a mother. I became acutely aware that I, too, wanted to have a child in my arms. Not a sick one, of course, but an infant who relied upon me, who laid her head back against my body in so trusting a manner, knowing within my arms she was safe. The love of a parent for a child had no equal. Love like this was honest and absolute.
I had to take a breath, force myself out of that moment of enlightenment and awakening and back to the squalid scene of queues of sick people.
‘This way, Dr Fenwick.’ Lily led me to one of the tents we’d set up for privacy. Inside was a young woman. Her eyes were strikingly uncommon in their colour and disconcerting in their pale watchfulness. ‘This is Pratiti.’
‘Namaste,’ I said, to put her at ease, for she looked terrified. ‘She looks healthy,’ I murmured to Lily, who also seemed on edge. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘She may be pregnant.’
‘Ah.’ It didn’t sound problematic to me. ‘How old is she?’
Lily translated my query into rapid Hindi. The girl answered, those startlingly bright eyes wide and fearful. I guessed fifteen, maybe sixteen.
‘She’s nearing nineteen.’
That gave some relief.
‘Why is she frightened? Is her husband unhappy that she’s here?’
Lily swallowed. ‘She is not married, Dr Fenwick.’
In a heartbeat I had been drawn into the drama of this young woman’s life. This, I knew, was now enormously problematic. Unmarried Hindu woman, pregnant, so young. I found I was unable to tear my gaze from her fragile beauty. Her eyes in the subdued light of the tent appeared of a hazel hue but I suspected could have been a grey. Rare eithe
r way, and her oval face and entirely symmetrical features made me realise she could hardly go unnoticed anywhere. Man or woman would glance a second time simply to appreciate the near perfection of that flawless complexion from which stared those scared windows. I could imagine she would have had to veil herself to avoid being seen here. She was dressed in a sage green and plum-coloured cotton sari that was helplessly pretty to me but, I knew, would appear unremarkable as she moved through the crowds to get to our clinic.
I was stalling. Both awaited me. ‘Er, all right. How long, does she think?’
Lily answered without having to check again. ‘She hasn’t bled on three occasions.’
I rubbed my eyes. Three months . . . maybe.
‘Well, she’s not showing and may not for another four or five weeks and even then only a slight bump – first child . . . so young, she’s still tight as a drum. She can marry next week . . . tomorrow, even, and no one would be wiser. We can help. Deliver the child when the time comes – let’s hope she’s late as so many first mothers can be – and then we all behave as though her child has come early.’ I was talking, making complete sense to myself but Lily, I could see, was unmoved, gaze darting elsewhere, already wanting to jump in and correct me. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘She cannot marry the father.’
This only irritated me more. I felt the vexed thought bubble up that she should have thought about being inclined enough to marry him when she lay down with him three moons ago. I pursed my lips to prevent any such uncharitable advice escaping me. ‘Why?’ I said instead, as evenly as I could manage.
I could smell death from the slaughterhouse in the distance wafting through . . . fear, blood, gases . . . all of them leaking into the already fetid air of the tanneries creeping across the village. The atmosphere in the tent turned brittle as I waited for Lily’s explanation.
‘Pratiti is Kshatriya. She’s their only daughter.’
I blinked.
‘You remember me telling you about the Hindu caste system?’
I nodded. ‘And he’s not, I gather.’
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