A Proper Education for Girls (7 page)

Lilian pretended not to hear him.

I
T TOOK ALMOST
three months to reach Kushpur. Three months in which Lilian seemed to grow in stature, while her husband appeared to dwindle. Rather than finding the heat enervating, Lilian thrived on it. Her complexion became rosy, her walk became a confident stride.

“You walk like a man,” her husband complained peevishly, as he scratched at the weeping blebs of psoriasis that covered the backs of his hands. “And what's that gibberish you're always muttering?” He scowled and gave a feeble cough. “And for goodness' sake make sure you take that hat off before we meet anyone we know.”

“Who do we know out here?” inquired Lilian mildly. She was cleaning the rifle with oil and a piece of soft cotton cloth.

“And stop fiddling with that gun. Anyone would think you were a
sepoy.”

Lilian looked at her husband reproachfully. His thick sandy hair had lost its shine and now enfolded his skull in a lusterless woolen helmet. His eyes were sunken and dull, ringed with gray wizened flesh, as though the moisture was gradually being sucked out of him by the hot breeze. His skin was mottled with pink blotches and a slapdash effort with his ablutions that morning had left patches of unmown stubble dotted here and there across his hollow cheeks. A cut beneath his ear was beaded with dried blood.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Selwyn?” she said. She would never have spoken to him in such a way before she had made her escape from England. Why, he had told her that it was her silent acquiescence that had most appealed to him in his choice of her as his bride. As if she hadn't known that her father had made him a generous payment on her wedding day. But her father and Dr. Cattermole were far away now, and she no longer felt the need to feign such meekness. Still, she thought, at least Selwyn had stopped reminding her how lucky she was to have found a husband at all.

“Remember your duty and speak to your husband with respect,” he snapped now, as though hearing her thoughts. “Where's your gratitude? Where do you think you would be without me? I mean, if it were not for my noble work at the Magdalene asylum with Dr. Cattermole, your father might never have found a husband as suitable as I, nor as understanding of
who
and
what
you are.”

Lilian's face turned red, then white. She gripped the rifle she had been cleaning and fought to master the urge to discharge it into her husband's face. How little he knew! She breathed deeply to
steady herself. Now was not the time to rise to Selwyn's taunts. Instead, she lowered her eyes and began packing her cleaning materials away.

Selwyn gave a dejected cough and rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief to mop his sweating brow. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said. “I should not have spoken so. I'm sure you must dwell every day on the weaknesses of your character and the unhappy consequences of your actions. Of course, I realize that at times your gratitude is so profound as to scarcely be able to make itself felt.” He dabbed at his forehead and examined the resultant moist handkerchief. “This place makes me feel unwell,” he muttered. “Perhaps I have heat stroke.”

“But you've hardly been outside,” said Lilian, turning away so that she did not have to look at him.

“The cholera, then.”

“That's absurd.”

“Typhus.” Selwyn sank back into his chair with a groan. “That's what it must be.”

“Nonsense,” said Lilian. “Malaria, perhaps.”

“Malaria!” Selwyn looked startled. He had not thought of that. “Is it fatal?”

“It can be. Are your hands shaking?”

“No.” He held his hands out. As he stared at them, they began to twitch. “Yes, yes, they are!” he screamed. “Look!”

“Really, Selwyn, you are so suggestible.” Lilian sighed. “Anyway, this is the end of our journey. We'll be in Kushpur later today. You can see the doctor there,” she added, relenting a little.

“I'm dying and you don't even care.” He sounded irritable. “We should never have come. I don't know what I was thinking.” He groaned and scratched at his hands again. “This infernal heat is killing me. I should have taken that parish in Kirkcudbright and that would have been an end to it.”

Indeed it would
, thought Lilian. She remembered him declaring his intention to be a missionary. It was the day after their marriage. He had made love to her for the first time, and filled with a new-found
confidence now that he had, at last, managed to deposit his seed in the desired location rather than on the bedsheets, he had made his announcement. Africa was his initial choice—more wild and untamed than any other continent, he had said excitedly, a mysterious place filled with savages, never mind heathens, a place where a man could make his mark. Lilian had nodded. “Of course, Selwyn,” she had said as her husband began to fumble with her nightdress once more. In the end, however, passage to India had proved to be more economical.

But now, with a cloud of flies circling his head and with his Bible spotted with mold spores, Lilian knew that the fire of evangelism that once burned in Selwyn Fraser's breast flickered and grew fainter with every day that passed. She knew he missed the soft rain and biting wind of home; the green grass and frisking lambs; the lingering sunsets and cold mornings. She knew he missed cheddar cheese and herrings in oatmeal. Lilian also knew that Selwyn found India to be a distasteful mixture of the pestilent, the heathen, and the boring. She knew that the impossibility of getting anything done without first becoming familiar with an elaborate hierarchy of castes infuriated him and that the inertia and monotony of the place filled him with disgust. Lilian knew all this because Selwyn himself made a point of telling her so almost every single day.

“We should have stayed at home,” he said mournfully.

Lilian turned away and scanned the plain before the
dak
bungalow. In the distance, a cloud of dust hanging low in the air told her where a herd of bison wandered. The heat was already causing the air to buckle and fold on the horizon, and there was no sign that there would even be a breeze that day. She pulled her
topi
down to shield her face from the glare of the morning sun and slung the gun across her shoulder. “I've already packed everything,” she said. “When you're ready we'll go.”

B
Y THE TIME THEY ARRIVED, THE
M
ISSIONARY
S
OCIETY
at Kushpur had been expecting Selwyn and Lilian for some time.

“Thank goodness you've arrived,” said the man who greeted them. “We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.”

“Look at these insect bites,” Selwyn replied. “Or bug bites from one of those dreadful
dak
bungalows.” He shook the man's hand, introducing himself and Lilian.

“John Rutherford,” said the man, gazing at Selwyn's weeping scabs. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers.

“And my head is throbbing,” said Selwyn. “This place is like an oven.”

“The heat takes some getting used to, I know. Even at this time in the morning it can be quite oppressive.” Mr. Rutherford eyed Lilian's
topi
, which she had failed to remove despite her husband's entreaties and which bore the dusty and sun-bleached appearance of sustained usage. “Ladies often find it particularly debilitating”—he cleared his throat—“though I see you have the right idea, Mrs. Fraser.”

“I told her to take the wretched thing off,” muttered Selwyn. “Why, she has only just changed back into her dress. She's been wearing a pair of my trousers since we left the Hooghly.”

“My husband has been quite ill,” interrupted Lilian, perceiving
Mr. Rutherford's expression. “On more than one occasion we were obliged to send the
dak
on and wait for the next one. That's why we're so late arriving.”

“Do you need a doctor?” Mr. Rutherford glanced at Selwyn, and then at Lilian, as though unsure which one of them might be most in need of attention. “The dispensary is only over there. I'm sure Dr. Mossly would be delighted to help.”

He pointed to a building at whose entrance a crowd had gathered. As they watched a bundle of rags was lifted from the ground and carried inside. Against the walls lay other piles of tattered blankets, above each of which fizzed a furious cloud of flies. From the midst of these blankets bony limbs could be seen projecting.

Selwyn gazed doubtfully at the dark entrance where the bundle had disappeared. “If I go in there I may never come out again,” he said. He swiped angrily at a mosquito with the fly whisk he carried with him like a talisman. Lilian flinched. Could he not keep still, even for a moment?

“Anyhow, Rutherford,” he said, “would you be so kind as to show us where we are to stay while we ‘re here? We started at four this morning to avoid the heat and I'm beginning to feel rather faint.”

Mr. Rutherford led them through a compound to a large, white-painted bungalow with an intricately fashioned wrought-iron veranda. The bungalow had once been surrounded by a garden, but this now appeared to be something of a jungle. A rampant mass of foliage was punctuated by crimson clots of geraniums and surrounded a wide skirt of lawn. Lilian's eyes were uncontrollably drawn to these garish flower heads, which seemed to be absorbing the glare of the sun, becoming brighter and brighter, until she found she could barely look at them. Even when she turned away she could still see their imprint blazing like red-hot coals on the backs of her eyes. The house itself rested on short stilts, as though it were standing on tiptoe to keep its skirts out of the dust.

“One of the Company clerks lived here,” said Mr. Rutherford.
“But he's been taken ill and has retired to the mountains for some cool air. He won't be back for some time so you can stay in this house indefinitely. Well, at least until you move on.”

He pushed open the door and led them into the drawing room. Inside was green and shady with cool wooden floors and scented grass screens over the windows. Overhead, the
punkah
began to move slowly back and forth, its rope pulled by a native servant sitting outside on the veranda. Every effort had been made to recreate the drawing rooms of home and the place was cluttered with occasional tables, ornaments, and potted palm trees. An enormous bearskin sprawled before the fireplace, its stuffed and mounted head staring down in gloomy disbelief from an adjacent wall. In one corner, squatting on a short-legged table that seemed specially made for the purpose, they were surprised to see a large, potbellied hookah.

“Did this fellow actually smoke that thing?” asked Selwyn, pointing to the hookah.

“I believe he did, sometimes,” said Mr. Rutherford.

“Whatever next! Still, I suppose you people are a long way from home. It must be easy to forget how to behave sometimes.”

Mr. Rutherford gave a tight smile. “Indeed. As I said, Mr. Gilmour, the clerk in question, has had to repair to cooler climes. For his health, you understand.”

“Ah,” said Selwyn. He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger and nodded. “I see.”

“Really, Selwyn,” said Lilian. “You know nothing about poor Mr. Gilmour. I'm sure Mr. Rutherford meant no such thing.”

“Oh yes he did,” snapped Selwyn. “The heat turns some of these fellows mad, you know. It's all hushed up, of course. They get sent off. Up to Simla or some place like that. I'm right, aren't I, Rutherford?”

Mr. Rutherford inspected the dusty toes of his shoes. “I really wouldn't like to say …” he murmured.

From outside, a bell tolled. “Nine o'clock,” cried Mr. Rutherford
with obvious relief. He rubbed his hands together, as though warming himself before a roaring fire. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you, but I think we have everything we need,” said Lilian. Looking about the room, she noticed that the feet of all items of furniture were resting in saucers of water. Back home in her father's house Aunt Rushton-Bell insisted that the feet of all her furniture stand in saucers of water too. She maintained that this was the only way to prevent white ants from devouring the wood or from swarming up the legs of her chair and over her as she dozed before the fire. Aunt Rushton-Bell had spent over half a century living on the plains of India with her magistrate husband. Returning to England at the age of seventy-two, she had struggled to adapt to the more temperate climate and less rapacious insects. Lilian and Alice had taken it in turns to top the saucers up for her.

Selwyn had also spotted the saucers. Lilian saw him close his eyes and shudder.

“Has any correspondence arrived for us?” she asked, still thinking of home. At that moment, Lilian noticed a bowl of large saffron-colored peaches sitting on the table beside the hookah. She gave a cry of pleasure and reached out to pick one up. It was as warm as flesh to the touch, and she held it to her nose to inhale its familiar fragrant sweetness. Its skin felt soft as dust against her lips, and she breathed the scent of it in again, intoxicated. She closed her eyes, and for a moment she forgot Selwyn and his angry, disgruntled expression; she forgot Mr. Rutherford and that strange Kushpur drawing room. Instead, she was home: back home with Alice in the glorious summer heat of the hothouse beside their mother's peach tree, its branches bowed beneath the weight of its numberless glowing fruits.