East of the Sun (43 page)

She could easily, at that moment, have told Rose about what had happened at Ooty, about Frank, and Guy. Rose, who’d proved rather unshockable, would have understood, and maybe have some sensible advice for her. But her door seemed jammed—opening it too frightening—there might be a howling wasteland beyond.

A more painful thought followed: that all the energy Rose had spent on trying and, by all accounts, succeeding in loving a flawed man, Viva spent in not caring, on a kind of willed heartlessness. She did it, at least this was her excuse, so she could work and survive. Who was right?

Viva’s scar was beginning to throb; it was all too complicated. If only she could reduce what Rose had told her to a manageable thought, something she could believe in, applaud, feel sorry about.

When she was a child, her father’s scientific mind had often perplexed her by answering a question with a question. She remembered asking him one day, “How do you make an aeroplane?”

He’d said, “What is the purpose of an aeroplane?”

She’d said, “To fly,” and then he’d made her work out what it would need to fly: wings, lightness, speed, and so forth.

So what was the purpose of men and women together, apart from the obvious baby-making thing? Shelter? Protection? Women’s suffrage was already changing the rules. So was it to help you make love? To increase your understanding of love by branching out beyond yourself? But that sounded hopelessly high-minded and romantic—some people clearly did terrible damage to each other—yet how could you possibly
really know before the damage was done? This was surely the greatest gamble of all.

She was trying to think of it in purely abstract terms when Frank’s smile—his dimples, the sudden sweetness of it—made her squeeze her eyes tight shut. She mustn’t think of him again like that. Her chance had gone. It was over.

W
hen Rose woke up, Viva was lying next to her with her eyes wide open.

“What are you thinking, Viva?” she said.

“That we should ride home soon; Tor will think we’ve been eaten by a crocodile.”

Rose suddenly felt furious with her. Both she and Tor had been shocked at how ill Viva looked. It wasn’t just the bruised eyes, both of them had agreed; all her fire seemed to have gone. Even her hair seemed less shiny.

“Say something to her while you’re riding,” Tor had said. “I would but I’ll only put my foot in it, and you know how prickly she can be.”

So Rose had tried, and because Viva was a good listener, she’d said far more than she’d meant to. It had been so long since she’d confided in anyone, and now she felt angry and stupid, because Viva had just stood up and brushed the crumbs off her jodhpurs and was smiling at her in a superior, chaperone-ish way, as if she felt sorry for her. Any moment now, Rose could almost feel it, she would bring out that blasted notebook and pencil of hers and then she would definitely want to crown her.

She took a couple of deep breaths. “So aren’t you going to say anything?” The words were out before she thought of them.

“About what?” In the sunlight you could still see yellow and green bruises around Viva’s eyes, and the row of small holes where the stitches had been.

“About yourself?”

“But I thought we were talking about you, Rose. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled a pencil out of her pocket and rotated it between her fingers—a nervous habit of hers.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rose.”

“About saying things.” Rose moved a couple of feet farther away from her. “You know, friendship. I tell you something that’s important to me and then you say something about you that’s important to you. It’s called letting your guard down.” Rose was shocked to hear herself practically shouting.

“Rose!” Viva moved away from her so quickly she knocked over the hip flask. “I do tell you things. Sometimes.”

“Oh, rubbish,” shouted Rose. “Absolute rubbish.”

“This is not a game of tennis,” Viva roared. “Why do I have to confide in you just because you have?”

“Well, drop it then, Viva,” Rose bellowed back. Two swans flew across the lake, their wings flapping like sails, and the horses’ heads shot up, but she couldn’t stop herself now; it was such a relief not to be pretending. “Just drop it. I’ll overlook the fact that you’ve lost about a stone in weight; that you look absolutely done in; that someone tried to murder you in Bombay and you don’t want to talk about it; and that Frank, who is clearly mad about you, has been sent away with no reason, or none that you want to talk about. Let’s just talk about ponies and Christmas pudding. I’ll pretend not to notice any of that—it’s just silly little Rose who has all the problems and
makes all the mistakes, and Viva, the magnificent, is still divinely in control.”

“How dare you say that.” Viva’s fists were balled.

“What do you want me to say?”

They glared at each other.

“Well, you could start with Frank. Most friends would at least tell each other what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” said Viva. When her jaw set like that, Rose was almost scared of her. “We had a brief whatever it was, but I needed to work, to finish my book, to get on with things, to try and earn my own living. I don’t have a mummy and daddy in the background to help me along.”

“No, you don’t,” Rose admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you can tell lies about yourself.”

“What lies?” Viva’s voice was cold.

“About how you feel.” Rose felt her sandwich starting to congeal in her stomach. She’d never had a proper row with a friend before.

“Don’t you dare judge me.” Viva’s eyes had gone as black as coals.

“I’m not trying to judge you, I’m trying to be your friend. Viva, please,” she touched her gently, “sit down.”

Viva sat down at the far end of the rug and glared toward the lake.

“Look,” Rose tried again after a long silence, “it’s absolutely none of our beeswax, but we do care. We were with you in Ooty; we saw you with Frank, you seemed mad about each other.”

Viva shifted her legs, moved her head rapidly from side to side, then said, “All right, if it makes you feel any better, I made a bloody great mess of the whole thing. Now do you feel better?”

“No, of course I don’t,” Rose said quietly. “That’s mean.” She stretched out her hand, but Viva ignored it.

She stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry. But I’m hopeless at this
sort of thing. Thank you for trying, really, but I think we should go home now.”

“Say something, Viva,” Rose pleaded.

“I can’t. There’s nothing really to tell; it’s all such a muddle in my mind.”

Viva’s sigh sounded like a dry sob from deep inside her. There was another long silence.

“All right.” Viva had turned her back to her and her voice was muffled. “Do you remember the night Frank came to Ooty, to warn us about Guy? After you went to bed, he came to my room. He stayed the night. Are you shocked?”

“Of course not.” Rose gave her a soft punch on the arm. “Things happen in India that are different from home, and besides, it was so blindingly obvious!”

“Was it?” Viva looked up reluctantly.

“Yes, it was.”

“How awful.”

“Why awful?”

“Because it’s so secret.”

“You both looked so different, sort of spellbound. I remember feeling jealous, thinking that’s the way I hoped I’d feel on my honeymoon.”

“I didn’t feel spellbound, I felt, well, it doesn’t matter now. It was so confusing.”

“But,” Rose was perplexed, “forgive me, but did something go wrong?”

“No.” Viva’s voice was almost inaudible. “That part was wonderful.” She gave a soft squeak of pain.

“So you sent him away because it was wonderful.”

“I felt so guilty, because he’d come to warn me that Guy might have been killed in the riots. I was sure he was dead.”

“It wasn’t your fault that Guy did what he did.”

“Look, Rose.” Viva’s face was white. Her bruise had lit up like an angry flower. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it and
I don’t, so can I stop now?” She stomped toward the horses so fast she almost stumbled on a rock. “I really do want to go home now,” she said.

Tor was standing in the kitchen when Viva walked into the house. She shut the door so hard that a wreath fell onto the veranda. She heard her shoes click up the corridor and then the door to her bedroom close.

Rose was hanging up her riding hat in the corridor and looking toward the closed door.

“Rose, what happened?” said Tor. Her heart sank.

“Disaster,” whispered Rose. “She’s absolutely livid. She really does hate talking about things.”

“Shall I go?” Tor mouthed. “I could take her a cup of tea.” She lifted an imaginary cup to her mouth.

“I’d leave her for a bit,” said Rose. “I really do think she wants to be on her own. Is it all right if I give Freddie a bath?” she said loud enough for Viva to overhear. “He could probably do with one after his ride.”

A row of paper chains had fallen from the hall ceiling; Tor picked it up and wore it around her neck like a stole and felt her spirits plummet. While the girls had been out riding, Jack had telephoned to say he was back temporarily in Peshawar, but it was looking unlikely that he would make it for Christmas. He’d started to explain but the line had sounded like a forest fire. Rose would be upset. Viva was hardly the life and soul, and with eight days to go before Christmas, Tor now envisaged quiet meals with herself overdoing it as usual, an exhausting hostess. All the decorations that had thrilled her a few days ago now looked silly and childish, an unwelcome dig in the ribs reminding them to have fun.

Toby (oh, how sweet and uncomplicated he suddenly seemed) would wonder why she’d been so excited about asking all these tricky people to stay.

These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by birdlike chirrupings coming from the direction of Freddie’s room and then a gurgle of laughter. Tor opened the door to his room. Fred was being lifted from underneath his mosquito net by Rose. He opened his eyes when he saw her, smiled and wiggled his fingers.

She followed Rose into the bathroom, where Jai had filled up the old zinc bath with water. Freddie’s nightdress was unbuttoned, and Rose lowered him into the water after testing it carefully with her elbow.

“Freddo, darling, Mr. McFred, who’s a pretty baby boy,” she crooned lapping water up his fat, creased little legs. The baby gave a reckless, gummy smile and then kicked his legs out. How nice it was, reflected Tor, rolling up her sleeves and kneeling on the other side of the bath, to have at least one jolly person in the house.

“Do you think Viva’s going to be all right?” she asked Rose, in a low voice.

“I hope so,” whispered Rose. “But she is infuriating sometimes. I mean, we did talk about Frank a bit, but it really was like pulling teeth, and then she got, well, you saw her stamp in.”

“So what to do?” Tor hissed back. “It’ll be so awful if nobody speaks over Christmas.”

“That’s unlikely,” said Rose in her more normal voice. “Here, pass me the flannel, Tor. Fred’s got cradle cap. If you put that towel on your knee, I’ll pass him to you. Careful, he’s slippery…Wheeee!”

The dripping baby was held up in the air and passed from friend to friend, landing up on Tor’s knee.

“You are a
burra
baby,” Tor told him, kissing his toes, “and a fine horseman.” She clicked her tongue and bounced him up
and down on her lap. “This is the way the ladies ride, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.” When she bent down to kiss him again, he shot a jet of urine into her eye.

And suddenly they were in hysterics, doubled up and shrieking breathlessly, aged about six, seven at the most again. While they were laughing, Viva walked into the room and sat down on the cork-covered stool beside the bath.

“This sounds fun,” she said.

“It is,” Tor choked. She put a towel on Viva’s lap and passed the baby to her. “That child has a lethal aim. He just pee-peed into my eye.”

Viva smiled and played with his fingers for a while. She looked as if she wanted to laugh but was too worn out.

“Tor,” she said at last, “how far is Frank’s hospital from here?”

Tor beamed, she couldn’t help herself. “Oh, it’s nothing, absolutely nothing—half an hour, maybe three-quarters at the most.”

She could see Rose behind Viva’s back making “keep calm” gestures with her hand.

“Well…” it was the first time Tor could ever remember Viva looking shy, “Toby’s been telling me about his last Christmas at the club, the dusty paper hats, the old wine, it sounded horrible—of course Frank may have other plans by now,” Viva plowed on, “but I don’t think it would do any harm to go over and wish him a happy Christmas, even if he can’t come.”

She drew Freddie deeper into her lap and wrapped her arms around him.

“What do you think?” She looked at Rose and then at Tor. She was trembling.

Tor walked over to Viva and kissed her gently on the head. “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she said.