“Sir will be very pleased, I think.” He beamed. “I can make an Irish stew.”
Sara experienced a surge of nausea. A baby goat must die that day so she could eat it that night. The idea was unthinkable.
At that moment a delicious smell wafted towards her from the kitchen.
“What are you having for lunch, Mutu? It smells so delightful.”
“You would not like it, madam … It is only our simple Indian food, vegetable kofta, dhal and rice.”
“Kofta? I’d almost forgotten. It was my favourite dish as a child …” She smiled as she remembered how she was forever begging spoonfuls from Malika’s plate after she had eaten her own.
“Can you prepare it for this evening? I can’t think why you haven’t given it to us before.”
Mutu wrung his hands. “But it is not English food, madam …” His face had taken on a look of extreme anxiety. “Sir will not like it, I think …”
“I think I will like it, and I’m certain Mr Charles will as well.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, delighted, convinced at last. “I will make you something special, very special.”
“Before you go, Mutu …”
“Yes, madam?”
“Tell them not to slaughter the little goat … It’s such a lovely day … Nothing should die on such a day. In fact, from now on, we will eat much less meat. I find it doesn’t suit me any more.”
Mutu beamed now. “You will win favour with the gods, madam.” Then he bent low and kissed the hem of her dress.
Charles had said nothing when the food was placed before him but toyed with the dish of vegetables and cashew nuts. Sara watched him with an expectant smile on her lips, waiting for the nod of approval which would surely follow.
Mutu and Shakur were watching too from the dining room door, nudging each other and grinning. Mutu had worked all day to produce the most exquisite of flavours.
Charles took a bite, rolled it around in his mouth with a look of deep disgust, then took his napkin off his lap and placed it before him, before settling back in his chair.
“What do you think, Charles? It’s not too hot, I think.” Her smile was more a grimace now, her stomach slowly beginning to knot.
“We can’t have their food,” he said with absolute conviction. “We can’t have them thinking that they have anything we may like.”
“But surely that’s absurd.” Before she could stop herself, she raised her voice in front of the servants. “You know it’s delicious. Anyone can see that!”
He stared at her with cold eyes and pushed his plate away. “It doesn’t matter, even if it does taste good. They’ll think their food is better than our good English food, and then that’s the thin edge of the wedge. They lose their respect for us … Believe me, my dear, as I said many times before, you won’t be able to do anything with them.”
She stared at her plate, not seeing it, her fork frozen foolishly in the air, the food cold in her mouth. “Well, I’m eating it. It’s delicious. You may do as you like.”
“Please don’t think I’m unreasonable, darling—” he managed a smile along with the endearment “—but, believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Do not forget the rebellion of fifty-seven. We’d gone soft on the devils then, and they repaid us by murdering women and children in their beds! It could happen again!”
“Shakur,” he shouted, “take this back to the kitchen, all of it! Madam has made a mistake. Find us something else.”
She had clung to her plate, refusing to give it up, and for a moment there was an embarrassing tug of war between her and Charles. In the end, because the servants were watching, he let go, and she ate the food before him, making a proud show of her enjoyment, even though it seemed to stick in her throat.
From that time on, though, she refused the Irish stews and various messes that passed for English food, and ate nothing but fruit and vegetables, adding yet another barrier between herself and her husband.
Sara roused herself from the chair and, instead of calling for Lakshmi to help her with her bath, she put off the dreaded moment for a little longer to write another chapter of The Diary of an English Lady in Madras.
But her thoughts overcame her, tangling with her words as she wrote, till at last she threw down her pen to pace her room once more.
She’d been living with her husband for four months and, despite all her efforts, she still felt nothing was as she’d expected. For a few horrible moments she bitterly regretted her marriage and longed to be a single girl again. The blinding white glare stealing through the shutters oppressed her and already her eyes hurt and her head ached. It would be a long lonely day, as even Lucy, her lifeline to sanity, had left Madras for at least a month.
Somehow the news of Belle’s engagement had been leaked to Lady Palmer and, even though Harry had protested his undying love for the girl, he’d soon collapsed under the weight of general disapproval. He’d been packed off to Egypt with the threat of being disinherited till he came to his senses, and Belle was taken for a change of scene to Delhi to stay with relations, in an attempt to heal her broken heart.
Already Lady Palmer had made it plain to Sara she felt she had encouraged the engagement just by being a friend of Lucy’s and, as punishment, she and Charles had been left out of an important dinner engagement. Charles had been furious and hadn’t let her forget the snub.
Since then he’d been called back into the fold, but when sometimes Sara refused to accompany him in the evenings he didn’t insist on her attendance, and she was almost officially seen as an outsider.
The clock in the dining room chimed ten o’clock.
Soon she’d have to call Lakshmi to help her bathe and get dressed and she was already dreading her inquisitive stares. At first she’d insisted on bathing alone, but her plea for privacy had created a sensation in the household, with the other servants accusing Lakshmi of not doing her job. Charles had been met with Shakur’s disapproving face the minute he’d arrived home from work.
“There is trouble in the house, sahib …” He stared down at his bare feet as he spoke.
“Talk to madam about it.”
“It is about madam, sahib.”
Charles threw off his jacket and took the offered drink.
“Well, spit it out.”
“Madam will not let Lakshmi bathe her, and Lakshmi thinks she will be dismissed … She has been crying all day.”
Charles marched into Sara’s little sitting room and threw his arms up in a gesture of despair. He was angrier than he should have been. “Darling, what’s this nonsense about not having Lakshmi bathe you? It’s her job to do everything for you.”
“I can’t bear the way she looks at me when I’m undressed. I feel uncomfortable.”
“What does it matter if she looks at you or not? She’s only the servant …”
“It matters to me,” she said, determined to be firm. “Perhaps it would be best if we found her employment in another house or let her return to Lady Palmer.”
“She’s a gift!” he said, losing his patience. “And one does not return a gift, no matter how unsatisfactory in your eyes.”
“She isn’t unsatisfactory at all; in fact, quite the reverse. She does her job almost too well.”
“Well, then, she should stay. Lady Palmer asks after her often, so I can’t say we got rid of the girl. It wouldn’t be a problem at all if you would only learn to treat the servants as though they’re not here!”
“I can’t treat another person as though they’re invisible! But I’m not surprised you can.” She turned her face away as she spoke. The cracks in her marriage were turning into chasms, and her heart was breaking.
Chapter 17
For over a month she’d heard nothing from Ravi Sabran, even though she’d written once more, asking if she could visit Prema. He had consistently failed to appear at the Wednesday afternoon soirees and, according to Lucy, it was most unusual. Now, Sara had to crush her anger at feeling insulted and ignored.
At first, she put it down to the irregularity of the mail system, but now, as other letters had arrived without trouble, the excuse of lost mail seemed unlikely.
She wondered if it would be considered improper to appear on his doorstep without warning, but she had waited long enough and would risk being an unwelcome visitor.
It was no one’s business but her own if she wished to visit Prema but, even so, her voice seemed unnaturally casual when she spoke to Shakur, who was polishing the silver, looking as bored as she felt.
“I think I’ll go out today … Will you drive me into town?”
He stopped polishing at once, as eager as she for a change from routine. “I will tell Lakshmi you wish her to accompany you.”
“No, I would like to go alone.” She didn’t want Lakshmi and her secret smile.
Shakur stopped, his face puckering with concern. “The other memsahibs never go alone.”
She flinched. He was mimicking Charles, and it was as though he himself stood before her.
“That will do, Shakur … I’m going alone.”
“Yes, madam.” She watched his back as he walked away; she could read his disapproval there.
Then he turned and confronted her. “You cannot go alone … None of the other ladies would go out unattended; you must have a woman with you. People will talk.”
“Then I’ll take the girl who cleans the shoes … What’s her name? Surinda … I’ll take Surinda with me.”
“You cannot take her; she is an untouchable … You cannot take an untouchable with you, and I will not drive her.”
She wanted to scream, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ but she controlled her frustration.
“Then I’ll go alone and that’s that.”
Shakur simply shook his head as he hurried out of the room.
Ravi Sabran’s home stood at the end of a long line of grand English homes, situated a few miles from central Madras but separated by a canal and a wide stretch of jungle that had somehow escaped felling in the attempt at civilising the town.
The carriage moved along a winding road bordered on both sides with masses of scarlet bougainvillea, tumbling down and growing in amongst the avenue of ancient tamarind trees. There was scarcely a beam of light allowed through the mass of greenery, and even sound was muffled under the thick canopy.
It was a pleasure to be cool for a change, and Sara was lost in the joy of the moment when, all of a sudden, she was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. The feeling of déjà vu was so strong it made her stomach tighten with a vague nausea, though, as far as she knew, she’d never been on this particular road before.
The road turned into a path and turned a corner, coming to an abrupt halt at a set of wrought iron gates set into a stone wall, covered with a thick flowering vine that had insinuated itself into the very stones themselves. She almost leaped out of the carriage and stood before the gates, before parting the choking vine with her gloved hand to reveal a worn brass plate with the inscription, ‘Tamarind House’, and the date it was built, ‘1802’.
“Tamarind House?” She mouthed the words over and over again. She closed her eyes and tried to think. Surely she’d heard that name before somewhere?
“Are you sure this is Monsieur Sabran’s house?”
“Yes Madame.”
“But Monsieur Sabran’s house is named Sans Souci.”
“Yes, madam … but this is still his house.”
Shakur jumped up, preparing to open the gates. “I will tell them you are here.”
She raised her hand. “No. You can come back for me in an hour or two.”
“No, madam …” Shakur was seriously alarmed. “This house is a bad house. You cannot enter alone.”
Despite his protests, Sara could tell he was aching to see inside, but she didn’t want him carrying tales back to the other servants.
“Come back for me before dark. Take the carriage and visit your mother; she will be glad to see you.” She smiled at him, hoping to soften his air of disapproval.
Shakur shook his head sadly and drove off, looking over his shoulder with a sigh of reproach. Sara waited till he was out of sight, then pushed against the gate.
She paused for a moment, expecting the servants to descend on her, chattering and welcoming, as they did everywhere she visited in Madras, but she heard nothing to break the silence except the sound of birds and a faint sighing of wind in the trees.
She moved cautiously down the path, rounded a small bend and there, emerging from the disordered chaos of the garden, stood a lovely house with the pure uncluttered lines of the previous century.
Tall pillars supported a wide flagstone veranda running the length and the sides of the house. Wide wooden shutters, faded to a pale turquoise, were closed tight against the intruding light. The remains of a dried grass tatti hung from an outside window. Once it would have been green and sweet-smelling, freshly woven by the servants and kept cool and damp to protect the house from the searing summer heat. A shiver ran down her back; it had the look of the matted hair of a sadhu.
A creeper covered in sticky pink flowers ran across the worn stones of the veranda and up the walls, sealing the house and its secrets from the outside world. At her approaching footsteps, a mongoose with a dead rat hanging limp and bloody from its mouth raced across the veranda and into the bushes.
A nameless fear overtook her and she almost regretted sending Shakur away, then she broke out in a wave of dizziness, not knowing if it was from fright or the heat.
Afraid she might faint, she held tightly onto the curved stone banister as she climbed the steps, then she halted, transfixed by the faded front door where, in the centre, hung a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a gloved human hand. Again, a fresh wave of dizziness threatened to unbalance her. She had seen that very same knocker before. She shook her head and frowned as she struggled to remember.
Then she recalled the sensation of standing on tiptoe and reaching up, her own childish fingers just touching the cold metal.
“Surely … this isn’t …?” She swayed a little and almost fell. She had to think, she had to remember.
Then, guided by some long dead instinct, she walked as though hypnotised around the side of the veranda. If she was right, there would be a little gazebo with carved wooden windows half hidden under an ancient tamarind tree.
She held her breath and leaned on one of the stone pillars for support. Yes … there it was, the white paint faded now, but quite solid. There she had played as a child. It had been her mother’s favourite spot in the cool of the morning and, amazingly, her wicker chair was still there, as though waiting for her.
Her feet moved forward mechanically as though under a spell, then she came to a stop at the open doorway.
In the corner of the room a small shrine dedicated to Ganesh showed the remains of a still burning stick of incense—someone came there to pray. She sat down in what had once been her mother’s chair and gave herself up to an overwhelming grief, sobbing without a care for whoever or whatever might hear her. She rocked back and forth on the chair, the phantoms of the past surrounding her. Then she began to shiver with fright. The sounds of a lullaby, a haunting quivering sound, enveloped her. It was a song she well remembered.
The sound of the voice came closer then was stilled. A black shadow fell across the doorway as a figure stepped into the room then halted. An unearthly wail broke the silence and the figure dropped to the ground, lying crouched against the wall of the summer house, hiding her head under her sari.
Sara found her voice, speaking in Hindi. “I’m sorry … Did I frighten you?” She put out her hand to reassure her, but at her touch the woman sprang like an animal into the corner of the room and peeped cautiously out from under her sari. Then she found the courage to speak. “You are real?”
“Yes … Of course.”
The woman rose and came forward, then, reaching out to touch Sara’s head, she picked up one of the dark red strands and felt it. Then her eyes widened. �
��Sarianna!”
Sarianna! It had been years since she’d been called that name, and only one other person could know it.
“Malika!”
“Yes … it is I … Can it be?”
“Yes!”
The thin brown hands caressed Sara’s face and smoothed her hair. Wild tears held back for so long were released at last.
“You have come home … You have come home …”
“Yes, Malika …” Sara cried, her face contorted by sobbing “… I have come home.”
The three graves behind the house were free of weeds, though the carving on the headstones had faded under the harsh sun and torrential rains. Sara traced her finger around the inscription.
‘Lillian Catherine Radcliffe … dearly beloved wife of William’.
“Radcliffe! Of course, my name was Sarianna Radcliffe!” She cried again, deep painful sobs that left her body exhausted but her heart lighter.
The name belonged to a happier time, and it was as though her soul had been returned to her.
She ran her hands over the third headstone. ‘Daisy Rose’.
She mourned for a sister she had never known, who’d died when she was just two years old. At the base of each headstone Malika had placed a small stone figurine of Shiva, as though an added deity would carry more credit for those in heaven. Sara watched as she wiped the headstones with the hem of her sari.
“Why have you stayed so long …?” She held Malika’s hand as she studied the much-loved face, much older now, the once glossy black hair completely grey and worn in a matronly bun at the base of her neck. The large dark brown eyes, though, were the same, full of kindness and love.
“I have no family … You are my family …” and once more she raised her hand to Sara’s hair and stroked it lovingly, not quite believing her eyes. “You are like your father. He had hair of this colour.”
“Tell me what happened. I want to know how they died.”
The Jasmine Wife Page 15