Monsoon Summer (31 page)

“Arm fine.” I lifted my bandaged left arm to show him, “And
leg even better. No infection, healed well. Oh Lord.” I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling that if I started crying, I would never stop. “Please don't be nice to me. It's not as if I wasn't warned.”

He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his dusty shirt, and lay on the bed looking at me. “It's my fault.”

“For what?”

“For leaving you alone.” He threaded his fingers in my hair. “I don't know what I've been thinking, when I have a wife and child at home.”

“No,” I said. “That's not right. You have to do your work, but I've been such an idiot, I should have talked to you ages ago. Have you seen the damage?”

He put his hand on his lips to shush me.

“I went on my way here.”

“And?”

“It's a mess. There were some locals there, some of them looting. The Home was always going to be controversial after Independence. One way or another, it would have happened. But here's the thing, Kit.” He put his hand on the top of my head, and I heard him sigh. “I spoke to Appan. There will be an inquiry, and I think you'll have to give evidence.”

“Me?”

“Yes, and the rest of the staff, but you've attracted some attention, naturally.”

My mind began racing. “What if they find out I've been delivering babies and I'm not fully qualified?” Anto stared at me, thinking hard.

“I didn't lie to Dr. A.,” I said. “We just got so busy. She did say she would write and get me accredited. I've never asked her to show me the papers, and my guess is she's done nothing, because if she'd done something, she would have shown them to me.

“Kittykutty, you're not on trial to me, and the inquiry will be far more concerned with who started the fire.”

“I know, but I went ahead without those assurances and that was so stupid. I should have said no.”

“Well, you didn't.” He stroked my hair. “And if all the unqualified women in India who delivered babies were tried, the jails would overflow.”

“But in their eyes, I'm a foreigner. They might make an example of me.”

“They might,” Anto said calmly. “And if they do, we'll ask Appan for advice. He'll know exactly what to do.”

“If he finds out I'm unlicensed, he'll hit the roof.”

“Appan is a realist, he'll do what's necessary. Now, stop talking and show me your arm.” He unwrapped my bandages and looked closely at the blisters, already crusted and healing. He asked what ointment I was putting on it. Then he applied some more Germolene and bandaged my arm neatly. Looking at his glossy head bent over my arm, I thought, What have I done to deserve you?

* * *

A couple of days later, Anto and I, after putting Raffie to bed, were strolling on the waterfront after supper. It had rained fiercely for an hour or two that afternoon, and the sky was misty and gray.

Anchored across the water there was a rusty old cargo ship with Arabic lettering on it. We were trying to imagine what it carried when I blurted out, “Anto, while you were away, my mother told me the oddest thing.” I tried for a lightness of tone I didn't feel, because even saying it out loud threatened me. I'm not sure what frightened me most, my longing or my anger, but my family background, whether false or true, seemed so shallow, so threadbare, compared to the clever, dignified, solidly rooted Thekkedens.

When I'd finished talking, he sat down on a bench. I could see him thinking, and I thought, I've put him off me now. I'm not good enough, and never will be—a terrible moment of darkness and insecurity.

At last he said, “Are you angry with Daisy for not telling you?”

“No. I think she knew Glory might leave and never come back, and that would have upset her: Daisy knew I adored her, and the feeling was mutual; she once told me I was the daughter she'd never had.”

“Well, I think it was brave of Glory to tell you after all this time,” Anto continued.

“Really?”

“Really. She had much to lose and nothing to gain.”

“Well, possibly.” I wasn't convinced. “And you always stick up for her anyway.” It was a feeble joke because I was still shivering and felt in danger.

“Well, I believe in mothers,” he said, “even imperfect ones. Don't forget I was without one for many years.”

“But yours isn't a nutcase. Don't you think the timing was odd?” I still needed some indignation on my behalf. “I've been nagging her to tell me for years and she waits until the Home burns down.”

“Not so odd. She knew you could have died in the fire. Hence the high-speed dash in Appan's car.” I'd made him laugh earlier describing the driving gloves, the double-declutching. “I would say it was a moment of truth.”

“Not something she has many of.” I was still angry. “And that's another thing: how in the hell do I know it's true?”

He gave me a long, considering look, and in it I saw my own hurt and confusion reflected and thought, That's what love looks like.

“What did you feel,” he said at last, “when you first heard about even the possibility of him?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Not a thing.”

He thought for a bit. “I understand that,” he said. “That day we arrived at Mangalath, I felt the same. Too much noise, too much attention on me. I thought I wouldn't mind if I never saw them again. I was so used to living without them.”

“But at least you knew them.”

“Kit.” He put his arm around me. “What are you most frightened of?”

“Everything. Really.”

“That he'll be an ax murderer, a hopeless drunk, a wog-hating tea planter?”

“All of the above.” My laugh was a croak.

“Ooty's not far. We could get there in a day. I'll come, or you can take your mother, if that's what she wants.”

I told him there were now more important things to do. A note, signed by Dr. A., had been dropped through our door by a rickshaw boy that morning. “Urgent staff meeting. Moonstone. Two o'clock Thursday,”
was its brief message, and because I felt well enough—I could move my arm freely, now that a shiny pinkish skin had appeared over the original burn—I badly wanted to go. I felt a survivor's need to talk about what had happened, and I wanted to confirm with Dr. A. that I was officially accredited. If there was to be a government inquiry, I needed to prepare for it.

“And then what?” He was quietly persistent. “The meeting won't take long, and this business with your father will work away at you if you don't act.” I told him not to push me. I told him I would have to think about it. I told him not to discuss it with my mother. The whole idea of meeting my father after all this time filled me with a kind of fizzing panic. I needed time to think.

* * *

It was a shock seeing the Moonstone again. Everything about it foretold its end. Its splendid purple and yellow sign was a charred mess; the main building, shrouded in tarpaulins, stank of charcoal; the old fish tank we'd converted to keep prem babies in lay smashed and useless, alongside upturned beds and broken petri dishes. Dr. A. held the meeting in the only serviceable room now, a tin hut in the garden where we once stored garden equipment. Maya, myself, and two nurses had been invited.

Dr. A., at her most grand and imperturbable, chaired the meeting from a wonky garden chair. When we were settled, she opened a large leather-bound book with a torn cover and bleached bindings and said in a flat voice, “Fortunately, our account book survived the blaze.”

This surprised me, given its illusive nature before.

“So,”—mirthless smile—“let's not waste time on any spilt-milk talk. Nobody died, thanks to quick action by our staff, but we are facing a big crisis.” I couldn't tell if she was praying or counting as her lips moved and her fingers slid down a column of figures.

“I estimate,” she said at last, “that to restock the Home: chairs, beds, boiler, floor coverings, will alone cost us in the vicinity of”—her eyes went blank as she did some quick sums—“six thousand rupees.” She sighed heavily. “Training equipment cost, approximately one thousand rupees. Rebuilding of wards, God knows, I am waiting for quotations from our builder. It won't be cheap.”

Maya gave a small groan.

“Replanting garden, five hundred rupees. New sign,”—her voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper—“fans, benches. So, actually . . .” She closed the book. “We must face the facts: all our plans, all our hopes are dashed. Work of last five years is over.” She looked directly at me and administered the final kick.

“And there were people who didn't like you here,” she said.

There was a moment of terrible stillness and calm in the room. Maya took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Dr. A. scrutinized the book again, as if the money might be hiding somewhere in its pages. The nurses bowed their heads and sighed. Sweat broke out along my hairline and scalp and down my spine; it was bakingly hot in that shed, and someone's armpits were giving out a fruity pungence.

“The government will not provide this money,” she said to me again, “so there is only one solution: we must turn to Miss Daisy Barker and her committee again.” I heard Maya murmur her agreement.

I did a quick calculation in my head. Twenty-one thousand rupees to get the Home up and running again. It was roughly three thousand pounds, an awful lot of pots of jam, pickled onions, and jumble sales.

“She hasn't got that much money,” I said at last. “She's actually quite poor.”

Maya spoke now, in a thin sarcastic voice, one I'd never heard before. “When she was here, I saw a photo album picture of her house and her car. I would like to be poor like that.”

“I'm not sure you would.” I was stung by her tone. “That house is an elephant around her neck: it leaks, it's freezing cold, there were snowdrifts up to the windows last winter. When you wash in the morning, you break the ice on the water
inside
the house. And the car, by the way, is held together with sticking plaster.”

Dr. A. looked at me blankly.

“Won't your new government help at all?” I said. “They gave us a grant.”

“No.” Dr. A. seemed very sure about this. “They will blame us for the fire.”

“Why would they blame us for that?” I asked.

Dr. A. closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she flashed me a warning look. “This for the police to decide, not us. Meeting is over; you can stay behind,” she said to me.

* * *

The nurses had looked so funereal during the meeting that it surprised me to hear a sudden burst of laughter as they stepped into the flat, bright sunshine, and it seemed to emphasize the sudden gulf between us. In their world suffering, the chaotic nature of life, was accepted as normal, and while I admired their resilience and could see that passivity in these circumstances might be a strength, it infuriated me too. I was also hurt by Maya's flash of hostility; she'd barely met my eye during the meeting.

In the hut, Dr. A. gave me a frowning, considering look.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said. “But not in front of the others. Police found rags in the garden soaked with paraffin. One of the rags had been torn from a dress. The label in the collar of the dress said Tuttles. Is that an English company?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you have any clothes from there?”

“Yes.” I could feel my mouth go dry. “A blue dress. But I didn't do it, you must know that—”

“It doesn't matter what I think,” she interrupted me. “And there is more. There was a note left near the bonfire, when it had burned out. It said, ‘The Englishwoman is a spy.' Do you have enemies here?”

My head was scrambling. “I don't know. I don't think so,” I said, “but you can't possibly believe I did it. Why would I? It makes no sense.”

“Police will interview you soon, so you must get your story straight.” She put her head in her hand and looked at me, and I saw that lines were being drawn and teams picked, and I was not on hers.

“Could we open the door please?” I asked. The heat was intolerable and I felt light-headed. The hut smelt of coconut oil and female sweat, petrol from the mowing machine.

“No. Others will come; this is private.” Sweat trickled down the side of her face. “Is there nothing else you want to say?”

“This may or may not be relevant,” I said at last, “but about a year ago, a boy followed me home from the Moonstone. I was taking a shortcut through what was the English Club gardens. He tried to touch me. When I fought him off, he spoke angrily about our work.”

Dr. A. remained motionless. Her strangely prominent eyes bulged while she continued to look at me.

“What did he look like?”

I drew a line along my lip. “Thin mustache, about eighteen, I would say. Very skinny.”

“What angry thing did he say?” She picked up a pen and began to make notes.

“Oh, the usual. That I was a foreign woman, teaching Indians, no right to be here now, and so forth.”

“Why didn't you tell us before?”

“I should have, but I didn't want my husband to know and stop me working here. I thought you might not care, might even . . .” I stopped myself saying, think the same way yourself.

“I do care,” she said drily, making more notes in her book. It raced through my mind that I should tell her now about my meeting with Neeta Chacko, but I was in a dilemma: Chacko had pleaded with me, with tears in her eyes, not to reveal her as a source of information. Plus Dr. A. had forbidden me to talk about Chacko again. This could prove a mousetrap with no cheese.

“But there is one more important question to address. When you came here, I was told you were fully qualified English midwife. If you are interviewed, the police will want to see your qualification papers. Do you have them?”