Meet Me in Bombay

by Jenny Ashcroft

  Often when Guy came, he collected Iris—whom Maddy missed and worried about, every second of every minute—and drove her over with him. On those days, Maddy forgot her unease, her tugging fear that she might be making the most horrendous mistake. She lay waiting for them both in her hot, tiled room, ankle throbbing, her whole being tense with impatience to hold Iris’s warm little body close and be reassured that she’d been woken by no nightmares the night before, had enjoyed her breakfast with her grandparents, and eaten all her fruit. She sat up on her pillows, hearing the patter of Iris’s approaching steps, feeling a smile of relief and gratitude pull at her cheeks as she listened to the exuberance of Iris’s chatter, Guy’s indulgent laugh. They sounded like such a team, a perfect duo.

  “And they really only met in September?” asked the nurses.

  “Only then,” Maddy told them.

  “Isn’t he wonderful with her?” they said adoringly. “What a lucky little girl.”

  Guy never arrived empty-handed. Her room overflowed with flowers: a veritable garden of bouquets. Their cloying scent filled the air, her throat, a constant, perfumed reminder of how good a man he was; a friend it would be impossible to hurt. If it wasn’t flowers, it was cakes, ice cream sped over from the Taj’s kitchen (although that was often half finished by the time he and Iris arrived, a deal of it smeared on Iris’s rosy cheeks), or books and cards to help her pass the time.

  And a ring.

  He brought her a ring, the day before she was to go home, two days before Christmas.

  She wasn’t surprised when he knelt before her and offered up the red velvet box with the emerald inside. She’d known it was probably coming. Her father had warned her, too, calling late the evening before, smuggling in a bottle of gin and tonic beneath his blazer, saying he needed a drink after the conversation he and Guy had just had.

  “He’s asked my permission,” Richard had said.

  “Oh,” Maddy had replied, waiting optimistically for a rush of excitement that never came. “I imagine that was rather awkward.”

  “You imagine correctly,” he’d said. “I told him the only person’s permission he needs is yours.”

  “You don’t want me to give it,” Maddy had guessed.

  “I think the world of Guy,” he’d said, not answering her question. “He’ll treat you like a queen, I have no doubt about it. But I want you to be happy.” His face had creased with concern. “I’m so afraid you won’t be.”

  “But what if I can be?” she’d asked. “What if this is what I need? What Iris needs?”

  “Iris has you.…”

  “I think she wants more.”

  “What do you want, though, darling?”

  “To not be sad anymore,” she’d said, voice fracturing on the pathetic truth.

  “Oh, darling…”

  “I can’t spend the rest of my life depending on you and Mama,” she’d said. “You’ll retire…”

  “Not yet.”

  “But eventually,” she’d said. “Iris and I, we need our own … home. A life.”

  He’d sighed. “Just think carefully,” he’d said, “please.”

  It was all she’d done through the endless night that had passed, sweaty and sleepless in her narrow single bed, her leg itching horribly in its cast. As she’d pulled at her damp pillows, the sheets, she’d replayed every word, every look and smile she and Luke had ever shared, and tried to imagine having anything close with Guy. She couldn’t do it. And wrapped in her memories of Luke, she’d wept at the pain of his silence, her longing for him as agonizing as it had ever been in the black loneliness of her room.

  “Why did you go?” she asked him. “Why did you have to go?”

  He didn’t answer. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, finally starting to accept that he never would, filled with terror that if she said no to Guy now, she’d spend the rest of her days driving herself mad yearning for a voice that couldn’t come. Only, she’d be making Guy miserable as well. And Iris. Vivacious, clever, beautiful Iris, whom she’d lay her life down for, whom Guy looked after so wonderfully, and who’d lived almost six years without a papa. Six.

  Her mother was right: Guy was everything any child could possibly dream of for a father. He was. And a friend, such a decent, true friend.

  A friend is good, Della had said.

  A friend is a start.

  Was it enough, though?

  She was still battling to make sense of her own frazzled thoughts when Guy got down on one knee, nervous and handsome in a cream suit, picture-perfect in every way but one. As he raised the box and haltingly told her she’d make him the happiest man living if she’d only agree to be his wife, she couldn’t help but reflect on how formal it all was, how different from the easy, teasing way Luke had leaned over the bed, fetching the diamonds she still wore on her left hand, making her cry and laugh with delight.

  Sweet, though. So very sweet.

  “I know I’ll never replace Luke,” he went on, with a candor that made her feel like a criminal, “I don’t want to try.” His serious eyes held hers. “But if you let me, I’ll spend every breath I take trying to be as good a husband as you deserve. I’ll look after Iris like she’s my own.” Warmth filled his face. Love. “Maddy, she feels like my own.”

  It was that which did it.

  That and the sudden kerfuffle at the door; the glimpse of Iris cheekily peeking around the frame, apparently deaf to Alice whispering at her to come back, letting Maddy know they were both there. Guy’s smile became rueful. They’d ganged up on her. It wasn’t fair. But as Maddy took in Iris’s dancing eyes, how she bit her lip in inescapable hope, and Guy asked her once again if she’d let him be part of their family, she knew there was only one answer she could give.

  And although she felt a disturbing void of euphoria as the “Yes” left her numb lips, Guy’s sweet face transformed in delight, Iris whooped and ran toward them, and it was far too late to do anything about it.

  She realized it had been too late from the moment she’d let Guy sit beside her in the Hanging Gardens.

  She didn’t know if she’d even change it if she could. With Guy pulling her into an embrace, then Iris scrambling onto her bed, throwing her arms around her neck, it was impossible to think straight at all.

  “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” Guy said.

  “Congratulations, both of you,” said Alice. Her blue gaze met Maddy’s. I know this wasn’t easy, she seemed to tell her, well done. “We’ll need to set a date,” she said out loud.

  “March I thought,” said Guy, “before it gets too hot.”

  “Perfect,” said Alice.

  Maddy made no objection. Already, she was anxious to be on the other side of the ceremony, safe from any more questions about whether she was doing the right thing.

  “Can I be bridesmaid?” said Iris.

  “Of course you can,” said Guy.

  They talked on. Maddy let them. Guy had placed the ring box next to her on the bed. She picked it up, her eyes blurring on the emerald. She turned her hand, looking at Luke’s diamonds, sparkling and perfect. It dawned on her that she’d have to take them off, these gems he’d had set into the ring she loved. These gems he’d touched. She’d have to remove her wedding band, too.

  So stupid, but she hadn’t even thought about that.

  “Are you happy, dearest?” Guy asked her.

  It took her a moment to realize he’d spoken. “Yes,” she said, and nodded, cheeks suddenly straining with the effort of smiling, wishing they’d all just go so that she could give in to the tears filling her throat before they choked her.

  * * *

  They didn’t go. Not for several hours. And actually, she was glad in the end that they stayed, because if she’d been left alone with the wave of regret she’d been struck by, it really might have crippled her. As it was, she didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on anything, least of all sadness, because everyone else was so very happy.

 
Guy had brought champagne with him. “Presumptuous, I know,” he said with a wry laugh, pulling it from the bag. “Promise me you’ve had no morphia today?”

  “I promise,” she said, reaching for a tumbler to catch the bubbles as he set the cork free.

  They all drank, Iris talked more about her dress, the flowers she wanted to wear in her hair, and Alice sent word to the civil service office, Della’s home, and Maddy’s father, Peter, Della and Jeff, even Emily and Lucy came, too, filling the room with congratulations, noise; wonderful, welcome distractions.

  No one mentioned Luke. Richard, the diplomat through and through, gave Maddy only one slightly troubled look when he arrived, but otherwise was cordial as he shook Guy’s hand, even jovial as he raised a toast to them both, and didn’t once betray the concern he’d voiced to Maddy the night before. Although Peter glanced at Luke’s rings and quietly told Maddy that he’d buy her a chain for them (making her wonder for the thousandth time what she’d do without him), no one else remarked on how she was still wearing diamonds instead of an emerald. Not even Guy, who left the matter alone with a compassion that just went to show Maddy had been right to say yes to him. Absolutely right.

  As dusk fell, Jeff fetched a picnic dinner from the club, the nurses told them they really all did need to start thinking about going home soon, they’d have Maddy back with them the very next day after all, but they all stayed on a while longer anyway, and the whole affair was warm and buzzy and very, very … nice.

  It wasn’t until after they’d all gone, and Guy had kissed Maddy good night, telling her again how very delighted she’d made him, that she sat once more in solitude, her electric lamp flickering, cicadas clacking beyond her window’s mosquito screen, and reopened the box he’d given her.

  She ran her thumb over the ring, as tentatively as if it could burn her. She took it out, letting the emerald catch the light, throwing green patterns on the whitewashed walls. Drawing a long, deep breath, she raised her left hand, exhaling as she stared at Luke’s diamonds.

  “Is this all right?” she whispered to the emptiness around her. “Do I have your permission?”

  Silence.

  She sank back on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. She saw his face. That face she’d loved so much. The enjoyment, the boundless energy and warmth in his teasing smile, his dark, shining eyes. And then she saw Guy. Steady, kind, Guy, who’d worn his heart on his sleeve for every second of the afternoon; his heart, which he’d given so freely to her.

  And to Iris.

  Slowly, she dropped her gaze once more to her hand. Without consciously making any decision, she set Guy’s emerald down and pulled at the rings Luke had placed on her finger. It wasn’t easy. Her hands were swollen with the heat, and she had to force the metal over the padding of her flesh, her knuckle. The more they stuck, the harder she pulled, clenching her teeth, grimly determined, now that she’d started, to see it through.

  It was only when they both finally came free, leaving a sore, pale indent in her skin, that she realized she was crying. Her tears rolled down her cheeks, on and on: at the fear of what she’d decided, the uncertainty of everything ahead, and most of all the grief, the wrenching grief, of what she and Luke had had taken away, the years she’d wasted fighting to believe they might get it back, and the weight of the rings she held clenched in her hand, the emerald she now needed to put on in their place.

  The finality of this long-overdue goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Maddy didn’t cry again after that night. She didn’t allow herself to. Her mother and Della were right; she had to start letting herself be happy instead. Try harder.

  Surely it wouldn’t be so hard.

  She was glad that it was Christmas, and that she could go home. For the week that followed, every day was packed with presents and church and meals; at her parents’, at Della and Jeff’s. The children tore around in excitement, and she, refusing to rest on the chaise longue Ahmed brought out onto the veranda, infuriated her mother and Guy by using her crutch to hobble around after them, helping Iris set up her new dolls’ house, rhapsodizing over the flower patch she’d started growing, teaching her how to play “Jingle Bells” on the piano.

  “Oh no,” Peter could always be relied upon to exclaim, should he happen to arrive while they were at it, “not this again.”

  “But you love my piano playing,” said Iris, quite accurately.

  Sometimes Alice or Della would raise the topic of all the things that needed to be done before March (the church that had to be booked—“Not St. Thomas’s,” said Della. “Of course,” said Alice—the reception venue, too, then the band, the gowns…), but really nothing could be confirmed until everything reopened in January, so what was the point in talking about it?

  “It’s exciting,” said Della, “that’s all. Are you going to wear white?”

  “Della,” said Jeff, “you’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s one word for her,” said Peter.

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to wear,” said Maddy absently, remembering how Luke had made her laugh at St. Thomas’s altar by telling her how pure she looked in white. I might almost be deceived …

  “You’ll look wonderful whatever you wear, my dearest,” said Guy.

  Maddy smiled, and wondered when that “dearest” would start to feel normal.

  At New Year’s, the Yacht Club, which had long since resumed its annual celebration, threw a party. Guy told Maddy he had to go, as most of his staff would be there, Jeff included; Maddy’s parents went, too, for much the same reason. Della of course accompanied Jeff. Peter, though, demurred (“The old leg,” he told Guy, lying. “It’s torture to watch all the dancing”), as did Maddy, who’d gone to the beach at the base of the hill with Peter every New Year’s since that first time in 1915, and was beyond relieved to have her ankle as an excuse to do the same again now.

  “Surely you can manage to have fun at the club, even with your ankle,” said Guy, who had no idea that she’d not set foot through its doors since the war, and was mercifully oblivious to how she’d once stood on its promenade, staring at a stranger in a linen jacket. “I’ll keep you company.”

  “You’ll have a better time without me,” she said.

  “I assure you I won’t,” he told her. “Come. This really doesn’t feel like the most auspicious way to start to the year.”

  But she was adamant. And he was too kind, too much of a gentleman to insist. It made her feel wretched, and she swore to herself that she’d do better in the future, but she just wanted this one, last time with Peter, down on the balmy sands, staring across at the city’s fireworks, remembering.

  They raised their glasses to Luke as midnight broke; their traditional toast. As they did, Peter once again tipped his fair head backward, eyes on the starlit Indian sky, the heavens Maddy normally always refused to look at.

  This time, though, she raised her gaze, too, just as she had at the break of 1914.

  Was he truly there, looking down?

  She could almost feel the weight of his stare, the touch of his smile. Perhaps he was. She ached to believe his soul was happy somewhere, that he knew how wonderful their daughter was, and that she, Maddy, would join him again one day.

  “I wish you’d seen his face when he saw that photograph you sent him,” said Peter, as he had many times before. “We were just about to go over the top, and you might as well have given him the earth on a plate.”

  She smiled sadly, as she had many times before, picturing it.

  “Della’s right,” Peter said. “He’d want you to be happy. He’d want that so much.”

  “I know,” she said, her eyes still on the stars.

  “May he know how loved he is,” said Peter.

  “He’ll always be loved,” said Maddy, and pressed her hand to her chest, his rings that she now wore on Peter’s chain, right next to her heart.

  * * *

  Jones didn’t leave his room that New Year’s, no
t even when Sister Lytton tried to drag him down to the inevitable drawing room celebrations. He sat by the light of his oil lamp, going over and over the journals he’d already read countless times; ignoring the vibrations of the gramophone coming through the floorboards, his guilt at Ernest alone and sad in his room, poring over every, tiny detail.

  His dreams had flooded his sleep these past weeks, giving him hundreds more glimpses into his past: fragments of memories as precious as they were confusing, none more treasured than the image of those slender fingers holding that tiny sepia foot.

  It was all coming back to him. His miracle was just around the corner, he could feel it; in his breath, his bones. Whether it was down to Gibbon’s surgeries, Arnold’s therapy—or even, as Arnold had also hazarded, a simple diminishment of scar tissue—the dreams kept rushing in, and Jones scribbled down every detail, letting nothing slide away. He was close, so close …

  But it wasn’t happening quickly enough. He turned his journals’ pages impatiently, eyes snatching at the words he knew by rote—toothless man, sailing boat, jungle birds, hammering rain, tears in a hospital, “Auld Lang Syne”—and, with clarity still stubbornly eluding him, felt his heart race. Perhaps it was the hospital’s closure. Maybe the fear that Diana would somehow fail him in the spring.

  He didn’t really know what it was, but he’d become filled with the most awful dread that he was running out of time.

  * * *

  For much of January, March still felt quite far away, and strangely fantasy-like. Planning for the wedding began in earnest—the banns were read at the local church (not St. Thomas’s, of course), newspaper announcements went out, guest lists were drawn up—and Maddy played her part in it all, trying harder, sitting for the engagement photograph with Guy, nodding along as her mother read through the names of invitees, struggling to make herself believe that it was all really happening. It was. She knew that. She just couldn’t feel it. Guy helped her hobble around the ballroom of the Taj, holding her arm as the hotel manager pointed out the palatial room’s size, its crystal chandeliers, the pillars that had been imported from the selfsame Parisian manufacturer responsible for the Eiffel Tower, and she heard herself agreeing that yes, it would be a quite perfect venue for the reception, and had to remind herself that it was her reception she was talking about.