Читать книгу The Track of the Wind - Jamila Gavin - Страница 7

A cyclist was silhouetted against the brightening sky. His white dhoti billowed gently under a post office regulation khaki jacket. He hovered on the rim of the dyke, then plunged down into the shadow of the road. Out of sight for a while, he emerged back into the light, pedalling easily along the straight path towards the village. Jhoti was already running to meet him. ‘Have you a letter for us?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is it from England?’

‘Huh, huh!’ He waved the letter in the air, teasing her. ‘It’s not for you, mamaji – nor Govind, and it’s not from England.’

‘From where then, where?’ cried Jhoti, bursting with curiosity.

The postman came to a stop and rested his feet on the ground. He brought the envelope close to his nose and examined it in a short-sighted sort of way. ‘Singapore . . . Hmm . . . Burma. Now why should a certain person be getting a letter from the Royal Navy?’ He questioned her with a cheeky smile and a tapping of his nose.

‘What certain person?’ exclaimed Jhoti, beginning to get annoyed and impatient. ‘Give it here, Roshan, and stop fooling about.’ She snatched it from him.

‘It’s for your daughter, Miss Marvinder Singh!’ Roshan pre-empted her, knowing full well that Jhoti couldn’t read. ‘That’s the third one I’ve brought for your daughter since she came back from England.’

‘And so?’ declared Jhoti. ‘Oh, be off with you – you busybody.’ Jhoti sped away to deliver the letter to Marvinder, who was crouched on her haunches in the kitchen, kneading chapatti dough and preparing food for the day.

‘Is it from Kathleen? Or from Edith?’ Jhoti asked, as Marvinder stared at the envelope. Without answering, Marvinder ran out to the pump to wash the sticky flour from her hands. Then, drying them hurriedly on the end of her veil, she excitedly took the letter from her mother.

Her mother peered over her daughter’s shoulder at the squiggles on the paper, wishing that she could decipher them. ‘Is it from the Chadwicks? But no, this one can’t be. Roshan says it’s from Singapore. Kathleen wouldn’t be in Burma, would she? ‘Jhoti waited patiently as Marvinder skilfully prised open the envelope without ripping it. With arched fingers, she extricated a sheet of paper and began to read.

Jhoti sighed. How marvellous it was that Marvinder could read and write and was so educated. Perhaps all the agonies of the past two years – the separation and terrible uncertainty brought about by war – had been worth it. For two years she had searched for her children, going all the way to Bombay, walking the streets, asking at the train station, the docks, the gatemen at the churches, if anyone had seen them or could tell her where they might be, and if they were alive or dead. But all in vain. Somehow, ill and heart-broken, she had made her way back to her ravaged village and crept into the jungle, not caring whether she lived or died.

But all the time Jaspal and Marvinder had been in England with their father. They had been at English schools learning to read and write. They could have stayed on for ever. But they didn’t. They came home to look for her.

Jhoti watched her daughter’s face. ‘Well?’ she demanded, desperate to be included in the news. ‘What’s it all about? What is this place, Singapore? Where is it? Who do you know there?’

‘It’s from Kathleen’s brother, Patrick,’ said Marvinder. She looked up at her mother.

‘Oh?’ Jhoti was shocked. The shining in Marvinder’s eyes was unmistakable. ‘A boy is writing to you?’ She looked around as if afraid that even such words would be compromising.

‘Oh, Ma!’ Marvinder laughed, trying to play down the implication. ‘It’s only Patrick – he’s just a – ’ She was going to say, just Kathleen’s brother. But he wasn’t just a brother, he was a man; he was eighteen; that’s why he had been called up as a conscript in the British Royal Navy Here in her village, most young men of his age were long married and were fathers already. ‘He’s written to me because he knew I wanted to collect stamps, and he was going to go all round the world with the navy and send me some from every place, that’s all.’ Breathless with the ease at which she had concocted a logical reason for the letter, Marvinder tried to divert her mother by showing her the stamps on the envelope. ‘Look, Ma! Aren’t they beautiful? I’m building up quite a collection. Kathleen and Edith both said they would write to me and send me stamps – and Dr Silbermann too. Now I have these! Aren’t I lucky!’

Jhoti was dying to ask, what does it say? What is he like – this boy who is in the navy? Is he handsome? Do you feel for him? Did he ever touch you? But suddenly she didn’t dare. The least said about this letter the better – especially in front of Govind.

‘Put it away, daughter. Put it away. Your father would not like to know a boy has been writing to you. Here – shall I burn it? ‘Jhoti almost snatched it from her.

‘No, Ma!’ Marvinder recoiled in horror. She thrust the letter back into its envelope and pushed it into the waist of her salwaar pyjamas. ‘It’s mine. I’ll keep it safe. Don’t worry.’

Jhoti turned away feeling disturbed and anxious. She wanted to say, don’t let your father know, but to advise such a thing would be disloyal. She knew she should take the letter and give it to Govind, but these days Govind had become so strict and austere, she was afraid of his reaction.

He was trying desperately to find a husband for Marvinder. But no family had yet made them any offers. He was afraid that her stay in England had made her too independent and different from the other village girls of her class. He wanted to tame her; make her submit. These days, he often lectured her and sometimes beat her. He disapproved of her writing and receiving letters. He disliked the way she spent so much time reading – in fact – devouring books as if she would be a scholar. Govind hated all this. It was as if he wanted to eradicate the past two years from her life, and make her the simple, innocent, dutiful daughter she would have been, had the world not turned upside down. If he knew about the letter . . . Jhoti’s thoughts hung in the air. If he knew about the letter . . . She stood for a moment frowning as she imagined what he would do if he knew a boy was writing to his daughter, even though he was desperate for someone to present himself as a prospective husband.

Mother and daughter returned to their tasks in silence, grinding the spices, sifting the lentils and kneading the dough for chapattis. But all the time their minds were on the letter.

It was nearly midday before Marvinder was able to slip away on her own. She had only skimmed down Patricks letter in the presence of her mother and was desperate to read it again.

This was the first time Patrick had written to her. The envelope had burned against her skin all morning as she had worked side by side with her mother. Every now and then she saw Jhoti glancing at her – her curiosity mingled with anxiety, and Marvinder would give her mother a reassuring smile.

Marvinder knew how her mother suffered more than she did when Govind raged at her and sometimes slapped her about for being distracted or lazy, or for not being exactly where he thought she should be at any given moment, or for not doing what he thought she should be doing then and there. Marvinder knew that her mother was torn between loyalty to her husband and a desire to protect her daughter. So, for her sake, Marvinder quelled the rebellious feelings which would well up inside her.

But she was always looking for ways to be by herself, where she could write to Kathleen or read some of the books she had found abandoned in the old missionary bungalows. Most of all, she needed somewhere to play her violin. It wasn’t easy, for there were barely any hours in the day which weren’t taken up with fetching and carrying and preparing food, and cooking and washing. Then there was the work in the fields – especially at harvest time, when every man, woman and child had to pull their weight, scything, cutting and gathering up.

But when the sun was at its zenith and the heat of the day too much, that was when Marvinder could escape unnoticed and go to the palace.

The palace had been built by a Mogul prince hundreds of years ago. It had once had a hundred rooms and stables for a hundred horses and tethering for two dozen elephants. Warriors had patrolled the ramparts and princes practised archery in the mango groves. In the cool of late afternoons, as the blood-red sun plunged downwards, princesses had been rowed up and down the lake, trailing their fingers in the water and watching the movement of fishes beneath the green silky surface. Not it was abandoned; forgotten; its rajahs defeated in battle, its riches pillaged. It looked like nothing but a mouldering wedding cake being slowly consumed by wind and rain and vermin. Grass and weeds, wild flowers and thin saplings sprouted from between the cracks, as if they too would swallow up the great grey stones, and no one would remember that, once, those rajahs and princes of unimaginable wealth and power had ruled this land.

Marvinder entered through the crumbling portico and crossed the tiled floor of the inner courtyard. Her sandalled feet echoed up the old stone steps as she ascended to the top of the fourth terrace. From here she could see near and far and from horizon to horizon in every direction; from the women on their way to the well on the outskirts of the village, or north to the soft white glow of the Himalayas hanging like clouds.

She tucked herself into a segment of shade which slanted sharply from the balustrade and leaned her back against the cool stone. She extricated the envelope from her waist.

R.N.B.

HMS Terror

Singapore

3 September 1950

My dear Marvi,

(The words resonated on the page. Patricks teasing Irish voice came into her head.)

Look where I am. Singapore. Just down the road from you really – give or take a few thousand miles. The navy’s great. The places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done would fill a book. Of course they work you hard. We’re up at five every morning, and then it’s drill and kit and spit and polish and practice and training. But the lads are the best, and time off in Singapore is a darn sight better than time off in the Orkneys – I can tell you.

I had a letter from Mammy last week. They’re moving out of Whitworth Road at last. They’ve been given a council house – a brand new one with a separate kitchen and bathroom and three whole bedrooms – can you imagine? It will seem like Buckingham Palace after living in that slum for so long. I hope Kathleen’s writing to you. She misses you – God knows why. (Joke.) Michael’s doing all right. Still working as a brickie. He’s got himself a girl. It’s serious. Did Kathy tell you? Her name’s Joan Palmer. They’re going to get engaged. Kathy says she’s like Jane Wyman. Blimey I suppose it’ll be wedding bells soon. What about you, Marvi? I hope they haven’t married you off already. Keep in touch. I’m at the above address for at least two months, so, if you write straight away, it will get to me.

Well, must stop. Chin chin and TTFN (if you remember what that means – ta-ta for now).

Love,

Patrick

PS. Are you still playing the fiddle?

Can you be a ghost while you are still alive? She had heard of fakirs and holy men with special powers being in two places at once. Had she not often done the same? Surely they would see her there in London – in Whitworth Road – climbing the dark dingy staircase to the first floor. ‘Hello, Mr O’Grady!’ She waved at him through the open door where he sat in his usual chair, with his one remaining leg propped up on the mantelpiece, swearing and cursing at the world. And there was Mrs O’Grady doing half a dozen things at once, moving from the laundry to the cooking to rocking little Beryl or making a cup of tea or lighting up a cigarette; and Michael stripped to the waist, washing at the kitchen sink; and Kathleen leaning out of the window to yell to her friends, who were swinging round the lamppost; and Patrick – surely Patrick sensed her ghostly presence following him around as she had never done in real life, lingering at his shoulder, leaning into his conversations, blushing at his teasing? Did he never feel that she was there?

She pressed his letter to her nose and mouth, and breathed in its smell, then folded it away and stared into nothing. Her elation vanished.

‘Have they married you off yet?’ he had asked.

‘No, not yet,’ she said out loud.

‘Are you still playing the violin?’ he had asked.

‘Of course I am. What a silly question.’

The violin was her most precious possession. She had been given it in England by old Dr Silbermann, who had taught her to play. Her father disapproved. He saw it as yet one more thing that made her different, and stopped her from being marriageable. It was true that people in the village had stared and sniggered when she had tried playing at home. Girls round here didn’t do that sort of thing. Nobody did that sort of thing – not here. Musicians came along from time to time for weddings and festivals, but when the celebration was over, they moved on. So Marvinder brought her violin to the palace whenever she could, to play it undisturbed.

She went to her secret alcove in the wall where she had stored the violin case, all wrapped in newspaper and swaddled in a cloth bag, to keep away the ants and worms and other creatures which might enjoy feasting on its shining red wood. She unwrapped it and took it out carefully. Moving to the deepest shade she could find, she began to practise her daily exercises, just as Dr Silbermann had taught her. She drew the full length of the bow up and down the open strings over and over again, until her ear was satisfied and the sound lifted like a bird and soared away into the sky.

She became a ghost again. In London, she had often looked at a single patch of blue sky – whenever there was any blue sky – and imagined it was India. Now here – as a hot blue haze tinged the whole countryside around – she shut her eyes and imagined she was playing to old Dr Silbermann down in his dark, basement flat where the sun hardly got beyond the windowsill.

She read Patrick’s letter once more. This time, the words ‘stay in touch’ gave her hope. ‘At least he wants me to stay in touch. I will. I’ll write.’ She put away her violin with the letter tucked inside.

In one of the empty rooms below, where the dust drifted in the sunbeams – a vast cosmos of golden stars – the watcher sat on his haunches with his back against the wall, waiting like a weather-worn stone statue; featureless but solid. He didn’t move when Marvinder descended the stone steps, hurrying. He heard the rustle of her clothes – like angels’ wings.

They were king and queen in this ruined palace, moving like chess pieces; silently avoiding each other – for the moment.