‘I . . . I had to.’
‘That’s no answer.’ He faced away from the view and all that was lovely about this place. He chose a blank whitewashed wall instead, with a single shelf of books and some childhood clutter. And this was because of me.
I took a breath. ‘I heard you were sick. Matron said the TB was back. I was the most qualified to help.’
‘The hospital would not have sent you.’
‘I came of my own accord.’
‘I don’t need you, Dr Fenwick.’
‘Oh really? You prefer a shivering, hallucinatory state in Siliguri?’
‘It wasn’t a conscious choice.’
‘Precisely. If I hadn’t arrived when I did you could well have died there.’
‘Better to die here, you think?’
He was twisting my words. But I was better prepared for the bite of his sarcasm, even ready with a swift, acerbic response. ‘Yes. Except once again you’ve made one of your miraculous and fast recoveries. Obviously a habit.’
I watched him shift with effort to turn even more of his back to me. I studied it, concentrating on the two large contusions that were only just beginning to leak blood . . . or extravasate, I corrected in my mind, into the surrounding tissue. Considering the damage in this clinical way helped me to keep a distance, keep my emotion withheld; if I didn’t think of it as Saxon’s flesh, bruised from a blunt trauma, I could stay in control. He’d presumably leaned his cheek onto the fold of his elbow but all I could see were fingers curling from beneath the bandaging on his burnt hand around where his scruffy hair flicked. ‘Leave me, please,’ he said.
‘I can’t do that, Saxon.’
‘Hippocratic oath?’ His voice sounded muffled.
I made a decision to be conciliatory. We would reach no middle ground if I continued to match his hostility. Revealing my true motive forced me to take a slow breath first. ‘Listen, Saxon, I couldn’t forgive myself if —’
He ignored me and my peaceable efforts. ‘But you’ve forgiven yourself for the death of two young people?’
It was the return slap, long overdue. Tears shockingly sprang with the speed that blood flows from a deep cut and I had to accept I was most certainly not in control.
‘No,’ I answered in not much more than a whisper.
‘Thank you for not trying to justify your actions,’ he said to the wall. ‘I watched them both die, Isla.’
‘I know.’
‘But you can’t know how it felt. I was helpless. None of my doctoring skills could save them.’
‘Don’t torture yourself,’ I pleaded.
‘Why not? They were tortured. The killers found us so fast. We were still in Siliguri, making arrangements,’ he said, his voice not much above a croak. ‘They chased Naz and Pratiti out of the clinic, where I thought they were safely hidden for a couple of hours – chased them into the street like dogs, yelling and shoving them. No one intervened other than me but I was one against six men and they beat me back too. They used clubs to deliver crushing, heavy blows, and they used thinner bamboo to whip Pratiti’s face until it was swollen and bleeding beyond recognition. And still she struggled to help Naz as he tried to cover their child with his body. It was the most pitiful scene anyone could have the horror to witness. Yet bystanders watched with a ghoulish, uninvested interest. Despite what I already knew about the wrath of the castes, I was ashamed and appalled by the audience’s collective lack of sympathy. To those watching it was a killing rooted in honour and thus justified and they would bear witness – that’s all . . . which is more than I can say for us. We did so much more. We meddled and two young people paid the price.’
I was not trying to hide my tears. I no longer cared if he minded my touch. I moved to lean against the bed and pull his shoulder around. I needed to look upon him. He was too weakened to resist me but his gaze was fierce, unflinching and full of accusation. It felt like another blow being landed. Even so, I tried again. ‘They would have been killed anyway. I was assured of this.’
‘No one is sure of anything in life. I could have got them back to Calcutta.’
‘No, Saxon, they were —’
‘Regretting their actions!’ he snapped and the effort drained him. ‘If only we’d left them alone they’d have reached the same conclusion that their lives were too precious. We should have counselled them instead of hiding them in the hospital and encouraging them in their madness. And then it was too late – I was put in the impossible position of having to get them away. I hoped I’d put enough time between us and their pursuers that I could somehow disappear with them into the foothills, make a more assured attempt to keep them safe. Even so I was glad they were convinced about returning home while we were on the train.’
I looked surprised through my silent tears.
He nodded. ‘Pratiti made the decision to rid herself of the baby.’
I gasped and he sneered at me.
‘They were scared, Isla. They didn’t want to die. They loved one another – yes – but they didn’t want to die for a love that might end in each other’s murder or alienation from everything they knew, everything they loved. They needed time and an adult around them to make them think clearly, see their true situation in sharp relief. They arrived at the conclusion that running was simply putting off the inevitable.’
‘But how could they have saved themselves?’
‘Got rid of the baby. If you’d asked me to help with that they might well have returned to their families and their lives.’
‘And forgotten about each other?’
‘Not forgotten. You don’t forget a love that is true. But you can live with its memory. You can still make a good life even if you’re not with that person you truly love.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Of course I do! Isla, wake up. All over the world there are people married to people they like well enough – or not at all – and all over the world those same people might well hold another love secret and close to their hearts. It may be a love from youth, it may be their first love, it may be true love found too late. Whatever it is, they feel it transcends their everyday lives and nourishes them . . . even if only as a memory. Naz and Pratiti found their realism on that train while in fear for their lives. We’d agreed to take the next train back and perhaps their families didn’t ever need to know the truth. We fashioned lies for their absences that could have worked.’ He balled his fists in redundant fury. ‘It could have worked!’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was such a useless offering against his trauma.
‘Sorry couldn’t save them. I was sorry, they were sorry . . . we’re all sorry. Perhaps even Pratiti’s father, who was among the enraged relatives, filled with blind, killing righteousness, is sorry now that he’s calmed down. But Pratiti is dead. Murdered by her own family, by his hand, on his orders.’
I gulped back a sob but he wasn’t taking any pity on me. His glare had found a fresh energy to gleam with his own style of righteous rage. ‘They made her watch them kill Naz first. I don’t suppose anyone mentioned that, did they?’
I shook my head, staring at the faded floral eiderdown through a watery lens as tears leaked in heavy droplets onto its fabric. ‘After beating him senseless, they roused him with a pail of water so that he was aware enough when they hacked at him with machetes. His feet were taken first.’
I began to tremble. ‘Saxon, don’t —’ I pleaded.
‘Five sharp blades. Again and again they dropped upon him until what remained looked like meat instead of a person. I couldn’t stop them. I tried.’
Imagining the cuts from those same blades beneath the bandages on his arms I stood up, almost covering my ears like a child.
‘Hear it! And understand it, so you are never tempted to meddle again in affairs that are not yours. After forcing her to bear witness to her lover’s execution, they picked up another pail, the contents of which they poured over her. The mob that had gathered stepped back when they smelled petrol.’
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I knew what was coming then in this horror story but I also knew it was hopeless to try to stop this torrent of pain Saxon was inflicting. It was a toxin within him and no doubt adding to his illness. It needed to be released, vomited out with all the pus in his mind so that he had some chance to heal.
‘I yelled, cajoled, I begged. In fact, Isla – and I think Miles would have loved it – I pleaded, on my knees, to the men of her family to spare her. They didn’t even know about the baby. If they had, I suspect they would have cut it from her belly before they lit the match that ignited her.’
I looked at his bandaged hands and arms, would have to redress them soon, and yet didn’t want to confront the wounds that would likely remain as scars and a reminder forever of deaths he couldn’t prevent.
‘She lit instantly like a small bonfire; the whooshing sound of erupting into flames I will hear in my nightmares forevermore. I could no longer get close by then and if I ran for water, I couldn’t have saved her. The doctor in me knew it was better now for her to die quickly than to hope she could recover from burns. It would have meant unspeakable suffering and so, like the villagers, I bore witness instead despite her screams for mercy. I watched her long glossy hair shrivel while her head charred; the fire consumed her in minutes. You know I’m surprised how fast a human burns and yet it felt like it took my whole life to watch Pratiti wither beneath those flames that were supposedly to cleanse.’
‘Saxon, stop . . . ’ I sobbed.
He refused. ‘Finally the kneeling, melted mass toppled backwards; the flames began to die back once the fuel had consumed itself and her life. At last, once she fell, I was allowed to pull off my jacket and cover her smoking, twisted, blackened corpse. Her relatives cried then. Now they could keen over the loss of their daughter, sister, niece, cousin . . . ’ He took a slow breath, coughing it out, refusing my help or a sip of water.
When he stopped coughing and his breath came in a ghastly wheeze, he pressed on with his tale. ‘People moved away and I lost track. I roused from my stupor to find nothing but a sticky stain on the street as testimony that Pratiti and her unborn child had once lived and died there. The flames had even burned away Naz’s spilled blood. I have no idea where his body had been taken or dumped. As my helpers from the clinic moved me, I stared at the discolouration on the street but already humanity was filling the space, while cattle, none the wiser, plodded through Pratiti’s shadow. But it doesn’t matter how far away I run, or how many years I put between myself and this horror, Isla, I will never rid myself of the smell of burning mother and child from my memory. My only consolation – and it is so small to be near negligible – is that the doctor in me believes that that beautiful young woman died within a minute from asphyxiation. Fortunately, the fire was fierce and the smoke great.’
I thought he was done but he needed to deliver one final blow with the precision of a surgeon. ‘I’m not sure you have any consolation, though.’
We sat in a heavy silence as though our lives were suspended in time. He’d said his piece and had gladly shifted part of his pain to me. I had nothing to offer; even my tears had dried, making it worse . . . as though even that emotional crutch was being denied. Through the open windows of his room I could hear every other sound around us with such tight clarity it felt like a spring was being coiled within. Birds chirruped with annoying jollity like unwelcome guests and the distant voices of the tea pickers carried up the slopes of the gardens; the burst of laughter between women that should have made me smile instead felt mocking.
I had to say something. I couldn’t just stand, straighten my skirts and leave. Besides, I knew he needed some proper medical care for a little longer. Looking for an answer, my mind fled to my wise father and I could all but hear him speaking one of his favourite sayings along the lines that you cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them building nests in your hair.
‘Ancient Oriental proverb, darling . . . one I live by.’ Another favourite abstract item of wisdom was that of not being able to put blossom back on the trees. I think my father had read Chinese philosophy at some stage and that reasoning resonated with me now.
‘Saxon.’
‘Still here?’ It was meanly spoken but he was in a cruel mood.
‘I failed them but not because I didn’t try to help them. I helped them but in the wrong way; I see that now. I won’t trouble you with the whys or wherefores other than to say I, too, was put into an impossible position in the moment and I reacted the only way I knew how. If I could undo it and make a different decision knowing what I know now, I would.’ You can’t put blossom back on trees. ‘I can’t bring them back but I can fix the mess.’ I sniffed for fear of a leaking nose that would only make me look and feel more pathetic.
My patient turned and sighed at me. ‘There’s a handkerchief in the drawer over there,’ he said, pointing with his chin.
I shook my head. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ve given me enough. Look, Saxon, let me help you to get well and —’
‘I don’t need —’
‘You do,’ I said, more firmly than I thought I was capable of at that moment. ‘You need someone who knows what they’re doing to undress and re-dress the wounds or the skin on your arms is going to stiffen and lead to all sorts of problems for your work in the future.’ Despite his blank expression I could see that he agreed but was finding it hard to admit. ‘So let me just help you get well . . . at least on your way to a proper recovery so I can leave you knowing your burn is healing, that the TB is arrested.’
He shook his head.
‘Why? Why won’t you let me do this for you?’ I had thrown my hands wide in despair and my voice cracked. I hated to hear the weakness.
I think he did too. It made him angry. ‘It’s not about Naz and Pratiti. You can’t fix that mess – neither can I; no one can. I just can’t have you around me in this weakened state. All right?’
I could feel my forehead wrinkling, my mouth forming a twist of confusion. ‘Why?’
‘For a clever woman you’re awfully dim, Dr Fenwick.’
Now all I could do was stare at him, perplexed. I shook my head with bewilderment and he stared at me as though I was simple. Clearly it was because I couldn’t catch his meaning. ‘You can’t have a doctor around you because you’re weak and need doctoring?’
He glared but pressed on. ‘Not a doctor. You. I find it risky to have you near when I lack my usual strength. It was dangerous in the Calcutta Club and it’s only going to be worse here where there are no prying eyes.’
It dawned on me finally. Heavens, I was slow. A treacherous and nervous half laugh erupted from me as though I was a child caught with her hand in the sweetie jar. I clamped my mouth over the inappropriate bluster and stared back at him in surprise. The warming sensation of embarrassment began to creep up from my throat.
‘Uncharacteristically silent, Dr Fenwick, but you did push me and I’m hardly the gold-star performer for subtlety. So, all right, then. Do we at least agree that I have not asked for your help nor have I encouraged you to remain here?’
I was still choked for what to say and was glad he gave me the path forward so I could utter something helpful and leave. ‘Quite the opposite,’ I confirmed in a contrived, brisk tone. ‘Now rest. I’ll be back with supplies and food.’
I don’t even know what I meant by that but it sounded crisply professional, every inch a doctor . . . before I turned on my heel and strode out of the room, closing the door behind me to shut him out of my immediate space. I leaned back against the wall, appalled at how undone I felt, my breath trapped in my chest.
Breathe, I demanded, suddenly and acutely aware of my heartbeat, and furious that it was pounding.
I realised I had stopped directly behind where he lay and even if it were in my imagination, I swear I could feel the heat of him through those thick walls. This is what he was warning me about . . . warning both of us away from.
I knew I should go.
Not just go from his rooms but this house. In fact, I should leave Darjeeling. Run from India . . . flee back to England and the arms of Jove. Unfortunately, the untidiness of my behaviour these last few weeks had reached far deeper than I thought. And Saxon’s warning did nothing more than blunt my good judgement, it seemed, because I pushed off the wall, straightened my shoulders and made the pact with myself that no matter what happened, I intended to see him well and on his path to recovery before I left him.
He said it was ‘risky’; used the word ‘dangerous’. But I was convinced I had no weakness in this regard and all the right armour in place.
21
It was late afternoon and Adri had returned, this time badgering a troupe of people who had followed him up the hill with his sharp instructions. I gathered they’d brought food and other supplies. Saxon was much brighter in himself. Some colour had returned to his complexion and he conversed easily with Adri in the local language; I stood silently at the doorway to his room and watched them share a fond smile that spoke of a warm history between these two.
I walked Adri out, offering to pay for the food, but he waved my protest away and said Master Saxon would sort it out. I wished him and his folk farewell with thanks, and now once more we were alone, but I sensed a shift of mood in my patient when I returned to check on him. Perhaps it was Adri’s influence? Whatever had been exchanged it felt to me as though Saxon had grudgingly decided that, as I was clearly not leaving, he would tolerate my presence with a more grateful attitude.
‘It’s obvious that Adri is incredibly fond of you,’ I began into the silence as I unnecessarily fussed with his bedclothes, tucking in corners that were already neatly tucked.
He swallowed the remnants of some broth and replaced the mug on the bedside table. ‘His family has been with us for decades.’
‘So I understand.’ I stood at the bottom of his bed, unsure of my next move.
‘It’s how it is up here. Generations of tea growers, pickers, driers and processors . . . alongside generations of plantation owners.’
The Tea Gardens Page 28