Monsoon Summer (13 page)

“Oh,” Amma said doubtfully.

“So more like a doctor, or a missionary?” Mariamma supplied helpfully.

“Not really,” I said. “In England, doctors are doctors; we look after their patients.” When I saw Anto giving me his “stop now” frown, I frowned back. He'd led me into this particular land mine, and I found this level of surprise ridiculous.

“The Thames was on fire on the night we met,” Anto continued doggedly. “The entire hospital had to be moved down to the basement.”

I remembered that part, of course: the flames, the sirens, the meaty, coppery smell of blood in the wards. The girl screaming and yelling at me, her dead baby inside its mother's air raid helmet.

“And were you hurt badly?” Mariamma, the peacemaker, wanted to know. She placed a warm hand on my arm.

“Only a bump on the head.”

I found I couldn't speak. When I looked at Anto, he looked back blankly, as if we'd just met.

“So . . . do you think of working here?” Amma's face was arranged in polite inquiry. “As a nurse, I mean?”

So Anto hadn't told them. Wonderful. I felt the shock of betrayal, and then the suspicion that I might have to lie about myself here, over and over again, and that made me suddenly furious with Anto, who was staring down at his plate.

I was about to tell them about the Moonstone when I looked up and saw Anto frowning and shaking his head.

“It is good you have a training,” said Mariamma, filling the even more awkward silence that followed. “My years of study were the happiest of my life.”

“First-class honors in English and history,” said Uncle Yacob, “and she played the piano to a high standard.

“The family brain box,” Grandma Ponnamma shouted.

“Before children,” Mariamma reminded them, biting into her sweetmeat. And looking at this plump, complacently smiling woman, I thought, Is she my future?

-
CHAPTER 14
-

“Y
ou were the one who brought up Saint Thomas',” Kit said to his bare back. “Why should I have to lie about it?”

The big old fan whirled arthritically above his head. Its sound would keep him awake for hours and he longed for sleep.

“Forget it.” He stretched an arm behind himself but didn't turn. “It's your life, your work. I understand.” Liar, he thought. He wanted to scream with frustration.

Because she was right—his fault for deliberately bringing up, and distorting, the bomb incident at Saint Thomas', thinking that the idea of his possible death would mitigate the sin of his bringing an English girl back. A cheap trick. And he should have warned her more about the status of nurses in India, not left it to Daisy to sugarcoat it.

But with that cat out of the bag, she could have helped him by sounding less determined. It was not the way things were done around here.

He'd also had the vague hope—one he wouldn't admit to himself, let alone her—that once in India she'd change her mind about working at the Moonstone or find the job too overwhelming, or that a baby of their own would change her priorities.

She thrashed around beside him for a bit, turning and bashing her pillow, and then, hearing her breath grow even, he covered her gently with a sheet, tucked the mosquito net around her, and sat by the window, trying to untangle his thoughts.

He was home. He was home.
This day, so dreaded, so eagerly anticipated, had brought with it a rush of sensations: the joy of seeing Mariamma again, the relief of hugging Amma, the aunts, delight at seeing the new children, eating his own food, breathing that moist, warm, blossom-scented air. It was like slipping into a warm bath after the long, lonely years away. His father's absence had been the only disappointment of the day. Mariamma said he couldn't wait to see Anto too, but “you know”—humorous rolling of the eyes—“that man can't ever stop working. It's his drug. Don't know how Amma puts up with him.”

Oh, Kit.
He looked down on her as she slept. How will we do now? The risk suddenly felt enormous, like bringing home a large and unmanageable animal, thinking it would thrive here. Had he lured her into a trap?

He thought of the day when he'd drawn the map of South India on her belly with his finger. How full of love he'd felt drawing his child's picture with its promise of exploding sunsets, exotic fruits, and smiley faces—everything blitzed-out, worn-out Britain wasn't. He'd needed her so badly there: her warmth, her succor, the outspoken fun of her. Now he tried to remember if they had even come close to one sensible conversation about how hard this would be.

It was dark outside their window now, a dense, perfumed darkness, occasionally pierced by the screech of an owl on the hunt, the chirping of crickets. Kit was asleep now, her hair in damp tendrils against her cheek, arms spread out. She's brave, he thought. I can't not love her now. She'd looked after him in England; he would do the same for her here. He crawled back into bed, tucked the mosquito net around them, and put his arms around her.

He was drifting off when she rolled over, touched his arm, and said, “Anto, they're horrified, aren't they?”

“Um,” he mumbled, feigning sleep.

“And you know, we didn't actually meet that night at the hospital.”

“Well, we might have. It was chaos.”

“I was much too blithe.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” A note of desperation in her voice. “What was the name of the other girl—the one they thought you'd marry?”

“Vidya,” he said after a tense silence.

“What happened to her?”

“No idea. I was sixteen when I left, and then I met this crazy woman in Oxfordshire.” He ran his hand around her stomach. “This wonderful crazy woman who stole my heart.”

“Do they mind? Terribly, I mean.” A plaintive note in her voice. “Amma, the others?”

He kissed her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, “and they will too when they get to know you.”

She accepted his embraces in silence.

“Were you sad not to see your father?”

“We'll meet him soon; you'll like him. We all look up to him.”

“Amma was telling me about him; he sounds terrifyingly perfect.”

“He's . . .” Several possibilities ran through his mind. “He'll think you're swell,” he said in his Humphrey Bogart voice. “Now go to sleep. I can't talk anymore.” He smoothed her damp nightdress over her thighs.

“I'm trying, I'm trying, and don't you dare, Anto, it's too damn hot.”

-
CHAPTER 15
-

I
was dying to start work, but an inexhaustible supply of relatives began to arrive in horse-drawn phaetons and in rickshaws to welcome Anto home and give me a discreet once-over. After days of smiling at people I didn't know, my mouth felt rigid, my reserves of small talk dangerously low, and I understood how a caged animal might feel claustrophobic and overstimulated all at once.

“Anto,” I said, towards the end of the second week, “I've got to start work soon.” I didn't add “or else I'll go mad” but my meaning was clear. Because the thought of delivering babies so frightened me now, I'd told Daisy before I left, that I could only be counted on to do administrative work or research at the Home. I'd dreaded her examining my reasons, but she hadn't, she'd simply looked at me and said quietly, “Give it time, then see how you feel,” and we'd both tidied the conversation away quite quickly.

Now in the silence that followed I heard the scrabbling of the family of bats that lived in the attic above us, and heard Anto's sharp sigh.

“Kit, listen.” His voice was stern. “I'm going to Fort Cochin tomorrow to see a Dr. Kunju, an old friend of my father's. He's a bigwig in the new Medical Directorate. Lots of new appointments since Independence, so the timing seems good. Do you mind, Kit?”

“Mind?” I could hear my voice rise. “Why on earth would I mind? That's what we're hoping for. It's exciting.”

“Depending on what's available,” he continued, “I may have to travel for a while.”

“That's fine, I—”

He put his hand up to stop me. “I haven't finished.” He turned my face towards him. “Listen . . . while I'm away, I'd like you to stay at Mangalath for a few more weeks at least and give my mother a chance to get to know you.”

“What?” I sat bolt upright in bed. “No, Anto, I can't. We've already been here nearly two weeks. I promised Daisy I'd get cracking as soon as possible.” He'd also promised we'd get a place of our own as soon as possible.

“I've been thinking about this.” Anto sounded uneasy. “I think I should go to the Home first.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

“Do I have to explain?”

“Oh, sorry, forgot. Me white woman nurse, you Indian man, that sort of thing.” I was breaking my own rules now: Be nice. Be calm. Give it time.

“That's below the belt, Kit.” He was smiling cautiously, hoping I was joking. “Kit.” He stroked my shoulder. “We're part of a family now. Try to see it from their point of view.”

“Anto, I have a job that I get paid for. I can't not do it.”

When my voice rose, he put his hand over my mouth and glanced towards the walls, beyond which were dozens of sleeping Thekkedens.

“Anto.” I pulled his hand away. “Tell the absolute, honest truth. Do your parents mind me working? I mean, will I have to lie about it more or less continuously?”

I saw him take a deep breath.

“No, no, no, no,” he said, but with no conviction. “They know, through the church, some fine missionary women who help the poor women here, and they respect them. But here's the thing: we need to take it gently.” Holding my hand, he stroked it. “If I start
by telling them you are part of a British organization that trains our midwives, it gets tricky. The British are not the most popular people in the world right now . . . You know that, Kit.”

“Anto . . . please stop.” He was stroking my head now as if I were a feverish child, and it felt like the worst kind of blackmail. I got out of bed and put my dressing gown on.

“This isn't what we said it would be.” I was determined not to cry. “We both promised Daisy I'd go quickly to the Home. I absolutely can't leave it for weeks.”

“I'm only asking you to stay here for a few weeks more. That's all.”

“Please, Anto . . . at least take me to the Home for one day.” I heard a note in my voice I didn't like: a wheedling wifely voice.

It took a great effort of self-control not to add, “before I go into purdah.” “Let me at least introduce myself to Neeta; I promised Daisy I'd unpack the boxes with her and tick them off the inventory.”

“So, what should I tell Amma?” He sounded grumpy.

I don't give a damn!
my rebellious heart shouted.

“I don't know. That we're having a sightseeing trip before your work begins, a few days off. Would that seem so unreasonable?”

His head was pressed between his hands. “If we're having a sightseeing trip, she'll want us to go and see our Travancore family. I know she will.” He'd warned me of this in a jokey aside in London: that holidays meant family reunions. If you stayed for less than a week, the relatives took umbrage.

“So tell her straight that I am going to work at a home which trains midwives. That I get paid for it and that I am expected to turn up.”

He looked at me incredulously, as if I had no idea of the intricacies involved in this simple explanation. He scratched his head and gave me a cold look that in another person I might have taken for hate.

Was he in a huff when he went downstairs? I couldn't tell anymore, only that the old sweet-tempered Anto had left the room with a firm click of the door, leaving me in a stew of heat and frus
tration in our room. I fell into a feverish sleep and when I woke, an hour later, found myself less than a foot away from a hideous monster. A bat caught in the mosquito net around our bed was staring down at me like an angry old man. It let out a horrible high-pitched squeal—purple gums, little yellow teeth—and I screamed into its open mouth and, shuddering with disgust, prized its claws from the fine gauze and flung it on the windowsill, where it stared at me with large, panicked eyes.

-
CHAPTER 16
-

A
mma heard the girl scream from her own room, watched him sprint upstairs to investigate, and heard the sobbing that followed. When he'd explained, somewhat shamefacedly, that it was only a bat, she'd expected him to laugh with her about it. But he'd looked at her sternly and said, “Amma, Kit needs a day out. This is all very strange for her. You have to understand that.”

As if she were a heartless creature. So
Kit needs a day out,
she repeated to herself sarcastically, watching the family's car disappear in a cloud of dust. Didn't they all? Perhaps Kit should inform herself about the price of petrol now in Cochin since Independence. The cost of paying their driver extra. The great privilege of the car, since there were only ten or eleven of them privately owned in Travancore. She thought of Vidya, who would need more than a day out to recover from her change of plans.

She knew she was being unfair but couldn't help it. So far, the golden boy's return had proved a crushing disappointment. The girl was a handful—all the relatives, the servants were already talking about her behind her back—and Anto himself seemed permanently in flight, leaping upstairs at every opportunity to make sure she was all right.

The table she was sitting at was scattered with the remains of their breakfast. And suddenly, as she swept his crumbs into her palm, relief seeped into her bones, a shaft of sunlight, at the thought of having the house to herself again, and then she wanted
to weep or shout: relieved to be away from Anto—could she ever have imagined such a thing when he'd lived in England and seemed closer to her than now?

And now the next big hurdle was Mathu's return. Prodigal husband, she thought, throwing the crumbs over the veranda rails and into the garden. He'd telegrammed that morning to say his case had concluded satisfactorily, he'd be home on Thursday to meet the happy couple. Calm as a cucumber, as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't be pleased about the car's being used in this way.

Drinking a cup of chai without tasting it, she had a brisk mental conversation with Mathu. This was all your fault—the thought came as vicious and unbidden as a dirty punch. You've destroyed the best thing in my life. After having Mariamma, she'd been slow to conceive and after five years of waiting had been told it was doubtful she'd have another child. But on the day she'd been sure the new baby was inside her, she'd come to the prayer room, carefully prostrated herself in front of the Virgin Mary, and prayed, “Make it a boy. Make it a boy!” and afterwards for some reason, sure it would be, taken a boat out on the water. She felt the sun on her shoulders and saw kingfishers skimming, the egrets, the green fields, the banana palms, and had known for absolute certain that this was the happiest day of her life. Her little pot of gold: this curious, infuriating child, with his almond-shaped green eyes that everyone commented on; his clever, inquisitive face; his way of listening hard, even when young, as if trying to discern the meaning behind what you said.

Aged two or three, he'd toddled around the grounds with her while she supervised the women threshing rice, and then on down the winding path that led to the backwaters beyond. When she'd shown him the birds and the trees, he'd screwed up his dear, solemn little face in concentration, repeating the names: first in En­glish (flame tree, banana, coconut, tulsa
)
and then in Malayalam, or
they'd sing songs, and sit on the swing and close their eyes, and dissolve in sunlight and sweet smells.

Before Anto, no child in their family had been sent away. Never, never, never. It was unthinkable, like throwing away the most precious gift of your life. It would never have happened if Mathu hadn't met Hugo Bateman, his English barrister hero: so flatteringly genial, so well read. Bateman had played chess twice a week with Mathu at the club, filled his head with posh dreams of a Thekkeden going to his old Oxford college. Bateman's easy charm had turned Mathu's head (
My dear chap! The one person I'm longing to see.)
At lunch, at their house, he hadn't bothered to hide his patronizing surprise at the extent of the farm, her orchids, the glistening stretch of water beyond. (
My God, this is paradise on earth.)
He'd recommended Mathu for a role in the fevered preparations for India's first budget. (
The shrewdest lawyer in Travancore.)
And a month after Independence, Bateman had packed up his house—a Tudor pagoda mess called The Larches—left his servants in the lurch, and scuttled back to a cottage in Dorset with Pru, his hearty tennis-playing wife, leaving poor old Mathu to find he'd been batting on the wrong team all along.

That was when an embarrassed Mathu had suggested they change the name of the home, where they'd lived for one hundred and twenty years, from The Anchorage back to Mangalath, which meant “happiness, auspiciousness.” He also suggested Parappurath, a Malayalam word meaning “built solidly on the rocks”—another joke, now that they seemed to bog along in a dizzying whirlpool of events: new government, new flags, new leaders, new friends, and most bittersweet of all, this new son (or one who had lost his marbles) with this new wife.

She rubbed her forehead vigorously as if it were a blackboard on which unthinkable thoughts could be erased. This dislike of her husband was new and hateful to her.

They'd had another nasty row last month when she'd begged
Mathu not to be away when Anto came home. Mathu had asked her with a patient smile if she had any idea how much money it cost to run this place.

“So, go to Madras!” she'd shouted, meaning the opposite. Anto would be heartbroken not to see him. “And if your fancy woman is there, hope you'll see her too.”

She referred to Jaya, who'd been his legal secretary once, an educated, unlikely love object she privately called “the mongoose” on account of her long face, short legs, and solitary, predatory ways. She'd found Jaya's love letter to him twelve years ago, while emptying his pockets for the wash. Mathu had confessed, bought her orchids, and sent her a long sweet letter of love and contrition, and knowing he was a good man at heart, she'd tried to forgive, but the memory was a thorn that worked its way to the surface, particularly when they were going through a bad patch.

* * *

Climbing the stairs towards Anto and Kit's room, Amma had turned detective again, with the same old feeling of dread and self-disgust. At the door of the bridal bedroom, she stood and looked in. It was too early for the servants to have tidied the room. The bed was crumpled, the pillow on the floor; the girl's peach silk nightdress flung over the chair.

In the bathroom, she panted softly as she ran her fingers through his shaving brush and held it against her cheek, with a feeling of anguish: he'd grown up without her. Now her fingers touched the girl's toothbrush, still damp, her Pond's cold cream, her lipstick.

Why couldn't you wait? she asked him. Was this our punishment after all these years? The girl's three dresses, one blue, one made of thin flowery stuff, a black cocktail dress that looked too old for her, hung in the cupboard, drab-looking things, she thought, not fair to judge after the war in England. The girl had no dowry; she'd already asked Anto.

Vidya's family was wealthy, and since they had no sons, she and her two sisters would one day inherit twenty acres of beautiful rice paddies, and grazing near Ernakulam. Vidya, who was studying at the Women's Christian College in Madras, was pleasingly traditional, no silly bobbed hair like some local girls who fancied themselves modern, hers in a thick plait down to her hips. She bought her saris from the new shop on Broadway in Ernakulam, and wore the exquisite jewelry her mother had been collecting for her since she was born. To put it crudely, Vidya was a catch.

Amma's hand had moved to Anto's tweed jacket when her eye was caught by a blue folder on the floor of the cupboard, just behind a row of shoes.

“Notes for Indian Midwives,” the label read, and scrawled underneath it: “Refer Neeta Chacko—Mother Moonstone Maternity Home, Fort Cochin
.
”

A page fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, turned it round and around, and when she saw what it was, hurriedly shut the door, her heart making a sick pounding in her ears.

The most disgusting thing she'd ever seen: a close-up picture of a woman's spread legs, her yoni, there for all to see, with a huge bulging extrusion the shape of a split pear. The text read

FIG. 76—EDEMA OF THE VULVA.

May precede labor, and may then be an indication of pregnancy toxemia, chronic Bright's disease, or gonorrhea. It may also occur during labor in those cases in which the head of the child is impacted in the pelvic cavity, because the head is too large or the pelvis is generally contracted.

Her hands trembled as she turned more pages of more naked women, one, legs apart, sitting on a bench, demonstrating something called Walcher's position. Women kneeling with their naked behinds in the air. Women with babies drawn inside them in col
ored pencils; beheaded women on their backs like insects, legs in the air, one with a terrible-looking condition called varicose veins of the vulva, which the notes said might rupture during the delivery of the child and cause fatal hemorrhage.

I am not a prude, she mentally told her new daughter-in-law furiously, putting the notes back in the cupboard. What woman is after having two children? She'd enjoyed the physical act of love with her husband, still did, in spite of all their disagreements over the years. But these disgusting things had no place in a bridal suite, where dreams and hopes, joy, purity should be celebrated. Had Anto been made to share these terrible images?

She tucked the folder back where she had found it, in the space on the wooden floor of the wardrobe behind Anto's London brogues. And now what? First she hears this girl is a medical researcher; next she hears she is a nurse, something no Thekkeden would ever stoop to; now the even more unbearable thought that she might be a midwife swooped into her mind like a black bat and flew around wildly and then out again, for in the next second, as she closed the cupboard with trembling hands, she decided she must never tell Mathu, or anyone else in the family, about the contents of the blue folder. Mathu, for all his alleged liberal views, was an old-fashioned man: he would be disgusted; he would express his distaste forcibly, and then Anto, so obviously besotted by this creature, might leave this home forever—more heartache for her. For a brief moment she considered confronting Anto or the girl, but the bat flew around again: if she did, she would have to admit to snooping or pretend and blame one of the servants, who would be dismissed. Ergo: she was caught in her own trap.