Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
The Letter (33 page)
Monday morning and James was reading the
Guardian
at the kitchen table. Elizabeth flicked at the open pages as she passed.
“Steady on Lizzie, I was reading that” he said, turning out of her way.
“The paper boy’s early.”
“No, I walked into the village and got it before he left the shop.”
“Couldn’t you sleep either?”
“I’ve snatched a few hours but it feels as if I haven’t.” James yawned and folded the newspaper.
“It’s Mum, isn’t it? I’ve absolutely no idea what to do…” Elizabeth stuck her porridge in the microwave, switched on the radio, and watered the herbs on the kitchen window ledge.
“Sit down a minute, Lizzie.”
“I haven’t time.”
“Well, make time. This is important!”
She turned the radio off, poured a coffee and sat down to eat her breakfast.
“Scottie’s not my mother but I think we need to help draw a line under the past. I don’t mean to sound unfeeling but Ben and your dad belong there. Your sister and brothers are alive, in India. We should encourage her to enjoy them.” Elizabeth nodded. He buttered his toast. “If your mother met the Indians it might help.”
“I’ve invited them to come here but, when I’ve mentioned it, she’s not keen. They sort of hint it would be easier if we went there.”
“We’ll go then.”
“I’d love to, but Mum won’t have it. She thinks something might happen to us.”
“I can’t see why.”
“I know it’s ludicrous but we can’t go unless she’s happy about it.”
“Precisely, but the odds of her going to India are slim. She isn’t getting any younger. It’s foolish to put things off.”
“I see what you mean. It’s odd that we’ve not had a letter for ages. On the other hand I’ve been so busy I’ve not written to them. I’ll drop a line tonight… suggest dates.” Elizabeth said, finishing her porridge and picking up her car keys.
“Hang on Lizzie. What’s the rush? School will wait this might not.”
“Five more minutes, then it will have to wait ’til tonight.”
“Look there’s no need to get annoyed… I’m not sure your mum knows what she wants.”
“I’m not annoyed. It’s just so worrying.” Lizzie leant on the table. “If mum would make up her mind we could do something. It seems such a shame they can’t be together.” She glanced at the clock. “God look at the time! If she’d had the phone…”
“Don’t rake that up again. We are where we are. I’ll find a way to call in.”
“If you do, be careful what you say…”
* * * * *
Margaret was dressed, her coat, hat and gloves warming on the kitchen storage heater. “Another minute James and you’d have missed me. I’ll stick the kettle on,”
“Going somewhere nice?” he asked, warming himself by the fire in the snug sitting room.
“It’s my week for Tommy’s grave, but there’s no hurry.”
“If you like Scottie, we can skip the tea and I’ll drop you off. I’m on my way to a meeting.”
“In Doncaster… ?”
“Okay you’ve got me. I
have
got a meeting this morning but it’s in Leeds. We wanted to see if you were all right.”
“I won’t be if you two don’t stop fussing.” She drank the tea that neither of them wanted. “James, you get off. I might as well wait for the post. I’ve not heard from India for weeks.”
“Neither have we. We were talking about it this morning. Lizzie thought she’d write and suggest dates they might like to come, if not, we could go there.”
“Let’s wait and see. There’s no rush. “
James wondered if his mother-in-law was deliberately delaying meeting the Indian children. He’d promised Lizzie he wouldn’t press but Scottie could be so awkward! He drove to Leeds blasting out a tape of Leonard Cohen’s
Hallelujah.
So like James, Margaret thought fondly, ready to dash off to India, at a moments notice. How could he, with his secure childhood in York, envisage Elizabeth’s impoverished growing up, let alone the complexities of Indian families? Margaret had learned to her cost that it was wisest to take things slowly… be certain what you were getting into.
* * * * *
The frank exchange of letters renewed Margaret’s confidence in the children’s affection but not enough to risk Elizabeth visiting them. There could be hundreds of reasons for the present gap in contact, the most logical being the boys’ military duties. She couldn’t get directly in touch with them except by letter; to suddenly acquire a British mother might compromise their careers. Her heart lifted when the late post came.
Bhopal
Dearest
Mama,
I
am
sorry
to
tell
you
that
my
father
is
no
more.
He
was
admitted
to
the
All
India
Medical
institute
on
the
6th
of
October
with
a
stoke
resulting
in
paralysis.
On
the
7th
my
son
sent
telegrams
to
the
family
to
come
to
Delhi.
On
the
8th
my
father
entered
a
state
of
coma
and
had
no
senses.
By
the
10th
of
October
all
reached
Delhi
and
on
the
11th
at
15.30
he
died.
I
took
his
dead
body
to
the
Sacred
River
Ganges
and
cremated
him
as
per
Vedic
rites
on
the
12th.
From
the
13th
to
the
24th
daily
procedural
worship
was
performed
and
then
I
left
for
Bhopal
as
I
am
posted
here.
I
have
been
to
church
to
pray
for
you.
The
time
for
regrets
and
anger
is
over.
One
day
we
will
sit
together
in
peace
and
love
and
you
can
bestow
your
blessings
on
your
unworthy
son.
Saurabh
It was forbidden to write letters or socialise during the days of mourning and ritual ceremonies. After that the bereaved could take up their lives again. Margaret was sorry for the unhappiness Ben’s death had caused but he’d died peacefully with his children round him. His mother had died a frightening, lonely death from a heart attack while travelling on a train. Hiten too, murdered by acid flung in his face, with no children to avenge him or carry his name. This late settling of scores brought Margaret no satisfaction.
Had Ben ever been truly happy? Maybe in their early days together, they were both so different then, drunk on youth. She didn’t regret falling in love with him, going to India, having the children. The regret was in the ending. The unnecessary cruelty … the sacrifice of the children — but it was finally over. Saurabh was right. The anger had gone, and with Ben’s death everything was in the hands of the next generation.
* * * * *
The cemetery at Denaby was meticulously kept by the relatives of the dead. It was somewhere to stroll through, admire the flowers, read the gravestones or pass the time of day. Margaret kept her gloves on while she emptied the withered chrysanthemums from the vase on Tommy’s grave. These nippy winter days stiffened her fingers but she took out the duster and scissors from her black cemetery bag, polished the headstone and trimmed the ragged grass growing over the base.
She talked to Tommy while she worked, telling him she’d been ready to come when James arrived and, that she almost hadn’t when she read of Ben’s death. The strain of being one person one minute and a half forgotten shadow the next was wearisome. A great burden was lifted. She was indisputably his wife: Mrs Waters: Elizabeth’s mother.
There were few people alive who knew the truth, just her sister Jean and their brother John, Nan’s daughter Sheila, Florrie and Matt. The rest were all dead. Florrie’s eldest son was buried in the plot next to Tommy. At Christmas the grave would be covered with bouquets and holly wreaths. Tommy had been alive when Florrie married Matt. What a party! They had celebrated in the Miner’s Welfare.
Over the years Florrie’s children increased to seven, united by her generous heart. If Margaret achieved that for Elizabeth and the Indians her life would be complete. Reconciliation between Elizabeth and the boys had been easy. At first there was a little distancing between the girls but they became friends through their innumerable letters.
Elizabeth said that having Indian brothers and a sister enriched her life… enriched her life! It was time to get things out in the open. If Tommy were alive he’d say, “Don’t be daft woman. Stop shilly shallying around and get on with it.” He always said she thought too much, and after his first accident it was true, and more so after his death. Tommy considered himself a lucky man, but she was luckier to have been loved by him.
He wouldn’t recognise Denaby now. One of the collieries had closed and the council had replaced the old pit terraces with modern semidetached houses, each with its own garden. However the latest miners’ strike had set family against family, fragmenting the tight community. Margaret believed Thatcher’s plan to smash the miners’ union and close the pits would rebound on the country for years to come.
It began to rain, icy drops. The day was drawing in. Margaret put up a tartan umbrella and pulled the blue woollen shawl Pavia had sent over her heavy coat. Nothing would get through that. She left the cemetery, and Tommy.
* * * * *
Margaret wrote separately to Saurabh, Pavia and Rajeev. The invitation was short and to the point, a plea rather than a polite request, to come as soon as possible. Then she finished sorting the jumble of her hidden life.
One suitcase was completely empty, back in the cupboard where it belonged. The other held the precious silk kimono. She took it out. It was soft and smooth in her sun-freckled hands, as beautiful as when she wore it decades ago. She held out a sleeve, twirling gracefully, forever young in Tommy’s arms.
* * * * *
There was something about snow that excited
Margaret. It had started yesterday, a few flakes dusting the
road and gardens. Last night the weather on the television forecasted further snow. Margaret said her bedtime prayers, asking God to keep it at bay until Saurabh, Pavia and Rajeev’s plane had landed safely at Heathrow.
This morning she opened the bedroom curtains, pulling them back further than usual, and climbed back into bed. She could see the field at the bottom of the garden, and the wavy lines of black paw prints belonging to a dog that had strayed during the night.
So many things were going through her mind. The first time she heard Saurabh’s voice on the telephone he sounded so like his father she couldn’t speak, and then she didn’t know what to say. She spent the phone call to Pavia crying. Rajeev sounded shy and there was a catch in his voice when he said, “I’m so happy that we found you.”
Elizabeth had arranged the calls but Margaret couldn’t
express her feelings over the phone. In a way it made the distance harder to bear. She had nearly capitulated and caught the first flight out to India. She hadn’t flown since James and Elizabeth paid for her to go to Lourdes with Nan and Jean, that was years ago, before she had to wear the surgical collar. A nine hour flight to Delhi would be too much, and out of the question while Ben was alive.