That was all that was in my mind. The temptation to flee back to England strengthened after my conversation with Matron – I could simply pack up and leave. No one would complain. Who would grieve? I was not indispensable, just a transient clinician passing through with some fresh wisdom. I was certainly no longer even vital now that my maternity ward was ticking along smoothly and the malaria had been wrestled under some semblance of control. My work was done, my time almost up anyway . . . These thoughts burst like tiny bubbles with glimmering sharpness in my mind, urging me to put my few belongings back into a trunk, close the apartment and head for Bombay and the tail end of a British summer. It began to seem romantic: back among the green of England, walking the great London parks with my father again, dinner and laughter with Jove. It even started to sound desirable, feasible too, to return early as a wonderful surprise. I would tell no one but barge into our home, slightly tanned and grinning, begging my father not to have a heart attack in shock. Then him inviting Jove to share a surprise with him. Me! What fun. It meant we could arrange the wedding breakfast together, I could linger over the design of my Eden Valentine gown, and while I was in no hurry to be travelling again, I could share the plans for an extended honeymoon into Europe. Christmas markets, roasting chestnuts – every clichéd wintry scene began to seduce me until Jove’s letter arrived late the following afternoon.
I hoped with all of my heart that it gushed about how much he missed me to give me the final emotional excuse to follow the whim. Instead he gave me pause as I devoured the contents contained in the tissue-thin envelope stamped with the Royal Mail Ship.
Beloved Isla,
I trust this finds you in the peak of good health and coping with your first Indian monsoon. Hot as Hades, isn’t it? Keep that beautiful, peachy English complexion of yours well covered against the harsh sun.
This letter is being written in the Cotswolds – I’m at my family’s estate and it strikes me that I’d be hard-pressed to find a prettier place more suited to sit down and think of you. While you struggle through a tough summer, we are languishing through a gorgeous one of mild, dreamy days that seem to last forever. I am still walking our old Lab, Winnie, as late as eight o’clock at night, not returning much before nine, and still with time to sit out on the back porch with a glass of port and marvel at the dusk . . . that darkest time of twilight when you seem to be closest in my thoughts.
I miss you, my darling, every day, every minute, but I know with every passing hour you are another hour closer to being home and in my arms. I keep trying to imagine the novelty of seeing you moving around in my world again, being able to hold you, kiss you, worship you in the flesh rather than just in private thoughts. In fact, the thought of striking out on a new life together keeps me buoyant and wanting to run towards the future and you in it.
But even as I think these selfish thoughts, it occurs to me that you are likely in your busiest time now at the hospital with no chance for similar romantic musings or indeed the leisure for sipping something delicious of an evening. I gather from your father – who seemed hale enough but moving slower when I saw him a fortnight ago – that you have a propensity for becoming a prisoner of your work. I have no doubt that the needs of your patients are demanding so this is a quick letter to remind you to take very good care of yourself, my darling, through your busiest of days. Not long now before you become Mrs Mandeville – gosh, that sounds wonderful – so I won’t be selfish but will patiently await your return. However, do remember to eat well, sleep deep, let some of that sun kiss you and keep you strong through the long hours that I know you are putting into your patients. They are fortunate of it.
I thoroughly enjoyed your account in your last letter of the ‘royal’ visit that never occurred and can well imagine you at those wretched cocktail parties and endless social gatherings doing your best not to sneer. I have to do plenty of those myself and I feel blessed that I have found a kindred spirit in you.
Actually, darling Isla, the main reason for writing to you tonight is that I find myself in a pensive mood. I am not normally one prone to soul-searching but tonight . . . well, maybe it’s because it’s a full moon, or simply that dear old Winnie is walking slower than ever and might be on her last legs. Whatever it is, my thoughts are ruminative this evening and as always they flee to you.
I want you to know how proud I am. I haven’t said this before and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to recognise that it’s high time I shared my pride. I know I probably have no right to feel so conceited, as to be truthful we have only rediscovered one another so recently. Nevertheless, I am a fellow blessed that you are the person I will joyously share life with. When I think of how far away you are, the dangers you may have faced, the courage you’ve had to show in daily workings, the trials and the tribulations that have surely cropped up simply because it is India, it makes me applaud you. I privately despaired at your decision but I am long enough of tooth to know that you should never hold on to anyone too tightly as a possession. So while I could not say I am glad that you left me, I am navigating my way through the loneliness made sharper, more intense, by reminding myself of how lucky I am that this fine, proud, smart, brave, driven, healing woman has chosen me.
You are a rare creature, Isla Fenwick, and I suspect you will be giving your all in Calcutta to the people who work with you and the patients who count on you. Stay bright, my beloved girl, and know in your heart that I admire you and feel intense pride at your achievement, especially that you followed through on your dream. Help every last person you can out there who needs you and then come home to me – all of you; leave nothing behind. You are a marvellous role model for young women and you may inspire a small legion of girls to follow their hearts for a career. The world can only benefit from women such as yourself pushing ahead and bringing your sensitivities, gentler approaches and creative ideas to all areas of industry as much as medicine and the sciences.
Enough of my ramblings. The port is finished, night has fallen and Winnie wants to head indoors. She hates the gnats that buzz around us in summer.
I’m thinking of you, counting the days and hoping you’ll find some time before you leave to see something of that grand continent you’re living in, perhaps even the Himalaya, which really aren’t all that far away, given that you’re in Calcutta. Treat yourself!
Yours, very much in love and longing for your return,
J.
It was as though Jove was giving me permission to follow what was in my heart. I’m sure if he knew my plans, he would caution me as I was cautioning myself. I knew, though, if I didn’t do this I would live with remorse in my life, and my father had taught me early on that no one should ever live a life that held regret.
‘Not one, Isla, if you can help it. If there’s a path you want to walk, walk it. If there’s a person you want to know, take steps to meet them. If there’s work to be done, do it immediately; don’t leave it for another day. If there’s bad blood between you and another, make it right. If there’s unfinished business anywhere in your life, finish it.’ His words haunted me now.
Unfinished business, bad blood, someone to meet, a path to be trod and work to be done . . . My father had summarised the range of grievances I had in my life connected to just one person. That’s what this was with Saxon Vickery. I needed to repair us even though I couldn’t undo what had been done. I had to face him, share his pain that was as much mine, after all. I felt I needed to atone, I suppose, for making my decision his trauma without seeking his counsel. And he was sick, potentially grievously ill, because of my actions. I needed to find him and ensure he was on the recovery path before I left.
Jove’s timely letter, with all of its heartwarming affection and magnanimity, showed me the way forward. I would go to Saxon, I would give every ounce of my healing that I could, and I would make it right between us. And then I would leave India. There was nothing more here for me. I would obviously have preferred to depart on a high note; instead this felt li
ke slinking away – but while my fantasy might indulge the celebration, the real me preferred no-fuss farewells and no looking back. Matron in her wisdom had already seen it and made her move to give me a hug. It had been a hard one, with much unspoken, but meaningful in that the squeeze lasted longer than a perfunctory embrace. It conveyed thanks and good wishes, forgiveness and, yes, even some pride in a fellow woman who wouldn’t be cowed and didn’t shy away from making decisions, especially ones that might lead to her own demise.
I shrugged in the knowledge that Matron would make all the right excuses for me if I didn’t return. I had looked around my empty room after packing it up, feeling momentarily forlorn that I didn’t have more to show for my time here. I had no trinkets, no mementos of my stay. I had gathered up no life-lasting friendships, I could remember few dishes that would colour my memories of India. In my thoughts were bone-wearying days and jewel-like colours mixing with filth and poverty. In my recollections I would taste gin and I would remember the languid twirl of ceiling fans and the smell of spicy coconut soap lifting off the feverish skin of a secretive, beguiling man.
My head banged against the window and I stirred from a sluggish half sleep.
‘All right, my dear?’ my elder passenger enquired. ‘You drifted off there. Hope I wasn’t boring you too much.’
‘Not at all.’ I sighed, straightened and stared back out of the glass to take my bearings. ‘Where are we?’
‘We should be in Siliguri Town in a few hours. They’re serving afternoon tea in the dining car. Care to join me?’
_________
I learned from my fellow travellers that Siliguri used to be little more than a gathering of folk – not even a true village – and had served as a transit point between Nepal and the hilly areas of Darjeeling, with traders from the old kingdom of Sikkim using the River Mahananda to move easily. Its development into a village and then a small town occurred when the British first occupied Darjeeling, from around 1835, and once places like Kalimpong became British-infested and the British East India Company introduced railways to north-east India, the lower-lying town had begun to thrive as the gateway into the hill stations.
‘The railway opened up the whole of north-eastern India, Bhutan, Nepal and Bangladesh,’ I was told by a fellow diner. ‘They speak many languages here in the Chicken’s Neck, as a result.’
‘Chicken’s Neck?’ I enquired with a bemused look.
‘The Siliguri Corridor. We call it the Chicken’s Neck because it’s so narrow and connects mainland India to its north-eastern states. It divides Nepal and Bangladesh, to be more precise.’
I couldn’t admit how horrible I was at geography, especially as they’d discovered I was a doctor and no doubt presumed I was thus knowledgeable about all of academia. ‘I’m staring at forest,’ I admitted, gesturing to the thick vegetation we were meandering through.
‘Oh, yes,’ the train buff eagerly agreed. I decided he possessed a drinking problem from his telltale flushed face and the broken capillaries that spidered over his nose. ‘And you’ll have to be careful here, my dear. The town is prone to invasion by animals. Think nothing of a tiger or two, or congress of baboons, or whatever those damn cheeky monkeys are. They’re fearless.’
I promised him I would remain vigilant as he signalled to the bearer to fill up his glass once again.
‘Where are you staying?’ one of the wives asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. This is my first visit to this region.’
‘Oh, my dear, then stick close to us,’ she urged. ‘We’re moving straight up into the hills, of course. Anything to escape the heat. Come with us.’
‘Thank you, but I must visit the hospital.’
‘There is no hospital in Siliguri,’ her husband added, frowning. I could smell he was drinking whiskey and it wasn’t yet four; I began to imagine his clouded mind and groaning liver by seven.
‘Um, there’s a clinic, as I understand it. I must make contact with a colleague.’
‘Well, come visit us in Mirik. My husband is a dentist for the region.’
I didn’t baulk; I kept an admirably straight and interested expression to hear this nugget, despite beginning to imagine what his breath smelled like when he loomed near someone’s mouth. ‘When the British officers play their polo matches at Mirik, they get their teeth fixed too,’ she chortled.
I smiled. ‘That’s so kind, thank you.’
I couldn’t fault their generous manner and when they and the elderly gent I’d shared a compartment with gave me farewell hugs at Siliguri Railway Station as though we were the closest of friends, I felt grateful for the genuine welcome.
Outside the station I was greeted by a featureless town, still breathless from the monsoon season that had come early with angry thunderstorms but had ended abruptly. It clumped low and quiet on the edge of the plains of the north-east. However, I had been assured during my journey that around the moment of our arrival the mountains would breathe their cooling calm across this region, and the humidity, like the rains that gave birth to it, would dry. It was from here that I knew the climb into the Himalayan heights would begin. The land was no longer thirsting; life-giving rains had emptied their bounty onto the parched plains to turn it verdant green and the temperature was a comfortable seventy-seven degrees on the station barometer. I liked this place simply for that temperance, especially as I had wrongly anticipated heat to hit me with similar ferocity as I used to belt a rounders’ ball with my bat at school.
A cycle rickshaw was to be my expedient mode of transport. Now familiar with the well-developed strength of its riders, I didn’t worry about whether the rangy old man would be able to lift my luggage. It wasn’t particularly heavy, not much more than a bag – I’d arranged to send all but a few garments and my handful of possessions onwards by ship back to Southampton. I’d telegrammed Jove to ask him to arrange for its transport to London and unpacking to stop it becoming musty. He’d wasted no time telephoning me by return to share his joy that I was arriving home so much earlier than he’d anticipated. My plan to keep it a surprise had been set aside; albeit fun in my mind’s eye, I didn’t think it fair.
‘So you’re travelling?’ he remarked, his voice accompanied by a series of curious noises that sounded like they were from outer space. I could also hear distantly other, indistinctive voices of people making and receiving their calls. I was struck, as we spoke, of how this contraption of science had suddenly made this vast world of ours so small. Thousands upon thousands of miles separated Jove and me, and yet here we were, talking as though we were next to each other.
‘Taking your advice,’ I said into the mouthpiece, perhaps too loudly but aware that we could lose the connection at any second. ‘I’m going to the foothills in the north. I have a colleague who runs a clinic up there and he needs some help. A good chance to see some of the country as you suggested.’
‘I can’t hear you very well, darling, but I’m gathering you’re going north. Good, good!’ His voice had seemed to travel from me, turning more distant and small; it became muffled and I had a silly vision that he was speaking to me from beneath the ocean with a tin can.
‘Jove, I can’t hear you!’ I said. Vacuous words. I needed to say it. ‘I love you, my darling, see you soon.’
‘I heard that!’
I could hear his pleasure even though the telephone had suddenly given his voice a metallic quality. ‘Travel safe,’ he called across the oceans. ‘Enjoy yourself!’
His delight and all of his generosity lost their lightness to arrive as guilt, as burdensome as iron, in my heart. It didn’t matter how I framed it in my mind, I was deluded if I didn’t admit that I had feelings for Saxon Vickery. I had no explanation for them or even from where they erupted. I wanted to believe it was based on my admiration for his work, certainly for his courage in recent times at risk to his health, and his very life.
As I clambered into the rickshaw and gave the man our destination, written on a piece of paper, I wo
ndered how Jove’s and my love would weather this test.
We moved slowly on dirt roads, threading ourselves a curious path around even slower-moving cattle with sombre, patient expressions. Goats bleated and mules dragged their loads without so much as a whinny or hee-haw. Around the animals people pushed carts, pedalled bicycles or rode other rickshaws, avoiding holes in the makeshift road. As usual my gaze picked out the sharp punctuation of children in uniform and I wondered in awe yet again at how villagers kept their whites so arctic. A motley of homes clustered here and there in a raggle-taggle of village domesticity; I watched a woman toss out a pail of dirty water while another hung up saris on a line strung between trees; the garments looked like party streamers waiting for a breeze to lift them and flap them dry.
Shops that looked like back-shed kiosks sold everything from soap to cooking pots. They were so dark inside I couldn’t see beyond the doorway and only what was hung at the entrance in the most basic form of advertising.
My rickshaw driver laboured on and this gave me some time to think about what I was going to say to Professor Vickery. I’d assumed over the course of the tedious journey to Siliguri that I might have formulated some sort of speech or introduction to my sudden arrival, but the reality was that I had nothing ready. I had not even the slightest notion of how to greet him. Would he be rude? Hostile? Would he simply refuse to meet me, leaving me with no option but to make the arduous journey back to Britain, unfulfilled, humiliated? And now the time was upon me. Minutes before we arrived, as the driver looked to be taking a turn towards a slightly larger than average dwelling, my thoughts treacherously emptied like water down a drain. The vessel of my mind was vacant and I would simply have to face him and cope with whatever he launched at me.
The Tea Gardens Page 24