Of Marriageable Age (34 page)

He fumbled for a few precious seconds until he found the key-hole, and turned the key. The padlock snapped open. David removed it and slipped it into his pocket. He tried to open the latch but it was rusty from lack of usage and stuck fast. David swore and bent over it to work it free. Savitri watched him. She looked over her shoulder once, imagining Mani appearing out of the darkness with a crowd of his cronies, waving sticks and yelling at her, and the terror was so great she closed her eyes and prayed, and calmness filled her. Only with strong pressure steadily applied did the latch finally give way, and sprang back with such suddenness that David almost lost his balance.

In triumph he looked at her and beckoned her to follow. The gate creaked as he opened it and Savitri's heart missed a beat, for in the great silence that hung over Old Market Street at this time of night that creaking seemed as loud as a round of gunshot. But no-one seemed to have heard. A dog barked and another replied, but from a far distance, while the dogs of Old Market Street slept on as if in complicity with Savitri, and happy to be on the side of her who had always been on theirs.

The street was deserted. They walked down its middle so as to avoid the cows sleeping on the roadside, the abandoned bullock carts, the occasional dray, its horse tied up to it and sleeping with drooping head.

Once or twice a dog woke up and barked at them, but never for long because Savitri's mind bid them be quiet, and they obeyed, circling and settling again into their snug holes in the roadside dust.

Savitri and David walked towards the bazaar. Savitri whispered, 'Where are we going, David?'

He turned to her, looking down at the small shrouded figure hurrying along beside him, and smiled to her through the darkness, pressing her fingers reassuringly.

'Let's not talk now,' he whispered back. 'I'm looking for a rickshaw, there ought to be one or two near the bazaar.'

There was a cycle-rickshaw, but it was abandoned, its driver nowhere to be found. But with the very next one they were lucky, for the rickshaw-
wallah
slept inside it, covered from head to toe with a ragged blanket. David took hold of what appeared to be a shoulder and shook it. The man stirred but did not wake, so David shook again and called out, 'Wake up, wake up!' The rickshaw-
wallah
was awake then, sitting up and folding his blanket with the placid obedience of one whose work is never done, who has no right to rest.

David and Savitri entered the rickshaw and settled into its seat, which was badly ripped with cotton stuffing hanging out of one long diagonal gash. David rattled off some directions and the rickshaw-
wallah
pushed the carriage onto the road and ran a short way with it before expertly catching hold of a bicycle pedal with a naked foot and leaping onto the bicycle and pedalling off. Their progress was swift for the street was empty and rickshaw-
wallah
was in a hurry to deliver his fare and perhaps catch a last hour of rest before the next day's toil began. David and Savitri bounced behind him on the seat, giggling in release as the potholes threw them together.

I am his, now!
thought Savitri,
I can never go back!
In his eyes she saw that all worry had vanished and given way to a rush of excitement: David's head was thrown back and he was looking at her and laughing. In her eyes David still saw the absolute trust with which she had cut all ties of duty and tradition in one strong moment of decisiveness. In a split second Savitri had leaped from a fixed course and into nothingness, with nothing but her complete trust in him to lean on. This realisation came suddenly to him, stifling his laughter. Something new, bigger, more solid began to grow within him, and that was
responsibility.
He had taken Savitri out of all the security she knew, and thus he was accountable for whatever happened to her. His eyes misted over and he laid his arm around her, drawing her near. He leaned over to her and said into her ear, 'Thank you for coming, Savitri, thank you for trusting me. It's all going to be all right.'

'Will you tell me now where we're going?' She smiled up at him, snuggling against him. Having once thrown away conventions she didn't care; she felt light, and free, as if the whole world was open to her, and the whole world was good, and would embrace her.

'It's to be a surprise,' David said, and grinned as she wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. 'Try and guess!'

'I've no idea! How'm I supposed to know?'

'Well, anyway. It's too late now, we're there!'

He called out and the rickshaw-
wallah
pulled the brakes and the rickshaw jolted to a halt. David swung himself down to the ground. Savitri descended behind him. He paid the
wallah
, who nodded, turned his vehicle around, and creaked off into the night.

David stood now at the door of a tall, narrow, pink-painted house, banging a huge iron knocker against it loud enough to awaken the whole street. Slowly, A light went on in an upper storey and a figure appeared in the window, but Savitri could not see the face because it was in shadow, the light behind it.

But then whoever it was called out, 'What in heaven's name is going on out there? Have you gone mad, whoever you are?'

'Oh, my goodness!' she cried. 'It's Mr Baldwin!'

27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NAT

London, 1964-1969

N
AT WAS SCHEDULED
to return to India the summer following his first arrival in England. He didn’t go. The distance to his father was too wide to breach, wider that the physical space between them.

His father lived in another world; going home would be going backwards instead of forwards. Besides: his father would want to know how his studies were going and… well, there was nothing good to say. He could always go next year; or at Christmas, when the climate would be more pleasant and the holiday shorter. He couldn't imagine the village, nor what he would do there, nor what he would say to the villagers. He had nothing in common with them, everything in common with his London friends.

Besides: there was that invitation to join Alice and some friends for a holiday on the Costa Brava. In fact, he had already agreed to go. His hotel was booked, and all that was left was to write his father (if he left it much longer he'd have to cable) to say he wasn't coming. Which he did.

He didn't go home at Christmas, either, nor the following summer. Another year passed, and still Nat did not return. In the meanwhile his lifestyle went through several changes. Women still turned their heads when he passed, but not as much as before. His beauty had lost its bloom; or rather, it had gone through a metamorphosis. He was no longer Krishna with his
gopis;
now he aimed for the Wiseman-of-the East look. Nat had grown a beard, and his hair was now way past his shoulders. By wearing a turban all the time he emanated a certain exotic-oriental mystique, and to enhance this image he started to smoke; not ordinary cigarettes, no, it had to be the tiny Indian bidis he found in an Indian shop. But these were externals. The glow, the charisma, was gone.

His mind refused to obey him, would not concentrate, his memory failed him. Nat thought it would be best just to break off his studies and do something else; get a job, be independent. He wasn't cut out to be a doctor, and anyway, he'd never go back to the village to join his father, so what was the point? The whole venture had been a waste of time. And money. Well, not quite; coming to England had been right; he'd needed these experiences, for they had shown him his true self, and now he could consider himself a man of the world, a cosmopolitan.

But the goal and the idealism which had inspired the move was long dead. It had anyway not been his own idea, but his father's. Doctor had chosen his goals for him. Doctor had decided what he should be, and where, and the more Nat thought of his father's manipulation of his life the angrier he became, and resentment gnawed at him for the wasted years which had come to nothing.

At the end of his third year he left university and found a job as a waiter in a small Indian restaurant. He made an excellent waiter, not merely polite and attentive but naturally friendly, with a charm that easily held the balance between amiability and respect, and the Indian customers loved to engage him in conversation, as Indians away from home tend to do, posing the usual questions as to where he came from, his name, his father's name, his father's profession, and so on. Since no-one had ever heard of the village Nat always said he came from 'near Madras', which sounded somehow more sophisticated.

Nat had a Golden Hand as a waiter and it was not long before he found himself solicited to move on to bigger and better things. People noted his name and address; wealthy people rang him up and asked him to come and help with their weddings and religious ceremonies, and paid him handsomely. Finally he was permanently lured away by a fat Bengali, a Mr Chatterji who actually spoke not a word of Bengali, and in fact had never been to India and was a converted Christian bearing the name of William, who ran an Indian catering service.

Five years later, eight years after his first arrival from India, Nat was assistant manager of this catering service, an attractive and successful young man: a true-blue Londoner. He drove a green van with a caricature of an Indian waiter on the side, turbaned and in a dhoti, holding up a plate piled high with chapattis, smiling and winking at the world, and next to that the inscription:
Bharat Catering Services — Veg and Non-Veg Meals — Weddings, Religious Functions — Bengali and Tandoori Specialities — Best Quality for Price.

It wasn't, strictly speaking, quite the thing to take the girls out in, but for some reason they adored it, thinking it quaint, and would rather go out with Nat in his Bharat van than with the Barclay's Bank manager in his Jag. Nat had never cared much for mere
things
, and he was never for one moment lured by possessions —
perishables,
he called these — or tempted to enhance his image by expensive cars, stereos, watches, and so on. Nor did he give expensive presents, nor did he feel the need to move to a bigger flat. He still lived in his Notting Hill Gate room, which he now shared with another Gujarati student, a cousin of the first one, now an up-and-coming solicitor in a Chancery Lane firm.

H
E HARDLY EVER WROTE TO
his father. He had found his way in London. He never lost his touch with women.

One evening Nat poured himself a whisky, reached for the telephone receiver with his free hand, clamped it under his chin, leafed through his dog-eared telephone book — S for Sarah — and dialled a number.

'Hallo, Sarah, how's my favourite lady?'

She giggled. 'Oh, come on, you, I bet you say that to every single girl!'

'No I don't, you really are! Any plans for tonight? Can you fit me in?'

'Any time... where to?'

'Les Enfants Terribles?
I’ll pick you up about eight, all right?'

'Wonderful!'

A
FEW HOURS
later Nat and Sarah tumbled up the stairs, wrapped in each other's arms, laughing, eager, all arms and legs and swinging hair, his as long as hers. Nat fumbled for his key, turned it in the lock, they tumbled into the flat, into his room, leaving a trail of shoes and Nat's shirt across the hall, Nat tearing at her blouse, she shrieking at the fun of it all, as they tumbled into his room…

The light was on.

In the corner between the bed and the couch a man rose to his feet, from the floor. A small man with a friendly face and great flapping ears, coming forward with his hand stretched out, saying, 'Hello Nat . ..'

'Henry!'

'Yes, it's me. Sorry for barging in like this — would have rang you up first, but Adam didn't have your telephone number; all we had was your address, so I just came in the hope that you'd be here.'

Sarah stood with her back turned, buttoning up her blouse. Nat grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair and slipped his arms into it, glowering.

'Who let you in?'

'Well, who do you think? That nice Gujarati chap in the next room. He even gave me a cup of tea and some crisps. We had a nice talk, but then he had to retire to do some studying. Said you'd be in later and I thought I'd wait. Seems it wasn't such a good idea after all…' his eyes shifted to the doorway where Sarah could be seen in the hall, shoving her stockinged feet into her shoes.

'Bye, Nat. See you next weekend!' she called, and the front door slammed. Nat collapsed on the bed.

'But... why... I didn't know you were coming... what...'

'I didn't know I was coming myself. Just flew in the day before yesterday. Got some business in London: got to see a heart specialist, catch up with the family, a few matters to look into for Doctor... May I take a seat? Thank you.'

Henry sat down again, on the floor, as in India.

'Did Dad send you?'

'No, Nat, he didn't
send
me. But he did ask me to drop by and find out how you're doing. And he's hoping you'll come home in three weeks. I've taken the liberty of booking you onto the same flight I'm returning on.'

'Well, that certainly
is
a liberty! Who said I'm coming to India this summer? How d'you know what my plans are? How
dare
you...’

Nat’s voice rose. He got up and paced from wall to wall, coming to a stop above Henry, tailor-seated on the carpet. Nat glowered down, almost threatening in his anger. Henry remained calm.

'Nat, it's been eight years! Eight years! Don't you think your dad wants to see you after all this time? I just thought, hoped, I might persuade you to come, that's all. Come on, sit down. Let’s talk this through.'

But Nat began to pace again.

'And don't
I
count? What
I
want to do with my life? Henry, I'm just not into India any more. I don't know if I'll ever be. I've settled down here, I'm doing well...’