The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  ‘So, Connie. Tell me. What are the people like in here? Everyone seems very friendly,’ he says.

  ‘Oh yes. Everyone is very nice.’

  She tells him what she knows about the other people in the home, which isn’t much. And all the time she’s thinking; why are we talking about these trivial things when there’s so much else to talk about. But she carries on. Telling him about Elsie, Marjory and Dorothy. She talks about Matron and Erica and the other staff, about the routines in the home, about the food. Distracting herself, distracting them both.

  ‘Do you still go to church?’ he asks suddenly.

  She looks away.

  ‘Not anymore. The Baptist church in Weirfield closed down. Evie and I used to go on the bus to Henley every Sunday. But after Evie died, well, it was difficult… What about you?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘No. Not me. I haven’t been to church since… well, not since I left Weirfield, to tell you the truth.’

  She looks at him, blinking with incomprehension. Worship had been so much part of life in the orphanage that it was unthinkable that anyone who had grown up there could have abandoned the Lord.

  ‘But why not?’ she asks at last.

  He isn’t meeting her eyes. He’s staring down at his lap, his head bowed. Finally he looks up. His expression is grave, deadly serious for the first time.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  She frowns, shakes her head. Whatever can he mean? He’s silent for a long time, his eyes distant. She waits. Finally he speaks.

  ‘In the war we were posted to Malaya. Captured by the Japs in Singapore. I was sent to work on that railway in the jungle in Thailand. The things I saw…’ he bows his head again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tommy. I had no idea,’ she whispers.

  ‘But it wasn’t just that,’ he says. ‘I’d started to lose my faith well before that. When I left here actually.’

  She frowns, trying to think back. He used to go to church during the time he worked for Ezra. He would sit in the pews at the back, several rows behind the family. She remembers that she used to have to resist the temptation to turn round to look at him, she could feel his eyes on her back, burning her neck and shoulders.

  ‘Oh dear. That’s very sad,’ she says, not knowing what else to say. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s all in the past now,’ he says with an air of finality. ‘A long time ago.’

  Connie takes a sip of her tea, feeling at a loss as to what to say now. What is the use of raking up the past. She hears Mother’s voice in her head again. There’s no use crying over spilt milk, Connie, my girl. It’s true. There is no use crying over it, but looking across at Tommy now, the shell of the man she had loved, she can’t help wondering again how different life might have been if he hadn’t left, and whether his leaving was somehow connected to his loss of faith.

  They sit in silence watching the light fade outside the window. Connie isn’t in a hurry now. She knows that there will be plenty of afternoons to come, plenty of opportunities to speak. One day, the time might be right to ask him why he left. But that day isn’t today.

  The silence isn’t awkward between them as it would be between two strangers. It feels almost as it used to when they sat on the river bank together watching the sun play on the water, the boats passing, the swans gathering on the little island in the middle of the river.

  Twenty-Three

  Connie

  Back in her room Connie takes up the diary again and turns to the place she left off. She has a couple of hours before supper time to read. Tommy had gone to make a phone call to his daughter, but there was no awkwardness as they parted: they both knew they would speak again soon.

  Anna’s Diary

  November 1932

  The months wear on, and despite my freedom, and the pleasure I’m taking in getting to know the real India on my regular trips out in the rickshaw, day by day I feel lonelier than ever. Each afternoon now, Rajiv either takes me out into the countryside to see a village, to some remote beauty spot, or to one of the temples or bazaars in town so I can sketch.

  Donald grows more distant as the time passes. Sometimes it feels almost as if he’s forgotten that he’s married at all. He seems to want to lead the life of a bachelor, without any regard for the fact that he has a wife at home.

  Once or twice I have made an effort to get up early when I’ve heard him stirring in the next room. I had the idea that he might appreciate my company to eat breakfast with. On these occasions I wander into his room where he is chatting away to Ali in Urdu. When they see me they stop abruptly and look uncomfortable. I can almost feel their irritation, but Donald remains scrupulously polite. I make some stumbling attempts at conversation. Ali stands by his side, a brooding presence, holding out Donald’s pressed shirt, helping him on with his jacket. Donald’s face is a picture of concentration. He smooths down his toothbrush moustache in the mirror, and combs back his thinning hair with pomade. I find these faltering exchanges more dispiriting than if I hadn’t bothered, and it is plain that he finds them awkward too. I just want him to notice me.

  Yesterday as I rode out on the rickshaw to a nearby Muslim village where they make silk, I racked my brains, trying to think of ways of getting closer to Donald. Although it has been partially welcome that he leaves me to my own devices, it still feels wrong, somehow. I feel abandoned; as abandoned and forlorn as the old church out on the plain, covered in moss and creepers.

  The thought struck me that perhaps Donald feels I haven’t confided in him enough; that we aren’t close. Perhaps that is what’s driving him away? I was desperate to understand too, why everyone here treats me like a victim, and why Mrs Smethurst had behaved so peculiarly that first day. Why she had asked me to address Donald’s tendency to go ‘out and about’.

  I vowed to speak to Donald properly when he got home that evening. Perhaps I should begin by telling him about Father. That might bring us closer. I wasn’t quite sure why I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tell him about it before. There just didn’t seem to have been an opportunity, but I knew I should tell him. It wasn’t something I should keep from him.

  Feeling a little cheered at this idea, I asked Rajiv to take me to the club.

  Mrs Napier was there, drinking tea in her usual spot on the veranda, with a group of young officers’ wives. When she saw me she beckoned me over. I joined the table and ordered coffee. The women were deep in conversation, their heads close together, discussing some poor wife on another station, who had found out her husband was cheating on her with her Indian ayah. I had to hide a smile at their scandalised voices and the obvious pleasure they were taking in someone else’s misfortune. As they rattled on, I allowed my mind to wander, staring out at the distant mountains. I thought about the village I’d visited that morning; about the simple lives of the villagers, the way they were all engaged in a common goal, the craft of silk making, and the beauty of the silk they made. I had made a couple of sketches of women at work that I was quite proud of. The drawings captured their concentration and their consummate skill in their craft.

  ‘There she is! Dizzy Izzy,’ said Mrs Napier, leaning forward and whispering to her friends, breaking into my thoughts. I looked up to find them all staring at someone who had just arrived. She was walking through the tables towards the bar. A tall woman in her mid-forties perhaps, she carried herself with languor and a certain nonchalant style.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh she hardly ever comes to the club. She thinks herself far too grand for the likes of us. Her father’s some sort of big-wig in the government back home. Some cabinet minister or something.’

  ‘Really? That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Stuck up more like. But she’s no right to be high and mighty. She’s got a drink problem, between you and me. You just watch her. I’ll bet you anything she won’t be ordering tea or coffee.’

  The others giggled.

  I didn’t want to stare rude
ly, and felt quite embarrassed to be at the same table as the others who were craning their necks to see what the newcomer ordered.

  ‘But who is she?’ I asked again.

  ‘Don’t you know? You should come down here more often. That’s Isobel Perry. Charlie boy’s wife. Rumour has it they’re not happy, though. You can tell that by the way she drinks. He only married her to get a leg up on the career ladder.’

  ‘What is it that he does, exactly? He’s not in the army, is he?’

  ‘Army? Good God no. You really don’t know anything do you? He’s the D.O. That’s the District Officer. Most important official around these parts. But that’s not all. Rumour has it that he’s got some other role too. He’s involved in some sort of secret diplomacy with Congress. That’s the Indian Independence Movement, in case you didn’t know that either. He’s the viceroy’s man on the ground round here apparently. But that’s all meant to be hush-hush. Look! I told you. She’s got whisky and soda in that glass.’

  I was silent, digesting this new information. Charles Perry’s request to me not to tell anyone I had seen him in those out of the way places was beginning to make sense.

  ‘Hadn’t we better invite her to join us?’ I asked.

  ‘No. She doesn’t mix with the likes of us. Let her be.’

  I felt a little awkward, sitting with the group when the newcomer sat alone inside the club, sipping her whisky and soda, smoking a cigarette from a long holder, and flicking through an old copy of Vanity Fair. As we left, I looked over to her and smiled. She nodded to me with a half-smile, her eyes bleary. As our eyes met, I sensed in her a deep-seated loneliness. Possibly as profound as my own.

  That evening, I dressed for supper and waited for Donald. Manju had helped me put on one of the prettier gowns I had brought from England, cream silk with sprigs of green flowers. The collar was trimmed with lace. I spent a long time at the mirror dressing my hair and applying makeup. When I had finished I turned to Manju and she clapped her hands together,

  ‘Madam, you look beautiful!’ she said, her eyes smiling.

  I was sitting on the veranda when Donald arrived home in the army car. It was after dark and he started as he came up the steps and saw me sitting there quietly, a hurricane lamp on the table.

  ‘Why don’t you come and join me for a drink?’ I asked. ‘It’s a beautiful evening.’

  ‘You’ll get eaten alive by mosquitos at this time of day. Come on inside. We can have a drink in the living room.’

  Sighing, I followed him inside. He was already down in the bathroom, washing off the sweat and grime of the day. He emerged after a few minutes.

  ‘I say, Anna,’ he said, looking at me. ‘What are you all dressed up for? Are we meant to be going out?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I just thought we should make our evenings special sometimes. You are so rarely here.’

  ‘Well, I must say, you do look quite a picture in that dress,’ he said gallantly. I smiled. It was a start at least.

  We had gin and tonics in the living room, then moved on to sit at the dining room table, where Ali served us with lamb curry and rice. At the end of the meal Ali brought a decanter of brandy and filled two glasses. Donald suggested we return to the living room. I sat down opposite him and cleared my throat.

  ‘Donald. I’ve been wondering why we’ve grown so distant in such a short time,’ I began. It took courage to say those words and I slumped back slightly relieved that I had managed to say them out loud.

  He shot me a glance, ‘Whatever do you mean?’ he asked, sitting up straight.

  ‘I mean, that you’ve been so busy on the military station, that we’ve hardly had any time together these past few weeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. That’s the army life, I’m afraid. The reality of it. Especially at a time like this.’

  ‘I know. I know you’re busy. I sometimes feel a little bit lonely, that’s all. I feel as though we’ve hardly got to know each other.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much about me to know, I’m afraid. I’m a very simple chap. What about you? Is there anything about you I don’t know?’

  This felt like a very strange turn in the conversation, but it gave me my opening.

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I should have told you before, in fact. I’m not sure why I didn’t…’

  I felt my nerves failing me, ‘Go on?’ he said, taking a swig of brandy.

  ‘It’s about my father,’ I began. ‘I’m afraid there are things I need to tell you about him. He got into trouble with his business a few years ago. Made several silly investments. A lot of people lost money because of him, and well… I’m afraid to say that he’s in prison in England. He’s been there for two years now.’

  I said it quickly, so he wouldn’t be able to stop me. All the time I stared at the floor, at the red and gold patterned Indian rug beneath my feet. I looked up, searching his face, terrified of his reaction.

  He was taking another swig from his glass so I couldn’t see his expression.

  ‘I know all about that,’ he said casually, and the words struck me like a hammer blow. My mouth dropped open.

  ‘You knew? Who told you? Why ever didn’t you say?’

  ‘Probably for the same reason you didn’t. It’s a pretty unpleasant business. Not one that one would perhaps want to dwell over.’

  ‘But how did you know?’ I repeated, frowning.

  ‘Your Aunt Nora told me, of course. That first time I came to have dinner at her house. Said you needed a husband, but that the business with your father would probably put most people off. If I needed a wife, which I did, then that was the reason that you were available, but that I’d have to accept it and to live with it.’

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. I knew Aunt Nora was desperate to get rid of me, but I hadn’t realised how duplicitous she’d been.

  ‘But why didn’t you mention it?’

  ‘Like I told you. Not something I wanted to dwell on overly much. It was part of the bargain.’

  ‘Bargain? Bargain? Donald whatever do you mean?’

  My voice was shaking. I felt panicky. I stared at him, but he looked quite unperturbed. As if this sort of conversation between man and wife was nothing out of the ordinary at all.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I repeated.

  He took another gulp of brandy. His eyes were looking glazed now.

  ‘Well, fact was, Anna, I needed a wife.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’d been told in no uncertain terms, that there was no chance of promotion, of getting to the rank of colonel if I wasn’t married. Simple as that.’

  ‘So that’s why you came to Bombay?’ I said in a low voice. He nodded.

  ‘I can’t say I wasn’t charmed by you Anna. You’re a very beautiful and accomplished young lady. You fitted the bill perfectly.’

  ‘And I walked straight into your trap,’ I murmured.

  ‘Don’t look at it that way. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. Unlike a lot of marriages. I’m sure it will be very successful.’

  I couldn’t reply, and I couldn’t look at him. I felt sick to the core at his words, at the way I’d been tricked and used.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he said, still in his matter of fact voice, ‘I’ll be off to bed now. Early start as usual tomorrow.’

  He got up unsteadily and made towards the door.

  ‘Donald,’ I said, remembering. He turned.

  ‘There’s one more thing I want to know,’ I said, my voice still shaking. ‘Mrs Smethurst said something very odd to me when I first arrived. She said they were counting on me to address something. The fact that you spend a lot of time out and about. Do you know what she might have been talking about?’

  A red flush crept up his cheeks.

  ‘Meddling old cow,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well? What was she talking about?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Anna. Nothing at all. And if I were you I wouldn�
�t spend my time indulging in malicious gossip like those empty-headed bitches at the club. It will only lead to trouble.’

  With that he turned and stomped into his bedroom, slamming the door. I could hear him bashing about in there. After a few minutes, Ali crept through to help him and I could hear them talking in low voices.

  I felt so alone at that moment, so full of anger at Aunt Nora, at Donald too. I felt like smashing my glass at the wall. Instead I took a great glug of the drink and went out onto the veranda. It was a beautiful warm night, the cicadas were chattering in the bushes. Dogs were barking in distant villages. I had the urge to walk. To walk and walk for miles until I had worked out my feelings and purged myself of my anger.

  I fetched my wrap from the living room and left the house. I walked along the road, past the neat bungalows that were lit up for the evening, and out onto the wider road that led through the cantonment and into the centre of town. I had no idea where I was going. I had a vague notion that I would go and find Rajiv at the maidan and ask him to take me somewhere.

  I walked quickly, my head down, going over and over the conversation I’d just had with Donald. I went back over the times we’d met in Bombay, the way the courtship had progressed so quickly, the pressure from him and Aunt Nora. As these thoughts swirled round in my head, the streets began to narrow and become more built up. Soon I was in the centre of town.

  I had not realised how busy the place would be at this time of the evening. The streets were filled with people, and the roadside stalls and shops were open for business. Hawkers were frying on makeshift stoves, and people were sitting at little tables eating food from which delicious smells of herbs, garlic and spices wafted. No one seemed to notice me as I walked. I felt comforted by the presence of so many people and the anonymity of the place.

  There were no rickshaws waiting when I reached the maidan. I felt foolish to have thought that Rajiv might be there waiting for me at this time of night. I turned to go, feeling a little calmer now, and I retraced my steps towards the cantonment.