She shook her head slowly. ‘He’s Vaishya.’
I let out a sigh. ‘Explain quickly, Lily.’
‘Pratiti’s people are from the warrior caste . . . royals, even, of the past centuries. Naz . . . er, Nazmul, the father, is from the merchant and landowner class.’
‘He’s hardly a peasant, then.’
She looked down, embarrassed, though not for herself or Pratiti but for me. I was clearly like a blind man with a bludgeon in a room full of crystal.
‘It makes no difference. Her family will demand that she marry and mother children from her own caste.’
‘Or what?’
‘They’ll kill them.’
‘Don’t be absurd. They’re hardly going to kill their only prized daughter.’
Pratiti began to weep silently.
‘Dr Fenwick, they will kill him first and make her watch before they hack her to death with blades or stone her. It matters not the method of death, only that she dies for bringing the worst sort of shame that any girl could upon her family’s honour. You must understand this. It is not how it is in England. There’s shame but if you have broad shoulders, as they say, you can cope with it, or you can rely on your family to help, or forgive.’
I licked my lips in nervousness. It all sounded so barbaric and medieval. ‘What does she want us to do?’
‘She terrified. She’s not asking for anything. She doesn’t know what to do or where to go.’
Pratiti mumbled in weepy Bengali. I looked at Lily.
‘She says they love each other.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I felt a chill blanking out all that warmth of just minutes ago. Here was the true coalface . . . no, this was the cliff edge, the abyss below, because I had the skills to deliver a child, calm a fever, fix a broken limb, even detach that limb if I needed to. I could soothe a patient through a challenging disease and potentially bring them back from death’s threshold but I could not fight ideology.
Religion. It ruled so strongly in India that a mother would rather see her daughter slaughtered by her own family’s hand than risk the shame of the intermingling of castes. I knew I would be fighting a battle already lost to even suggest we try to talk to the parents.
‘Dr Fenwick?’
‘Where do her parents think she is now?’
Lily asked the question for me and then translated the reply.
‘She works in one of the universities. She says she’s too frightened to go home because she’s now worried her eldest brother might suspect. She has five brothers.’
‘Suspects what? That she’s pregnant?’ I felt sickened at the thought.
‘No, not even that bad yet. He thinks she might be too friendly with Naz. If he knew the truth, the brothers would gang up and kill her tonight. We have to help her, Dr Fenwick. She won’t make it, neither will Naz. I’ve seen this before. They cut them down in the street; their own families ambush them.’
I knew I wasn’t thinking straight but we needed to act and both women before me were looking to me for leadership. I wanted to scream how unfair this was to rope me into such a knot of potential drama. Instead I straightened my shoulders. ‘Right, get her back to the hospital and put her in a bed in an isolated ward.’ Lily frowned. ‘Pretend she’s contagious. I need to work out what we’re going to do.’ I began to pace. ‘Where is Naz?’
Pratiti seemed to catch my drift.
Lily translated. ‘He’s outside.’
‘With her?’ I sounded aghast.
‘No. Watching from a distance. But she says he’s fearful.’
Pratiti interrupted and spoke at length. I waited for Lily to tell me more. ‘She says he’s not worried for himself, already knows he’ll die for this, but he wants to make sure that she and the baby are safe.’
‘There will be no more talk of death. Where does Naz have to be?’
Lily didn’t have to ask. ‘He works in his father’s shop.’
‘Tell him to go to the hospital too – hide him.’
‘Where?’ She looked frightened herself now.
I shook my head. ‘Anywhere!’
‘No, the other Indians will tell if the family comes looking. We can definitely pretend with Pratiti because none of the nurses will spill the truth, but we can’t trust the bearers or aides if we put Naz somewhere else, and he obviously can’t be around maternity. What about Dr Baird?’
‘Miles?’
‘You’re quite good friends, aren’t you? Would he help?’
I shook my head. ‘I doubt it.’ I said no more as to why. ‘Get Naz into a staff uniform.’
‘As what?’
I looked at her with exasperation. ‘Lily, you’re going to have to think through some of this yourself. You’ve got me trapped in the problem and I’m going to try and work out a way to save these youngsters’ lives. You must handle the hiding of them. The filing room is probably a good place. Give him some documents to push around. He is to remain there until he hears from one of us. If he’s asked, he’s doing a temporary job for me. He will have to muddle through with the fibs as best he can.’
‘Until when?’
‘I don’t know!’ I finally snapped. It wasn’t her fault and yet I desperately wanted to blame Lily for disrupting my life with this problem; she’d made it mine, forced me to feel that unless I helped, I might as well land the first blow of the blade on Naz or Pratiti. I blew out my cheeks in an effort to find calm. ‘I have to get on. Get these two away from here. I will cover for you.’
I left the tent and rejoined my team, losing myself in the work for a queue of patients that kept me challenged and distracted for the rest of the day. Sometime in the late afternoon the bell rang to end the clinic and I looked up to see that we’d looked after far more patients than I thought could be possible. Just a few stragglers left and none that were urgent, presumably because the nurses were now dealing with those.
The problem of the pregnant lovers came back to sit heavily on my shoulders. I went in search of the only person I trusted who might help us.
_________
Saxon Vickery was kneeling by a boy when I found him. It appeared that he had been carried to our makeshift clinic by his parents on what looked to be a hammock of sorts fashioned from a couple of strong saris. Once again I was struck that the mother looked ready to accept the news that nothing could be done for her child. Presumably, it was the father – who squatted near the child’s face, an anxious look speared towards Saxon – who had eyes only for the lad. He held his tiny hand and I could hear him speaking softly in Hindi. The patient was impassive, his expression slack, eyes vacant – they might as well have been two glass marbles pointed in Saxon’s direction for their lack of response. The father pleaded. I didn’t need to understand Hindi because body language was universal and this father was desperate.
Saxon glanced over his shoulder at one of the aides and said something I didn’t catch and then he was straightening to his feet, the father’s gaze capturing each subtle movement until Saxon towered over him in his white coat, pristinely starched, a foil for the man’s raggish ensemble. My heart hurt for him and I wanted the mother to offer something to her family . . . but she remained as wooden and aloof as her helpless son. I watched Saxon cup both the father’s hands in his in a gesture that urged courage and to keep faith. He gestured to the family to follow where the aide beckoned. They departed, their child slung between them, his weight dead, eyes already closed as if he’d given up the fight.
I took a deep, concerned breath, and while it inflated my lungs and then breathed itself out, I felt reassured that the boy was now in the best care of all. If anyone could save him, Saxon could . . . and would. He arched his back and lifted his golden, messy-haired head to the sun, letting its burning light fall fully across his features. In that moment of stillness I felt like an intruder; it was as though I was stealing this private moment from him by eavesdropping on it. Whatever private communion he was having, it was his alone and I suspected it was li
kely a supplication to the universe that helped him conquer the diseases he battled each day. I cleared my throat and pretended I’d just arrived.
‘Saxon, there you are. Do you have a moment for me?’
He turned, with a grin crinkling his features. ‘Just the one?’
‘Do you know I struggle to tell whether you’re being sardonic or flirtatious.’
He didn’t answer, much to my relief. Instead he sighed. ‘I need to drink something cold and sit down. Come with me,’ he offered, not waiting for me to reply but taking my arm in a familiar but welcome way. ‘Do you know where the word sardonic comes from?’
‘No, but I’m filled with suspicion that I’m about to learn.’
‘We can’t have you leaving India without enriching your life somehow. It comes by way of a plant from Sardinia . . . you know, in Italy.’
‘I know where Sardinia is. I have holidayed there.’
‘Of course you have. Anyway, the plant, if eaten, reputedly poisons you but before you die you become convulsed with laughter.’
‘Not a bad way to go,’ I offered, trying to match his mood.
‘Well done, Dr Fenwick. Don’t you find language incredibly intriguing?’
‘Perhaps not as much as you but I shall save your little gem and unleash it on my dinner guests sometime to impress.’
He smiled disarmingly. ‘Think of me when you do.’
I nodded, afraid to commit aloud because I was thinking of him far too much already. The man I was convinced I abhorred had, without either of us perhaps fully realising it, become my friend; I was surprisingly at ease with him. He was the first person I could turn to with my dilemma. For all his hostile and ungentlemanly ways, I found him true. There were certainly no shadows to Saxon Vickery; like him or not, he didn’t temper his manner for anyone. And while initially I was horrified by his ability to lose his equilibrium, I had probably begun to see what people like Matron saw in him or what they saw behind the bluster.
His emotions were honest, his ways with people genuine – whether he was yelling at them or tenderly promising to help their child, his laughter was rich and real. From what I could tell, there was no subtext with Saxon’s actions or words. He meant everything he did, said, thought . . .
And so it was that I feigned a snicker to cover a pounding heart and the sharp, almost painful awakening that I found Saxon Vickery’s gently flirtatious wickedness a highly desirable factor in this odd little life I was leading. I wanted to be immune to him, to the qualities that other women obviously had picked up on, but he’d most effectively worked his way past my thick-skinned defence. I liked him far too much in spite of the impatient, angry quality that showed itself without warning, but above this I respected and admired him. I think I was beginning to wish I, too, could be like him: careless of people’s opinions, not looking for praise or physical reward, while quietly overcoming enormous hurdles, achieving success in medicine and taking all my reward from patients’ humble thanks, their penniless but clutching, heartfelt relief that he had saved the life of someone they loved.
I heard him sigh as he folded his tall body into one of the camp chairs that had been set up for the staff, long legs stretching thinly like pencil pines to cross at the ankles. His boots shone to impress any parade.
‘I’m guessing the spit and polish are not yours,’ I said, nodding towards his feet.
He grinned lazily with a single shake of his head. ‘The Club looks after our grooming needs. Another reason why so many men find it hard to go home to their small lives in England, where they might be required to shine up their own footwear.’
The bearers arrived with jugs of fresh lemonade they poured into pewter goblets and we both took a few moments to savour the delicious sensation of the chilled juice in parched throats. We drank greedily. Its tartness was balanced by a hefty amount of sugar syrup that banished the sluggish feel of weary bones. It wasn’t just me; Saxon looked brighter for it too.
‘How about you?’
‘Mmm?’ he replied absently.
‘Will you find it hard to go home?’
‘Home is not England, Isla. England is simply where I have a wife waiting for me,’ he said, not looking my way. ‘Home is India, where I was born.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question.’
‘Well, let’s just say I will be returning to England and I shall be polishing my own boots in the future.’
‘Why not bring your wife out with you – wouldn’t you be happier?’
‘Because she doesn’t want to leave her family, whom she’s close to, and she doesn’t want to live abroad. I think that’s more than good enough reason and I’m not someone who would force anyone to do anything against their will.’
It didn’t entirely answer my question but I decided it unwise to poke further.
‘Saxon, I don’t know who else to ask an enormous favour of.’ I hadn’t intended to open my topic so plaintively.
He turned to face me, suspicion in his eyes. ‘All right. I’m sure I owe you, anyway.’
‘You shouldn’t feel obliged.’
‘But I do. Let me pay my debt.’
‘Don’t be in such a hurry. Wait until you hear what it is.’
‘Should I feel nervous?’
I blinked. Don’t string this out any longer, I told myself and in a torrent I explained this morning’s events. I tried to stop his interruption by talking without taking breath or pausing, hoping, perhaps, that my passion would get through to him, but I could see from his gathering rigidity that the opposite was occurring.
He sat up straighter. His eyes widened and that slumped, relaxed state of moments earlier disappeared so quickly I mourned it; it was replaced by tension, and a scowl chasing away the former humour.
‘You did what?’ he queried slowly in monotone.
I proceeded on the basis that this was a rhetorical question. ‘I was cornered,’ I replied.
‘Rubbish, Isla! You’re a doctor. You’re the senior that staff look up to and I know for a painful fact that you don’t let anyone corner you.’
Our shared happy mood had fled. The good Dr Jekyll had now been shoved aside by Mr Hyde, who had emerged from where he stood in the shadows to rage at me.
‘I gave you one piece of advice,’ he said, lean limbs now unfolding to stand so he could look down at me from his full height. ‘One piece,’ he repeated. ‘And you’ve ignored it.’
‘How am I supposed to walk away from that sort of desperate request?’
‘You have to!’ he snarled. ‘Or you become yet another of those interfering do-gooders we spoke about, who believes our way is best and we can save the world from itself if only every culture follows ours.’
‘Saxon,’ I began as reasonably as I could, ‘this is hardly —’
But he cut off my words when he bent suddenly, hands placed either side of my camp chair so that I became caged by the prison of his arms, his body; I could feel his polished boot toes touching mine in a soft kiss of unwelcome intimacy. He leaned closer still so I could see the roiling emotion etched into his features, his eyes intent with their stormy threat. ‘Isla, you cannot save this couple. You cannot save every Hindu from his or her own centuries-old caste system. These youngsters knew the rules. They permeate every aspect of their lives, from the food they eat to the prayers they whisper . . . it’s in every warm smile of their mothers and grandmothers. It’s in every waggled finger of their fathers and grandfathers before them. It’s in the earth they tread and the air they breathe. It is woven into the fabric of their life from birth; it is part of their souls. The castes do not mix.’ He enunciated these last five words slowly as though I needed help understanding English. I tried to hush him, terrified of the consequences of being overheard, but he was oblivious to our surrounds, although he dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. ‘Her own family will hunt her down.’
‘Stop bloody lecturing me and help me! It’s why I’ve come to you,’ I said, shoving him back. He offer
ed a hand and I took it angrily, allowed him to haul me to my feet. ‘I don’t trust anyone else but you.’
‘I’m not flattered by that, Isla. I could hate you for it.’ That hurt. He saw it too.
I wasn’t able to corral my expression before it rearranged itself into one of dismay. ‘Saxon?’
He glared at me, jaw grinding in that manner that was becoming familiar.
‘Don’t bother yourself,’ I snarled. ‘I know you prefer me not to meddle in the caste system but, Saxon, we’ve taken an oath to protect life and I don’t care how you frame it, murder is murder. The fact that this is based in faith doesn’t stop it being premeditated killing and I can’t stand helplessly by and let that happen. Perhaps all of you well-adjusted Brits can turn away and rationalise it somehow but believe me that I won’t be able to sleep again if I don’t help this girl. So, I’ll get them away without your help and then you needn’t feel your snowy-white conscience is tarnished in any way.’
I stomped away, breathing out hard. I had no idea where I was walking to. And I hoped with all of my heart that no one was watching this vignette unfolding, especially once he had caught up with me in a few strides and had my elbow. He wasn’t rough, his voice was low, but I felt a pinch at my arm where his large hand squeezed a little too hard. I winced. ‘Leave me alone, Saxon. If you’re not going to help, I have to sort this myself. There are lives at stake.’
‘Too late to be thinking about that. You should have offered her an abortion, banished her lover, forbidden them to ever meet again and made it all go away.’ He’d pulled me behind one of the tents, out of sight of public view.
‘And what if she didn’t want to have her child cut away from her?’ I hissed.
‘That’s her problem. But now you’ve barged in and heroically made it mine.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want your help any more. It’s grudging and it hurts too much to ask for it. Forget I mentioned it.’
‘Again, too late. The hospital could be involved and that means we risk losing the trust of the people if we ignore the rules they live by. You may be departing after your brief sabbatical to play at doctor, but you risk leaving behind a trail that could be destructive.’
The Tea Gardens Page 20