The Letter (25 page)

It could have only come from Suleka. Ben’s behaviour and adultery were forgotten by his family. Surely the courts would decide otherwise? She thought of Ghandi and how last February the whole of India had been brought to a standstill by the death of his wife, Kasturba. She died in prison in his arms. They’d been married for sixty years. He had spun the yarn for the shroud that wrapped her body. She had been a loyal Indian wife, accepting her husband’s trespasses. Margaret couldn’t accept or forgive Ben’s indiscretions so apart from Tommy, who would grieve for her? As far as the children were concerned she might as well be dead.

Ideas and politics drew Margaret like a magnet and India was aflame with both. The gatherings of the impoverished illiterate infiltrated by opportunists were a volatile mix. Leaders, on all sides, were incapable of agreeing how an independent country would be governed. Ghandi continued to favour a united India and Jinnah a separatist Muslim state. There were rumblings of bloody sectarian violence. India was a burden the British intended to relinquish; unwise political action was inevitable.

Against this background what hope was there of a quick judicial hearing? Ben knew she hadn’t the influence or money to fund a protracted legal wrangle. Let him do his worst. Margaret had a sinking feeling all was lost.

While she was out the servant had taken a telephone call from Colonel Thorpe Sahib. Margaret was to go to his office as soon as she came in.

The Colonel was with his wife, “Nurse Atrey… whiskey?” She declined. “Please sit down… As you know we are both dreadfully sorry to hear the news concerning your fiancé. I have been in touch with Delhi to try to ascertain more up to date information, without any luck.”

“I’m grateful he’s alive.”

“Understood, but what do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know what you mean. What can I do?”

“Have you considered going home to Scotland?”

“My dear,” the Colonel’s wife said, handing Margaret a handkerchief, “I don’t have to tell you that your fiancé will require a great deal of nursing care. We would like to help.”

“My wife is right. Nurse Atrey, I have something to put to you. She is due to return to England with our children. Her original travelling companion is unavailable. You could take her place.”

“Do take it, Margaret. You don’t mind me calling you that? I’m Marjorie. My husband has told me lots about you since he first met you in Nainital. I’m certain we will get on… you could shortly be with your fiancé… be the prop necessary for him to recover.”

“I appreciate your offer, but I need time to make arrangements. I have my own children to consider.”

“I don’t mean to be unkind but from what I hear,” the Colonel said, “I think it most unlikely you will have any authority over your children’s future. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, you certainly won’t get them out of India.”

“I planned to stay.”

“I think you would find it impossible to manage without a husband when we pull out. And we will…”

His wife interrupted, “Darling we can’t advise Margaret. The war will end and India will become independent. The signs are everywhere.”

“The problem is I need an answer immediately to get the paper work completed.”

The inertia of fear, the rationalisation of the separation and the conflict of love across continents became too much. Margaret was weary, so very, very weary.

*  *  *  *  *

Six o’clock on a glorious February Bombay morning in 1945. The powerful male monkey strolled languorously on top of the wall surrounding the hotel garden, pausing where blousy red roses bobbed in the balmy air. Head lifted towards the sun the animal sniffed, turned and fixed Margaret with its amber eyes then wickedly decapitated the nearest bloom. It munched slowly, occasionally opening its mouth to reveal splinters of bloodied petals trapped between jagged teeth.

Woodpeckers balancing on telephone wires, silhouetted against the morning light, had seen it all before but the washer-woman birds called alarmingly. A servant threw sticks and the monkey was off, leaping lithely to join its harem in the jackfruit tree.

Morning dragged towards lunchtime. Margaret ate a small piece of bread and butter. She couldn’t eat anything else. At half past three the car arrived to take her to the port.

Troop ships rode the swell in Bombay Harbour. They’d been loading all day. The pre-war glamour days of travel were substituted for stripped down vessels carrying military personnel, equipment and essential supplies.

Colonel Thorpe was there with his wife and children. He ordered Margaret’s luggage to be put with theirs and saw it efficiently stowed on board.

Later she stood with his wife on deck while the Colonel’s sons waved to him on shore. The eldest boy was eleven, slightly older than Pavia. He’d be in England for his twelfth birthday. Where would Pavia be? Who would be with her? Would the children be together?

The Colonel would follow his wife. Theirs would be a temporary separation. Margaret didn’t know if she could endure the finality of hers. The children would never understand the price she was paying to set them free to flourish in their independent country.

Oh Ben, what have we done? Margaret’s heart was breaking, her mind in torment, for she hated and loved him. She leant on the passenger rail. There was no one to wave to or to follow her. The convoy, escorted by destroyers and minesweepers made for sea. India slipped into the sunset.

THE
RETURN

Chapter 31
 

Scotland
1945

The convoy avoided the risky Suez Canal, sailing round
the tip of Africa. The anguish at leaving India blotted out the six weeks Margaret spent at sea. The Colonel’s wife became an empathetic companion, fleeting friends for the journey. They parted in the murky dawn of Southampton, each knowing they wouldn’t meet again.

The London train was packed with jolly servicemen and women, trading cigarettes and good natured banter. Margaret found a seat next to the window. In civilian clothes and having no experience of war time Britain to engage in small talk, she spent the journey looking out of the window at the colourless countryside.

The approach to London was shocking. The bombed houses; the fronts peeled back exposing blackened wall papered rooms. The intrusion of privacy in the debris of what had been once homes. Where had the people gone? Margaret had seen newsreels in India of the London Blitz and the evacuation of children but the films failed to portray the personal impact and scale of the damage. Parts of the capital were reduced to grotesque cartoons of burnt and semi-collapsed buildings, a testament to the Luftwaffe and the price of war. Yet the city was busy with purposeful people… Londoners getting on with the business of living… war hadn’t destroyed that. It was silly but she wanted to cheer for the stubborn ordinary people, who held out under so much pressure.

Could
she
hold out? Hold out until she saw Tommy… And then…

*  *  *  *  *

Margaret’s father was waiting at Waverly station, the brim of his flat tweed cap wedged down against Edinburgh’s perpetual wind. Choking back tears, she dropped the small portmanteau she was carrying on the platform and ran towards him.

“Maggie… my Maggie…” he said, squeezing the breath out of her. Sheltered in his tobacco-scented gabardine she felt like a child rescued from drowning. He wiped her eyes, dabbed his own.

“Is this it?” he said, retrieving the case. Margaret said she’d heaps of stuff that would be delivered later.

“Then it’s hame hen…”

“Home father…”

“Frances is waiting.”

Yes, Frances, his new wife, who had tagged on a paragraph to the more recent letters Margaret, had received from her father. She’d hardly bothered to read or allude to it in her replies.

*  *  *  *  *

Frances opened the door. “Welcome Maggie, I’ll show you to your room, I hope you like it. We’ve had it re-done for you.”

Re-done… like the rest of the house… The only reminder of the past was the ticking wall clock. Margaret resented the replacement of the scuffed furniture and the floral bedroom wallpaper. The room had been her brothers’, filled with their grubby clothes, pillow fights and emerging masculinity. The essence of her childhood had gone. What was she doing here?

She noticed a letter, post marked Denaby, on the dressing table. The writing wasn’t Tommy’s but it must be news of him. She ripped open the envelope.

Denaby

My
Dearest
Margaret,

My
father
is
writing
to
ask
if
I
can
come
to
Scotland
to
meet
you.
I
want
you
to
see
me
as
I
am
before
making
any
final
decisions
 . . .

There was a tap at the door. Frances asked, “Is everything alright Maggie? Only the meal is ready. Your father chose it. He has counted the days from the moment he knew you were coming.”

“I was just about to come down,” Margaret replied tersely through the closed door. She wanted to talk to her father but didn’t want to explain anything to Frances. The woman’s English accent and groomed appearance were the antithesis of Margaret’s mother. It wasn’t what she expected and she felt hurt without knowing why.

Her father was already seated at the table. He patted the chair nearest to him and Margaret sat down.

“Your father says this is your favourite” Frances said, smiling at her as she brought the barley broth to the table.

Margaret thought she’d got over her mother’s death but coming here brought it back. None of this was Frances fault. Margaret knew she was trying to make her feel at home. It couldn’t be easy being married to a strongly principled man, who thrived on control. Margaret recalled that her father had mentioned Frances had no children, and being so far from her London friends, would have no one to turn to. She wasn’t prepared to take on that responsibility.

“I hope yon letter is good news Maggie,” said her father. “Is it from Tommy?”

“It’s more of a note,” Margaret replied flatly, “His father wrote it.”

“Does he say how Tommy is?” Frances asked.

“No, just that he wants to come.” Margaret read out the note. “You see I don’t know the extent of Tommy’s injuries.”

“Well then Maggie,” her father said, obviously excluding his wife, “we’ll take a look at him. You can send a telegram the morn, inviting him to stay when we take a wee walk to Nan’s.”

*  *  *  *  *

The telegram was sent before they set out on the country road to Nan’s. They passed Grant’s farm. The solidly built farmhouse, gnarled apple trees and smell of fresh manure remained the same. Margaret and Jean had been sent there to collect milk. In those days the bulky Friesian cows were hand-milked by Alec, the farmer’s son who teased the sisters by squirting the animal’s teats in their direction. Margaret’s father said Alec had been killed at Dunkirk. His younger brother had taken over the running of the farm and was going to install milking machines. “Things change, Maggie… There was a letter from your husband saying you might be coming hame.”

Margaret said she didn’t know where to begin. “Dinne begin anywhere,” her father said evenly.

“Well he’s got his wish,” she said sarcastically.

“Now Maggie… he wrote after your boys were born and when he left for Egypt. The last letter came out of the blue. I didna ken what to make of it. Mary had word from Willie. You were safe and I had to be content with that.”

It was easier to talk as they walked and Margaret told her father that the divorce was progressing. She was attending mass and seeking an annulment. He was satisfied with the answers regarding the welfare of his grandchildren and kept his opinions on Margaret’s proposed marriage to himself. Before they reached Nan’s house at Gowkshill everything was said. He would leave it to Margaret to tell her sisters and brothers whatever she chose. As far as he was concerned the chapter was closed.

Nan’s two youngest boys, their faces pressed against the window, were looking out for them. They tumbled through the door to chatter with their grandpa but stood tongue-tied in front of Margaret. Nan with her youngest daughter in tow embraced her sister. An older boy and girl stood in the doorway. “Goodness me… Sheila? The last time I saw you, you were just a toddler” Margaret said, kissing her niece. “And you must be young Davey” she laughed, as he dived out of the way.

Nan had been in service and the house was scrubbed bone clean with roller blinds at the windows, pretty curtains, lacy head rests and a gleaming soot-defying grate. The children were taken off for a walk by their grandpa.