Meet Me in Bombay

by Jenny Ashcroft

  But Iris wouldn’t be placated. Not by any of them. Maddy was sure it wasn’t just about Luke. She’d been unsettled all day, after all, and her falling apart now was probably as much to do with the overwhelming party—the upset any six-year-old would feel at a birthday gone so very wrong—as anything. It didn’t make consoling her any easier, though. Maddy kissed her tears, her hot round cheeks, and felt sick, because the seconds were flooding by, taking Luke away, and she was still here, unable to follow.

  “Come along,” said her father, propelling them toward the villa.

  Somehow, Maddy put one foot in front of the other. She looked over her shoulder as she went, searching the sunny, throbbing garden for Peter. She couldn’t see him, only Della, still with Jeff and the girls, watching the magician. Had Peter seen Luke? Gone after him?

  She hoped that he had, and that at least Luke wasn’t alone. Peter would explain, too, remind Luke how she loved him, how she’d always loved him.

  It’s you, she told him silently, holding their desolate daughter, following her husband inside. It’s only ever been you.

  * * *

  He’d known already that they were married. It was why he’d gone to Guy’s villa first, only to be sent on here. Arnold had told him of the wedding, the very morning after everything had come back to him in the King’s Fifth. He’d shown him the photographs Diana had sent, and Luke had felt his world end all over again.

  But he’d come to India. He’d had to come. He hadn’t been able to make sense of … anything … back in England. After the initial, sickening blow of those clippings had passed, he’d grown angry, determined to set right what had apparently gone so catastrophically wrong. If it had been anyone other than Guy whom Maddy had married, perhaps he’d have waited, written to her first—even considered listening to Emma Lytton suggesting that since Maddy had married, perhaps it would be kinder to leave her in ignorance. She thought you were dead, after all. But Luke had known, even before he’d set eyes on her just now—struck prone by the thousand and one things even his healed memory hadn’t done justice to, not least the overwhelming love just the tiniest movement of her hand, her lips, could send flooding through him—that she would never be content with Guy. She’d used to joke about marrying him. As if I could ever do that. Seeing her so alone on her parents’ lawn, so thin, too sad, had confirmed it. He kicked the dusty driveway, sending stones scattering, cursing, as full of rage as he’d ever been, at her, for compromising, giving up on her own right to happiness. He couldn’t forgive it of her, he couldn’t.

  “She wouldn’t accept you were gone,” his mother, Nina, had told him, only a fortnight before, as they’d walked Coco along the windswept beach near their house. Coco had kept by Luke’s heels, scampering in the sands, delirious with joy. Loyal. “I’m so sorry,” Nina had said, eyes watering in the wind, the cold, “even I tried to convince her.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” he’d said, hating her guilt, how grief had aged her—how it had aged both his parents—wishing so much that he could give them both back all the years they’d lost.

  “Maddy doesn’t need to apologize either,” his father had said later, sitting by the fire. “You must remember that, when you’re there.”

  Luke had told him it wasn’t an apology he was after.

  It still wasn’t.

  He paused at the villa gates, wiping sweat from his throbbing head. It was hot, too bloody hot. And where was she? Not coming after him, that much was certain. Perhaps she was consoling Iris. Iris, whose birthday he’d known it was (he’d bought her a miniature doctor’s kit from Hamleys; it was still in his trunk). Iris, who’d stolen his breath with her round eyes and bouncing curls, the living, unbelievable reality of her, and then broken him, by clutching to Guy as she had, like she wanted him to protect her. Afraid. His own daughter. Petrified. Of him.

  He clenched his jaw, only just stopping the smarting, useless tears, and kept going, onto the quiet, leafy road.

  He was almost halfway to the motor he’d borrowed when the call came from behind.

  “Luke. Luke. Don’t make me run. I really can’t.”

  He knew that voice. It penetrated his grief, his anger, and, in spite of everything, he felt his chest swell. As he turned, squinting through the dappled sunshine, he drew a ragged breath—all the happiness he could manage—seeing his old friend ambling lopsidedly along the road’s edge, pale eyes brimming with tears that he at least wasn’t checking. The last time Luke had seen him, they’d both been shrouded in gas clouds, surrounded by men—boys like poor Fraser Keaton—dying in agony, shells exploding everywhere. He’d thought them about to die, too. When his memory had returned, he’d been terrified that Peter must have. It had been his parents who’d assured him that Peter was not only still alive, but in India with Maddy and Iris. Luke had become desperate to see him, too—to thank him for being by Maddy’s side over the years, there for her always—but, in the hideousness of what had just passed, he’d forgotten to look for him.

  How could he have forgotten?

  He closed the distance between them, pulling Peter into an embrace, overwhelmed by gratitude, the relief, the utter relief, of his being there.

  “My God,” Peter said, digging his fingers into his back, “my God. Where have you been?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Luke. “I can’t tell it here.”

  “Then let’s get you the hell away,” said Peter.

  “The docks,” said Luke.

  “Oh, no,” said Peter. “No…”

  “The docks,” Luke repeated. “I’m not going anywhere else.”

  * * *

  Maddy didn’t go back to Guy’s. Not at first, no matter how Guy tried to persuade her that they should, saying she’d find it easier to rest there. She didn’t want to rest. She certainly didn’t need the draft he said he’d mix for her. She needed Luke. Her desperation to be with him—hear his voice, hold him again—was growing by the second, overwhelming her. Questions spiraled endlessly in her mind: Where have you been? Who were you with?

  Do you still want me?

  Want us?

  They were all she could hear. But by the time she managed to extricate herself from Iris and Guy long enough to even think of attempting to find him, he was long gone, Peter with him.

  “Peter’s said he’ll telephone,” her father told her, stealing a moment while Guy was distracted back out in the garden—heroically smiling and saying goodbye to all the guests, despite his own evident shock, the exhaustion that seemed to be aging him by the minute. “He’ll do it just as soon as he can.” Richard pulled her into a brief hug. “I spoke to him before he went.”

  “He promised?” Maddy said.

  “He promised.”

  Maddy nodded, feeling a little easier. She didn’t tell Guy about that call, or her frantic impatience for it to come. Even in her stricken state, she saw the awful vulnerability in his eyes, the ashen color of his face, and managed to forget the commotion of her own emotions long enough to ache at his fear. She couldn’t hurt him more.

  But she sat in her parents’ baking drawing room all afternoon, ear tuned for the telephone’s trill, fists clenched in anticipation of grabbing the receiver. No one spoke very much. Her parents did have one strained conversation, but it was done out in the hallway; she saw their tense faces, but heard none of what they said. Her mother was very quiet afterward, obviously upset, and Maddy wondered if they’d been bickering about which of her husbands she should remain married to.

  My God, she thought, swallowing on her bile. I have two husbands.

  Two.

  “Mummy,” said Iris, squirming on her lap, “you’re squeezing me too tight.”

  “Sorry,” she said, forcing her arms loose. “Sorry.”

  She waited for Iris to ask her about Luke. But she didn’t. She said no more at all about her daddy in the photograph, just sucked her thumb in a pensive way—perhaps thinking of him, maybe fretting over her ruined day—and eventually f
ell into a sweaty, exhausted slumber, which at least gave Maddy a valid excuse for not going back to Guy’s.

  “I could carry her,” said Guy.

  “I don’t want to disturb her,” Maddy said.

  “Best not,” said Della, who’d sent her girls home with Jeff, as soon as she’d got wind of what had happened, and knew all about the expected call. Whenever Guy moved out of earshot—to fetch Maddy more water, or pour himself a brandy (bracing)—she whispered to Maddy of how wretched she felt. “All this time, there was me telling you that he was dead.”

  “You didn’t know,” said Maddy.

  “I still hate myself for it. What on earth are you going to do?”

  Maddy had no idea.

  She wouldn’t until she saw Luke, she was certain. But three o’clock became four, no one other than Della even attempted to talk of what had happened—least of all Guy—and still no telephone call came to break the loaded, sweaty silence. Maddy felt the scrutiny of her parents but couldn’t bring herself to meet their worried stares, lest they ask her something else she didn’t know how to answer. Her mother—who didn’t appear to be speaking to her father at all (or perhaps it was the other way round)—poured endless pots of tea. She spoke about fetching some sandwiches, too, but never did it. Della remarked on what a shame it was that the party hadn’t turned out better, and suggested they give Iris another birthday the next day. Guy said he thought that a marvelous idea, then asked Maddy whether they shouldn’t wake Iris up so that she’d be able to sleep that night.

  “Leave her a while longer,” said Richard, “she obviously needs the rest.”

  When she finally woke, she was—to Maddy’s relief—more like herself again, squirming down from Maddy’s lap, yawning, stretching, and professing herself hungry. The nap had obviously restored her. (If only everything could be so easily fixed.)

  “Is it teatime?” she said.

  “It is, little one,” said Della.

  “Teatime?” said Maddy, looking at the clock in alarm. Five? How was it already five?

  “I’d better get home,” said Della regretfully. “The girls will be tyrannizing Jeff.”

  “We need to go, too,” said Guy, standing, not brooking any resistance this time, taking Iris by the hand.

  “Yes,” said Richard, with a nod to Maddy that seemed to say he’d call with any news. She wasn’t sure he expected there to be, not anymore; it was his furrowed brow. She didn’t either, not now she’d seen the time and absorbed just how much had passed since Peter and Luke had left. It terrified her, how long it had been.

  What had stopped Peter from getting in touch?

  “Come on, dearest,” said Guy, oblivious to the cold dread filling her. “We’ll have some dinner ourselves, an early night. If this little princess permits.”

  “I’m not tired,” said Iris.

  She of course wasn’t. Fortified by her sleep (and relieved, Maddy suspected, to be on the other side of her ill-fated party), she chattered the entire way home—about the toy dragon Peter had given her, when she could open the rest of her presents, and how she’d paint a card for Suya and the rest to tell them she was sorry there hadn’t been any cake—making it impossible for Maddy to try and speak herself to Guy, let alone think what she might say. Just as before in her parents’ drawing room, she waited anxiously for Iris to mention Luke, ask … anything … about him. But she didn’t. It was as though she’d decided to forget he’d come. Maddy almost wished she’d bring him up, despite Guy’s presence. It killed her that even Iris was pretending he didn’t matter. He mattered. He mattered so very much.

  She had to see him. She couldn’t wait a moment longer. How many places could he and Peter have gone to? Not many, she told herself as she followed Guy and Iris into the villa. Once Iris was settled, she’d go out and find him. Surely Guy would understand that she needed to do that. Yes, of course he would. Of course.

  He’d hate it, too, though; impossible to pretend otherwise. Her voice was taut with apprehension as she told Iris to run along to her nursery so that she and Guy might talk about grown-up things.

  She wondered if he heard it, realized what was coming.

  She suspected that he did, and that that was why he overruled her, saying that surely Iris could stay down a while longer. “It is her birthday. Let’s have dinner together tonight.”

  “Really?” said Iris, eyes bursting at the treat. “I can eat with you?”

  “You’d like that, would you?” said Guy, with a laugh that was as forced as any Maddy had heard from him.

  “Can I have champagne?” Iris asked.

  “Lime soda maybe,” said Guy, and turned to Maddy. “What do you say? Just this once?”

  “Please, Mummy,” said Iris, looking, for the first time that day, like she was actually enjoying her birthday. “Please.”

  Maddy hesitated, almost saying no, but Iris appeared to be actually holding her breath in excitement—after all her tears. How could she ruin that for her? It is her birthday. And if she did, wouldn’t that only make her resent Luke?

  They ate out on the veranda, by the light of burning hurricane lamps. Iris, napkin on lap, was like the cat with the cream for the entire meal, and Guy—whose eyelids were becoming ever heavier with tiredness—nonetheless kept going, telling Iris how sorry he was that he’d ambushed her party with all his friends, and asking if they might do as Della had suggested and have another celebration the next day. “I’ll make sure to get away from work for lunch, and we can go for ices at the Sea Lounge.”

  “Really?” said Iris, looking from him to Maddy, checking that she, too, had heard this wondrous suggestion.

  Maddy, who’d heard perfectly, was becoming increasingly annoyed. Guy wasn’t stupid; he must realize that Luke (wherever he’d gone) might very well want to see his daughter tomorrow. Now if he asked to (ask, to see his own daughter; it broke her heart), Iris wouldn’t want to. Just as with this dinner, it was almost as though the treat was designed to shut Luke out. It wasn’t fair of Guy to be playing favorites. None of it was fair.

  “Really,” said Guy to Iris. “Shall we take Emily and Lucy, too?”

  “Yes,” said Iris, clambering onto his lap, “yes please.”

  Guy kissed her head.

  As if on cue, the bearer grudgingly brought out the chocolate cake Cook seemed to have sent over from her parents’, resplendent with six sparklers. Iris leaned over them, her ecstatic face illuminated by the glow, and blew them all out. Guy told her to make a wish, and she closed her eyes, lips moving silently.

  “What did you wish for?” Maddy managed to ask.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Iris, beaming not at her but up at Guy, “otherwise it won’t come true.”

  Tell me, Maddy wanted to say, hit by the sickening hunch that it involved which father she’d prefer, I’m not sure I want it to come true.

  It was after nine by the time the endless meal was over. Somehow Maddy convinced Iris into being tired enough for bed and took her upstairs. She bathed her as quickly as her wriggling insistence on making a birthday tea with the bathwater would allow, read her a short story, and tucked her in. Throughout it all, Iris remained disturbingly silent on the subject of her daddy in the photograph. By an effort of will, Maddy didn’t bring him up either. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, force things with Iris.

  It was only when she bent to kiss her—resigned to her saying nothing—that Iris took her thumb from her mouth and dozily mentioned him again.

  “Where did he go, Mummy?”

  “I don’t know,” Maddy said, stroking her hair from her forehead, relieved—beyond relieved—that she’d asked.

  “Will I see him again?”

  “Would you like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Iris.

  Maddy did her best not to flinch. “I’m sure he’d like to see you,” she said.

  Iris turned on her side, snuggling down. “His face is nicer in real life,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Maddy, �
�he has a very nice face.”

  “But not as happy,” said Iris, closing her eyes.

  “No,” said Maddy softly.

  From the mouths of babes.

  “Good night, Mummy.”

  “Good night,” said Maddy, kissing her one more time.

  Stopping only to pull the mosquito net down and dim the lamp, she left, returning to her and Guy’s rooms, determined to tell him that she was leaving directly to find Luke, not let him evade her again.

  He was sitting on her bed, watching the door, obviously waiting for her to come through it. He’d removed his jacket, his collar, and had the top button of his shirt undone. Now that he was no longer putting on a show for Iris, he looked beaten. The concaves of his cheeks were gray in the lamplight. His shoulders were leaden. Maddy paused, hand to the doorframe, feeling her impatience dissolve at the pitiable sight of him.

  “I don’t want to do this now,” Guy said, before she could attempt to speak. “Can we both sleep first, please?”

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” said Maddy.

  “Then I’ll mix you a draft,” he said. “You need to rest. We both do.”

  “Guy,” she said, as gently as she could, “I need to see—”

  “Maddy,” he said, cutting her off before she could say “Luke,” “not tonight. I’m begging you.” He raised his tired eyes to hers. “I’m not going to give up on us. You’re my wife. Iris is my daughter.…”

  “Guy…”

  “I’m too exhausted to fight,” he said, “and I’ll lose if I try, so please don’t make me do it now.”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “I meant fight for you.” His voice cracked on the words.

  She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. Her throat felt suddenly very tight.

  “Please,” he said. “Can we just … wait.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please,” he repeated.

  She stared a moment longer. He stared back, gaze laden with entreaty. It caused her pain, physical pain, to see it. And he really had asked her for so little in their short marriage. For everything he’d given her, one short night of rest seemed the very least she could do for him.