A House Called Askival (22 page)

‘Hannah said so, and your teachers.'

‘They would say that.'

‘But they knew you, they cared about you. Mrs Banwarilal, the Parks, Mr Haskell.'

That last name shot her. She was galled he would cite the very man whose lie had seen her expelled in unbearable distress and – worse – blamed for Manveer's death. But they had always believed him over her.

She almost spoke but stifled it.

At the boys' residence they found the young dorm parent up a ladder repairing a basketball net. Winston, from Assam, was proud of his patch and happy to show them around. The whole residence was recently refurbished and the room they entered had new fitted bunks, cheerful curtains and rugs. James smiled as he looked around him.

‘Boy, it sure is different,' he said shaking his head, one hand resting on his chest.

‘When were you here?' asked Winston.

‘At Oaklands? Oh, on and off from 1936 till I guess… December 47. Four to sixteen. My folks worked in Bareilly, but they were on the hillside a lot too, so I was out of boarding half the time.'

‘Wow,' said Winston. ‘Not many kids are here for that long any more. And we don't take them in boarding till third grade, anyway.'

‘That's good,' said James. ‘Four is a little young.' And he walked to the large window that looked west over the bazaar. Ruth examined the posters of rock stars and motorbikes.

‘What was it like back then?' asked Winston.

‘Oh, it was good,' said James. ‘And bad. I was homesick at first. Cried a lot.' He glanced at Ruth but she did not look back.

‘Yeah, I'm sure,' said Winston. ‘No luxuries is those days, eh?'

‘No, no, not at all.' Though it was not the spartan facilities that had caused pain. It was the older boys taunting him for his wonky teeth and his wet bed. Every night they'd stolen his teddy bear and tossed it round the dorm till he was a whirling dervish of fury and snot and tears. Until one of his fists finally hit a nose and there was a jet of blood and a howl. It was a rite of passage and no-one took his teddy bear again. But instead of feeling triumphant he had lain in bed stroking the bear's ear and wondering what his mother would think.

All he said to Winston was, ‘No, no luxuries. Just one
chula
in the common room and no heat in the dorms.'

‘Really? These guys all have their own heater.'

‘And we had bucket baths. Showers when you got to senior hostel, but sometimes they were cold.'

‘No!'

He didn't explain this was for punishment, like when
Private Patsy
was discovered. Even Ellen never heard about that.

‘Twice a week – Wednesday and Saturday,' he said.

‘No way. These boys get hot showers every day. They can pick morning, afternoon or evening.'

‘Like a hotel!'

‘Yeah, and they think I'm room service.'

‘What's the food like now?' asked James.

‘Well the kids always complain, of course, but I think it's pretty good. They have a choice – either an Indian meal or something Western.'

‘Do they know how lucky they are?' asked James.

‘I keep telling them, but maybe we should get you in to do devotions one night, Dr Connor.'

‘I'd like that.'

‘Are devotions still compulsory or do the kids get a choice about that too?' asked Ruth, speaking for the first time.

‘Up to eighth grade they're still compulsory,' said Winston.

‘No way. You mean you still make all these Hindu and Muslim and Buddhist kids sit through Christian indoctrination every night? I thought the place had moved on a bit.'

Winston shrugged. ‘It's still a Christian school. The parents know the deal.'

‘No, they don't. They think their kids will just have to sit through a few boring talks. What they don't realise is that an army of evangelical teachers and pupils are on a hunt for their souls.'

James gripped his stick.

‘That's a little harsh,' Winston said.

‘You can't deny it! I remember it well. Feverishly praying for all the non-Christians. “The lost” we called them. Some of the poor bastards were so miserable and homesick they'd come along to any Bible study as long as there was home-baking and a caring Mrs Somebody to talk to. And once you were there you couldn't withstand the pressure for long. Everybody singing and looking at you meaningfully, raising hands, calling on the love of Jesus. You didn't stand a chance.'

‘Sounds like you escaped,' observed Winston.

Her stare was cold.

‘I was thrown out,' she said.

THIRTY-TWO

It was James who first dropped Ruth off at school. The task fell to him because Ellen couldn't face it, though the girls never knew. He had brought her and Hannah on the overnight train from Kanpur, then the bus from Dehra Dun and finally the long trudge through the bazaar with a trail of coolies. In Long Dorm he saw their trunks installed in their cubicles and struggled through a polite conversation with Miss Joshi.

At last it was time to go. He nodded dutifully at the chattering dorm mother and, with a hand fumbling the handkerchief in his pocket, turned to look at the girls. They were sitting cross-legged in the Kozy Korner playing dolls with Sita. The new little friend wore her hair in bunches tied with incongruous pink ribbons that matched her frilly dress. Miss Joshi had pointed out her bed right next to Ruth's. They were both in Grade 1, both six years old, though Sita, having arrived the day before, established her authority on all subjects, including the care of dolls. At that moment she was stripping Ruth's doll and giving instructions on bathing, while ten-year old Hannah rummaged in a shoebox for its pyjamas. Ruth was rocking Sita's doll to sleep.

James called them, his voice steady. ‘Hannah, Ruthie. It's time now.'

Ruth was too busy. ‘Shhh!' she hissed, pressing a finger against her lips.

Hannah dropped the pyjamas and ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his woollen sweater. He patted the top of her head and looked across to Ruth, who was kissing her doll.

‘Dad's gotta go now,
Piyari
.'

For a moment she seemed not to have heard, but then suddenly shoved the doll between a pair of cushions and scampered across, throwing her arms around both father and sister. James bent forward and rubbed their backs, smelling the mingling of shampoo and exhaust fumes in their hair. There was a slight ache in his throat. He swallowed and straightened up.

‘Goodbye, my good girls,' he said, a hand on each shoulder.

‘Where are you going?' Ruth asked.

The question shocked him. ‘Home. To Mommy.'

She looked puzzled.

‘But aren't you staying with us?'

‘No. Daddy's going back to the hospital.'

‘Why?'

‘Because…' he stammered, ‘it's what I do. It's my work.'

Ruth gazed at him. ‘I want to go, too.'

He couldn't believe it. They'd been over this so many times. How could she still not understand? Hannah came to his rescue.

‘No, Ruthie. We're staying here at school and we'll go home at vacation.'

‘But who's going to look after us?' asked Ruth, genuinely baffled.

‘I am!' fluted Miss Joshi, beaming down at her a little too brightly. ‘We're going to have a super time!' Her eyes were ringed with so much kohl they were like twin bruises in her oily face.

Ruth studied her for a moment, then turned back to her father. ‘When's vacation? Is it the weekend?'

James felt panic rising inside him. Hannah had never been like this. ‘Not the weekend,
Piyari
, but not too long. Mom's gonna come up and visit you in a couple months.'

Her face quivered. ‘I want Mommy now.'

‘But Ruthie, Mommy's not here—'

‘I want to go home!' she wailed and hurled herself at James. He felt sweat breaking across his neck and armpits.

‘Oh–ho,' he murmured huskily, patting her back. ‘Oh-ho now…'

Hannah wrapped herself around Ruth from behind and said
shh-shh-shh
. Miss Joshi clicked her tongue and, from the other side of the room, Sita stared.

James disentangled himself and pulled a wadded hanky from his pocket.

‘Now, now, that's enough now,' he said sternly and dabbed at Ruth's wet face. ‘You need to be good and make Mom and Dad proud.' She still shuddered with sobs. ‘Make Jesus proud.'

This brought on a fresh flood of tears.

‘Daddy has to go now or he'll miss the bus.' His voice was snappy and he hated it. He gave the hanky to Hannah and put a hand on her smooth, shiny hair, his other on Ruth's tangle of curls.

‘Remember, girls, the Lord Jesus is always with you.'

He had been meaning to pray over them, but could feel a crack opening up inside him and everything beginning to slide towards it. Quickly he dropped a rough kiss on each face – Hannah's soft and still, Ruth's a wet mess – and pulled back before her out-flung arms could catch him.

‘Bye, now!' he called as he pushed out the door, just aware of Hannah hugging Ruth, and Ruth starting to scream.

He ran down the stairs of Lower Dorm and wanted to keep running for a long time, but his coolie was waiting with his bag in the Quad, and he had to stop and breathe and hide the crack that was widening inside. He rubbed his hand over his chest and gave a small tilt of his head. The coolie tilted in return and stood up, shouldering the bedroll.

They walked out the school gate and down the road, the monsoon mist a cold breath through the trees. The faint sound of bells and clopping hooves grew louder as a party of
dudh-wallas
appeared, large milk cans clinking on the saddles and a ripe smell of donkey, dung and sour clothes filling the air. James and the coolie walked west towards the
bruised sky and the first lights of the bazaar, past the sprawling untidiness of Mullingar, with its lines of washing like seaweed on the hull of a ship, and all the way down to the bus stand at Paramount Picture House. From there, the bus zig-zagged three thousand feet down the mountain, blasting its horn and swaying at every bend, finally disgorging its green-gilled passengers a hundred metres from the railway station. It was night now, and the light bulbs on the road-side stalls glowed under their speckling of grease and dirt.

In the second-class compartment that James was sharing with a Tibetan lama and a family from Meerut, he laid out his bedding roll on the top bunk, put his wash kit and frayed hand-towel on top and took out his Bible. The lama nodded to him and smiled, his fingers sliding over prayer beads, his burgundy and saffron robes falling to a pair of Adidas running shoes. The mother and grandmother of the Meerut family were organising dinner, opening aluminium tiffin carriers and instructing the others on where to sit and what to hold. Each carrier was a stack of three round tins that opened to reveal rice, chapattis and an array of curries. The mother offered food to the lama, who lifted a hand in refusal and blessing, and then to James, who thanked them but already had chai in a clay cup and a bag of samosas. He offered these in turn, but they too declined with much smiling and tilting of heads and exclamations at his Hindi. He thanked them, then turned his attention to his Bible. The Meerut father, however, was expansive and not deterred by James reading. Eager to practice his English, he asked after his good name and his citizenship. Normally James gave himself with full attention to these encounters, but found this time he struggled through the customary conversation about his work as a doctor in Kanpur, his childhood in India, whether he was married and how many issues he had. Naturally the man wanted to know where these fine daughters were being educated, and when James explained that he had just left them at Oaklands, the man from Meerut puffed his cheeks and blew out, spit trembling on his lips.

‘Oh, Doctor-sahib. You are very lucky to afford such a school for your children. And they are so lucky, likewise. Lucky, lucky, lucky,' he
murmured, wagging his head.

Lucky James nodded and dropped his gaze to the Bible. The Gospel of Luke, underlined verses:
‘I tell you the truth,' Jesus said to them, ‘no one who has left home or wife or brothers or parents or children for the sake of the kingdom of God will fail to receive many times as much in this age and, in the age to come, eternal life.'

There was a chug from under the train, a hiss of steam and a jerk that threw them forward. The whistle blew, late passengers scuttled for doors and coolies followed with teetering trunks. For two minutes all was shouting and shoving and the smells of soot and bodies till the brakes wheezed, the whistle's haunting cry rang again and the train pulled out of Dehra Dun. James looked up at the mountain. Its outline was hidden against the black sky so that the lights of Mussoorie lay scattered across it like a range of lower stars.

He knew that one shone for Hannah and Ruth. Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand over his mouth and gave his body to the rocking of the train.

THIRTY-THREE

He stood on the platform at Bareilly Station in 1937 and felt his hand sweating inside his mother's. It was early March but already the sky was like a sheet of beaten tin, the air thick. They both wore wide-brimmed
topis
but it didn't stop James squinting as he looked down the shimmering tracks. He was five and waiting for the Doon Express to take him back to Oaklands for his second year in boarding. This time last year, the whole thing had been an adventure and he'd nearly wet his shorts with excitement as he'd joined the Calcutta Herd on the train and waved a wild goodbye to his parents.

But now he knew where he was going.

The station was a churning sea of life. Women in limp saris clutched children and cloth bundles and bickered while their men folk went for tickets or cigarettes or a newspaper twist of peanuts. Thin, rangy coolies wove through the crowd with trunks and cases balanced on their turbans, as dogs trotted amongst them, sniffing, ravaging small piles of rubbish and spraying urine on pillars. Vendors moved up and down calling out in ceaseless sing-song tones.
Paan, bidi, cigarette!
The tobacconist – teeth and fingers stained red from beetle nut – had his wares arranged in a large tray suspended from his neck and the smell was a mingling of fresh green leaves, hot chilli and smoke. James watched the
chai-walla push past with his gleaming samovar and a teetering stack of earthen cups on a cart. When he served the tea it was with a magician's skill, first filling a cup from the copper tap, then adding a splash of milk and two spoons of sticky grey sugar, and finally mixing the lot by pouring the tea backwards and forwards between two cups, gradually drawing them further and further apart till the tea flowed in a rippling brown arc. Behind him came a water seller with a bloated goat skin slung across his back, its head gone, legs sticking out as if in shock.
Hindu jal! Hindu jal!
he cried, and stopped for a man squatting near James. The goat's neck served as spout and the water poured in a clear stream down the drinker's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, nothing spilling or touching his lips. Further down the platform another vendor with a goat skin was hawking
Muslim jal
. James' Christian jal, boiled and cooled, was in the tin canteen at his hip.

There was a hollow ache in his stomach and the smell of the puris sizzling in hot oil nearby made him feel sick. His father appeared, sweat appearing at the armpits of his shirt, grey trousers held firm by his thick belt. He smiled at James from under his topi and held out a stick of sugar cane.

‘There you are, son,' he said. James took the cane with his free hand.

‘Thank you,' he whispered, mouth dry as leaves.

There was a distant wail of horn and the platform heaved. Coolies without luggage leapt forward, mothers grabbed stray children and men barked orders. The train appeared, a great chugging beast spewing smoke and steam, horn shrieking as it slowed down in a hiss of brakes. Before it had even stopped, the coolies were upon it, like trappers with a wild animal, leaping up its flanks, gripping on bars and handles. Doors were flung open and at each compartment there was a colliding of bodies as people tried to get out and others in, some resorting to windows, others to scrambling over their neighbours. James felt his mother tug on his hand as she started striding down the platform.

‘Which bogey is it,?' she called over her shoulder. Stanley was helping the coolie lift James' trunk and bedding roll onto his head.

‘G!' he shouted and came after them. The train did not stop for long,
which was an absurdity since Bareilly was a big station and the same train would loiter for long, unexplained stretches in the middle of the night at empty platforms where there was nothing but sleeping beggars and flies crawling over a single bulb.

A rotund man with half-moon glasses jumped out of a third class compartment and waved. It was Bishop Lutz from Calcutta, who had drawn the short straw and was the designated chaperone for the Calcutta Herd, which included his three wild sons. Leota broke into a run and James' legs pumped furiously to keep up, his hand almost slipping from hers. Several grinning faces appeared at the window as the Oaklands kids looked to see who was joining them. One boy was firing hard popcorn kernels at stray dogs, while another was calling to the cigarette walla. James recognised Raymond Clutterbuck with his red hair and mean laugh. Stanley arrived with the coolie trotting behind and James' bed roll and tin trunk were passed through the door and added to the pile of luggage in the centre of the compartment. The train whistle blew in a long, sickening wail and James felt a flood of panic. He gripped his mother's hand.

‘Goodbye JimBob,' she said, with determined cheer and knocked playfully on the top of his topi. ‘Have fun.'

He bit his lip, but it was useless. His face was already crumpling, eyes spilling over. Stanley scowled at him from under his topi.

‘Time to get on, son,' he said, voice a little gruff.

James shook his head wildly.

‘No… no… no,' he gasped, tears running down his face now. ‘Please…?' He saw his mother's face change, just for an instant, like a curtain dropping and revealing a naked grief he should not have seen. But then the curtain snapped back and the vigorous cheer returned. She even laughed.

Stanley did not. His face was turning red. The whistle screamed again.

‘No son of mine cries like a baby. Now get on the train.' And he yanked James from his mother's side and half-pushed him into the compartment. There was a hiss of brakes, a great clanking and a jerk as the train began
to roll. James looked out through the blur of tears at his mother's waving hand and fixed smile and at his father, one hand on a hip the other lifted, whether in blessing or banishment James never knew.