The Death of Mr Love, page 27
‘Now? You go home.’
‘I meant what happens to . . . ?’
He said, ‘Don’t concern yourself. I will dispose of it.’
‘Yes, but what . . . ?’ She broke off, seeing his face.
He said, ‘Haven’t you had enough of horror? At the end of the road, there is a facility.’
So the foetus was to be buried in the wet, stinking, municipal tip near Churchgate station. She cried at the thought of her baby flung out with the garbage. There was no relief from the rain.
COUNTDOWN (SYBIL’S JOURNALS, 1958–9)
For weeks she was very ill. He had hurt her inside. She dared not go to the family doctor. Her woman friend (why did she not name her, obviously it was Maya?) came to visit and took her to a clinic, which wanted to admit her. Sybil refused. They gave her drugs, which eased the pain but could not stop the nightmares. She fled to Ambona to recover, taking Phoebe with her. This was the first of the three summers they came to spend with us.
No nightmare is worse than my daylight imaginings. For weeks after I lost her I could feel her struggling inside me. Even now I fancy that I remember her very last kick, on my left side. She wanted to be born, but poor thing, had no strength left. Phoebe’s sister, I am sure she was a girl, would have been born in February.
On the date this last passage was written, she had been with us in Ambona. Now I knew why Sybil had looked so ill; why she was so withdrawn, no longer the ebullient person I had known; why Phoebe as a small child had cried behind the chicken shed; why Jula’s mother had read the trouble in her eyes.
The world is beautiful and I am empty. With other people I must put on a face. The ayah especially, she must never suspect. Maya tries to lift my spirits and for Phoebe’s sake I try to be cheerful, but when I am alone, in that place where the pain and shame and rage are gathered, I start crying and am not able to stop. Just lately, I have found some strength in rage. I seesaw between tears and feeling quite murderous. Against L for his cruel betrayal, against Killy for neglecting me, but especially against myself. I wanted the child, but lacked courage to keep it. I should have told them all to go to hell. Because of my weakness, my child had a hideous death. She was entitled to the protection of my womb, and was clawed out, to meet a fate that I cannot bear to think of. She would have been born in February. I keep trying to imagine what she would have looked like. I feel as if I have done murder.
During this period, my mother told us the story of Nafísa Jaan. No wonder Maya had not wanted to . . . No wonder she asked Sybil to choose something else. Why had Sybil insisted? Was it to fuel her rage? I read Retribution again. Some weeks after his contemptuous dismissal of Sybil, Mister Love had a phone call from her on ‘a crackling, fading line, interrupted by loud crashes, bangs and booms’. She told him it was thundering. An understatement, if she was describing that afternoon.
She informed me that she was no longer pregnant and (much of the rest was garbled by the bad connection) seemed to be alluding to an obscure legend from the past. But her last words, before she put the phone down, were perfectly clear. ‘It’s not unborn children, but men like you who deserve to die. I promise you, there will be retribution!’
Sybil returned to Bombay full of trepidation. The emotional wounds caused by the abortion had not healed, but two months out of sight of her husband had made her stronger. Nevertheless she was terrified at the thought of returning to him, and to the city. What if they bumped into L in a club, or at a dance? Would her reaction betray her? But Phoebe had to go back to school and there was nothing to be done but return and face whatever lay ahead.
To Sybil’s surprise, Killy was full of consideration. He was kindness itself. Never in their marriage had he been so attentive. He knew that she had been ill but not, of course, the reason. Worried by her unyielding depression, he pressed her to confide in him. His very gentleness irritated her. She told him in an outburst that she hated India, hated her life, wanted to die. She expected him to be angry, but his reaction amazed her.
Killy said he blamed himself for having neglected her. Bombay in the monsoon was hell. He suggested that she take Phoebe and go to England for a long holiday. She could stay with her parents and he would try to join them for a few weeks. Hoping she would agree, he had booked two passages on an aeroplane to England. A Super Constellation. It would be the first time in her life that she had flown. Sybil, unable to believe the best of him, thought, He means to be rid of me. Returning me like faulty goods. But as she soon discovered, she was wrong.
England, after a decade away, amazed her. It seemed so clean. The roads were wet and spotless, the cars and lorries moved in orderly procession. No cacophony of horns. No paanwallahs squatting in crevices in South Croydon’s streets. Her parents were delighted to see her, and thrilled with the child, their granddaughter Phoebe, still wearing her Ambona tan, whom they were meeting for the first time.
They went to London Zoo, to look at the tigers.
‘I suppose you have seen lots in India,’ said her grandfather.
‘Not tigers,’ replied Phoebe. ‘Leopards and wild boar, mostly.’
The grandmother said to Sybil, ‘Well, she’s a lovely little girl. And she’ll soon lose that awful Indian singsong.’
After a few weeks, Sybil began to chafe under the fussing of her mother and the unexpressed, tight-lipped worry of her father. Then Killy arrived. He said he had taken two months’ leave from the business, and she knew this must have been difficult to arrange. Killy was full of plans for their holiday. He would take her out dancing. They would revisit all their old haunts, the places ‘where we did our courting’. The old-fashioned phrase made Sybil smile. They had a candlelit dinner at the little French restaurant in Soho where he had proposed. Their elderly waiter made a fuss of Sybil and said he remembered them well.
‘What nonsense,’ she said. ‘I bet you put him up to it.’
Killy admitted that he had, and then they were both giggling. He caught up her hands in his, and said again that he regretted how he had neglected her. She knew him well enough to tell that he was sincere. Killy said he had come to realise how hard it must have been for her in India. But things would be different. He would show her, he would make amends. He reached inside his dinner jacket and produced a ticket.
‘Just the two of us,’ he said. ‘A second honeymoon.’
A ferry ticket. They’d hire a car and drive. And in Dijon . . . In Chamonix . . . In Venice . . . Killy was wonderful. In the glorious scenery of the Alps, she forgot her sadness and acquired a tan. In her diary were two pages from a letter she had written to Maya.
. . . in Chamonix, where the peaks are the way children draw them. Wearing pointy wizard-hats of snow. K has been so kind. Not at all what I expected. I don’t know what to think. I was sure our choices had been made, but now – I don’t know – for the first time in months, I find myself thinking there is hope, and I’m frightened. My God, if he knew. Must be careful he doesn’t see this. He knows I’m writing to you.
Later. Finally reached Venice last evening. Putting up in a small hotel in the Canareggio. K immediately wanted to go for a walk. We crossed a wide bridge into a maze of lanes and tiny canals, then found ourselves at the Bridge of Sighs. Thence via more alleys to St Mark’s where we sat at a table in the square, rather chilly, and listened to the violinist at Florian’s. A dark-skinned boy came up selling roses and K bought me one. I tell you, it is making me nervous. The child reminded me of the gardener’s little boy in Ambona, the same huge dark eyes . . . I thought of you, your immense kindness this summer. What would I have done without you . . . We’ve just been out to lunch. He is still being sweet. Woe is me, I am so confused. He goes back to Bombay next week. Flying, imagine! His plan is that Phoebe and I stay in England a few weeks longer, until November. But already I think my decision is made. I’ll come back. K promises things will be different. He will be at home more. We will do things together. At Christmas we will go to friends in Simla and see in the New Year. 1959. Isn’t it strange, Maya, all the years I’ve been in India and I have never seen the Himalayas?
When the time came for him to fly back to Bombay, she did not want him to go. Freezing England now seemed intolerable.
By November, when the ‘cold weather’ starts in Bombay, she had recovered sufficiently to return. Would Killy have reverted to his old ways? What would happen if she met Mister Love?
But Killy was still the new, marvellous, considerate Killy. Her friends were delighted to see her, and brought her up to date with the gossip: My dear, did you hear about that madman Sub? What he did this time? Gradually, she began to rebuild her life.
A few weeks later, Killy whisked her off to friends in Simla. Snow and log fires. They had a good Christmas and New Year. Killy was still very solicitous and, for the first time in a decade, her marriage seemed worthwhile. By the spring, she felt restored.
Some diary entries from the new year, 1959.
January 3rd
Killy is up in arms because a report has appeared in today’s papers of a ‘colour bar’ at his Breach Candy Club. Why he should be so surprised, I don’t know, since there clearly is a ‘no wogs’ policy. Blitz has issued A CALL TO ALL PATRIOTS to attend a mass rally on Republic Day, the 26th. Killy says Indians are absurdly touchy about national pride and a ‘demonstration’ on Republic Day is a shameless tactic to heat the blood. Blitz published the sign that hangs in the club, complete with strange capitalisation, which I will copy faithfully as follows:
THESE PREMISES ARE A HERITAGE OF THE EUROPEAN INHABITANTS OF BOMBAY. VESTED IN THEM FOR ALL TIME BY A TRUST DEED DATED THE 3RD FEBRUARY 1876. ONLY THEY AND THEIR GUESTS OF EUROPEAN ORIGIN TO WHOM THEY EXTEND THE PRIVILEGE ARE ELIGIBLE FOR ADMISSION.
January 6th
The Dalda Writing Contest has been won by someone called Coralie Atzenweiler. I wonder if Maya knows her. The contest has a ridiculous ring, when you know that Dalda is a white cooking fat rather like sloppy lard. The absurd names continue into the consolation prizes, with a Mr D. D. Dhanjikanjibarfiwala among the winners.
January 10th
SIXTY YEARS AGO. 1899: CRIME OF PASSION. A terrible tragedy is reported from Bandora, near Bombay. Captain Iremonger, of the Durham Light Infantry, was shot by an engineer named Gregory, on the staff of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. Mr Gregory afterwards shot his wife dead and blew out his own brains. Captain Iremonger lies in a precarious condition. Jealousy, says the Central News, is alleged to have been the motive of the crime, Mrs Gregory having been constantly in the company of the captain.
January 24th
Poor old Killy. Today’s news is quite surreal. Blitz has printed an open letter from the Mayor of Bombay about Breach Candy, full of fine-sounding phrases and honest outrage. Killy gloomily says he can see the time coming when Indians will have to be allowed to join. ‘Depressing thought, isn’t it?’ I don’t find it so, but am so grateful to Killy for his wonderful transformation that I don’t have the heart to argue. Killy read me part of a letter one of his members had planned to send to The Times of India. ‘Dear Indians, We know you love us very much. So much that you want to do everything we do, and be with us all the time, wherever we are. We love you very much too. All we ask is somewhere we can be by ourselves now and again.’
A person calling himself ‘Vox Populi’ has written to Prince Philip about the ‘colour bar’. But Philip and the rest of the British establishment are apparently still reeling from the fact that the Russians have sent something called a Sputnik into space.
January 31st
Nehru’s daughter, Indira Gandhi, is to be President of the Indian National Congress. Is it possible that one day a woman could even be Prime Minister?
February 14th
Hitchcock’s new film Vertigo comes here in April. He is quoted as saying, ‘Suspense is like a woman; the more left to the imagination, the more the excitement.’
March 20th, 1959
What a desperate business in Tibet. The Dalai Llama [sic] has fled to India with thousands of his monks. His favourite saying is: ‘For as long as space endures, And for as long as living beings remain, Until then may I too abide, To dispel the misery of the world.’
April 18th, 1959
With Killy and Phoebe to the Excelsior to see Limelight. Vertigo is on at the Regal. We can’t take Phoebe. But Tom Thumb is on next week at the Metro and Killy says we can all go and see that together. We are a proper little family and I am happy again for the first time in years.
April 27th, 1959
Lunch at Bombelli’s. Played U and Non-U with Zafyque and Jo. What a relief! I am predominantly U.
On this day, Sybil’s diaries came to an abrupt and startling stop.
HOTEL (SOUTH KENSINGTON, MAY 1999)
Phoebe phoned me to say she was in London, and asked me to meet her at her hotel. Didn’t say why. We ate lunch in a strange underground dining room, black walls decorated with lacquered oriental birds. She seemed nervous and picked at her starter – some sort of salad – a finely sliced tomato and sprig of basil in a splash of oil.
‘Nine seventy-five for that? Bit steep, isn’t it?’
‘Just as well it’s my treat,’ she said. ‘I know booksellers are always broke.’
‘Not all booksellers. James Heneage isn’t broke. Just this one.’ I was making my delighted and unaccustomed way through a ginger soup accompanied by tiny prawn dumplings.
Phoebe said, ‘That reminds me, I’ve got you a little present.’ Leaning forward she added in a mysterious whisper, ‘But I can’t give it to you till later. Don’t let me forget.’
She was wearing one of those sun dresses that seems designed to reveal more than it covers. Optimism, I thought, is dressing for summer in May. Last time I saw her, it had been mid-winter. After which, another mysterious silence.
She said, ‘I loved reading about Jula, but I can’t get used to him being called Mitra. And Dost. Did I get his name right? Dost? To rhyme with toast?’
‘Nearly.’ She should have used the soft dental ‘d’ and ‘t’, but these sounds don’t exist in English.
There was an awkwardness between us this time which hadn’t been there before. I guessed she was thinking about her mother’s diaries. Was she regretting having asked me to read them? They were so intimate and painful. And came to that shocking full-stop. Shocking at least to me, because I knew what had happened next. Or thought I knew. It was impossible to be sure.
The conundrum was this: I was now sure that Retribution had been inspired by Sybil’s diaries. The diaries stopped on April 27th 1959, the day on which, and according to Retribution, Mister Love had been murdered. But my man had checked the Blitz archive back to January and forward to August. No such murder had been recorded. Had Maya, elaborating on Sybil’s ‘murderous’ feelings, concluded Retribution with a fictitious murder? That was one possibility. On the other hand, if the murder was invented, why was Maya so specific about the date? Why did Sybil, on that very day, abandon her diary for ever? And why, within a few days more, did she take Phoebe out of school and flee to Ambona with Rosie and the hastily appointed Daruwalla?
Phoebe thought something had happened in India to ruin her parents’ lives. I assumed she knew about Sybil’s failed love affair, and her abortion. But the diaries said nothing about murder. The question was, should I?
‘I liked the description of the hashish bazaar,’ Phoebe was saying. ‘But I find it odd to think of you there.’
So far, although she must have been burning to question me, she had carefully avoided any mention of the diaries. I decided that I wouldn’t bring the subject up. For my part I was wondering why there had again been such a long silence before she contacted me. The air between us fairly shimmered with ghosts. That’s what a ghost is, Maya used to say, an unanswered question.
‘I wasn’t always a stick-in-the-mud,’ I said.
‘I told you before, you shouldn’t run yourself down. You’re a fascinating, exciting man.’
Her eyes held mine above the napkin she lifted to dab at her mouth. To my great astonishment she did not appear to be joking.
‘Sure you’re not getting me mixed up with someone else?’ When we were children she had been my loyallest supporter. Not since then had I received such unstinting regard from any female. And last time we met she had backed me in among the coats and kissed me.
‘I predict that one day soon you’re going to surprise yourself,’ she said. ‘Would you mind signalling the waiter?’
The man duly materialised from the darkness between a pair of lacquered dragons to remove our plates. Phoebe poured wine. My glass was still nearly full, hers empty. Her third, at least. She reached into her handbag and fished out a gold lighter.
‘Do you mind? I know I shouldn’t, between courses, but . . .’
She lit her blasted cigarette – I hate the damned things – her unease was palpable, and catching. What was the problem? Why had she asked me so suddenly to lunch? Was it really her mother’s forty-year-old diaries? Or some other reason? Maybe I should have asked after her husband, or said, ‘Isn’t it time you told me where you live?’ There was so much about her I didn’t know.
‘One day I’d like to eat with you in that café,’ said Phoebe. ‘In the street with the vegetable smell. It could hardly be more different than this.’ I realised she was still talking about my report on Jula. ‘Your mother was a writer. Have you ever considered it yourself? Writing something, I mean. Could you do it?’
As a matter of fact I had. Every bookseller worth his salt thinks he can do as well as the authors whose works line his walls. We see what people buy, we have a nose for what sells. Why not?
‘So what’s it about, your story?’
Again those childhood mannerisms, leaning her head a little to one side before she said something, closely scrutinising my lips as I replied. They now seemed peculiarly intimate.
