Playing Fields in Winter (25 page)

On the train that took him to Delhi, Ravi thought about his future. What a change, what a marvellous transformation since the last time he had made this journey in the opposite direction. Then everything had been so hopeless, a dead end; he had been bogged down in the most gruesome mess. Sarah had been beside him, wide-eyed and enthusiastic but
complicating
everything tenfold by her presence. He felt a little pang of nostalgia as he thought of her and he wondered where she was by now. He was sure she was having a
tremendous
time wherever she was and he could not help grinning as he recalled how she had gone trekking off on her own after that rumpus, undeterred by India, her usual headstrong self. He thought ahead to his own destination: Delhi and the glossy premises of the social survey outfit, new acquaintances and new adventures, the first springboard of his career. Until he found somewhere of his own, he had been invited to stay at his uncle’s house. Involuntarily he stretched in pleasurable anticipation of all the parties and dinners ahead. He was on his way to the utterly superior life for which he had always hoped, to the prospect of prosperity, to success. Excitement gave him an appetite and he unwrapped the substantial meal which his mother had prepared for him. A last tremor of misgiving vanished as he bit into the savoury pakoris; Sarah would still reappear once more in Delhi. But he scooped decisively into his dish of vegetables with a rolled-up piece of roti. He would put her up in some little hotel near his office. Everything would be quite different now that he had embarked on a proper fulfilling life of his own. Sarah would see there was no place for her in his future. He hoped she would not be too troublesome and spoil the memories of their good times, which he would cherish forever. No, she would not do that; she had too much sense. Ravi squared his shoulders. No, Sarah would not be a problem any more.

Sarah arrived back in Delhi on a dazzling morning. She did not go to Birendra’s but took a scooter rickshaw from the railway station to the YWCA. After a shower and a rest, she changed into her least soiled clothes and set out in the early afternoon to Birendra’s. She knew that Ravi would be out at work, but she assumed that he must be staying there. She thought she would drink tea and chat with Birendra until Ravi came back from work and then give him the surprise of his life as he opened the door. It had crossed her mind on the train not even to say goodbye to Ravi, to leave the country without getting in touch and let him come to the crushing realisation after a few months that she was gone. But that vindictive fantasy only served to console her. Despite
everything that had happened, her need to see Ravi one last time was stronger.

The house where Birendra lived was just as filthy and
run-down
as Sarah remembered it. She climbed the nasty stairs to his flat and for a guilty moment felt thankful that she would be leaving those stairs behind as well. In the minute before Birendra answered her knock, she thought she might keel over with excited, doom-filled apprehension.

Birendra seemed astonished to see her. He was hard at work on one of his shock-horror exposés and there was no sign that Ravi was camping in his room. He made her welcome though and, after a minute, commented with concern on how tired she looked.

‘I’ve been ill,’ she announced proudly. ‘I was in hospital!’

Birendra looked horrified. ‘What was wrong? I never knew …’

‘Oh, you couldn’t have,’ Sarah answered airily. ‘Ravi doesn’t know yet either.’

Birendra blushed deeply. ‘Look, you’d better bring me up to date.’

‘The pig!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘Hasn’t he told you anything about what happened?’

Birendra shuffled. ‘Sarah, I haven’t seen him.’

That startled her. ‘But you know about his job?’ she asked falteringly. ‘You know he got the job in that social survey place?’

Birendra nodded. ‘I know that. I received a note about a fortnight ago from Mister Kaul, saying he was on his way. But he must have been rushed off his feet in the social whirl since he arrived in Delhi; I haven’t seen him since.’

Sarah stared at him, then she blurted out, ‘But where’s he staying?’

Birendra looked at her gently, as though he thought that anyone that naïve ought to be protected, before replying, ‘At his uncle’s.’

Of course, she could hardly go and see him there. Not after what had happened in Lucknow and not after her hospital resolution. But Birendra said that he would get in touch with Ravi at once and later, as Sarah was leaving, he added rather
abruptly that he would send him round to her hotel that evening.

She went off and booked her seat on the plane. For just a minute she was tempted to delay doing so until she had seen Ravi, but the thought of being able to tell him bluntly that she was leaving outweighed the imaginary possibility of his protesting that she should stay longer. So she made her reservation at the airline office and then went back to the YWCA and sat in her room and waited for Ravi.

So many things could go wrong in India that it was not necessarily through callousness that he failed to come. But when at ten o’clock there was still no sign of Ravi, she gave up hope and went to bed. Outside her window, a radio was playing an interminable succession of jangling, twanging songs. Maybe Birendra had not really meant what he had said. Maybe Ravi had not got his message. But she was so exhausted that she soon slept in any case and, in the morning, there was a note for her at the reception desk:

Sarah!!!

Welcome back! I hear from Birendra that you’re back in town after quite some adventures. I do hope you’re all right and I’m looking forward to hearing all about your travels.

I’m afraid tonight’s impossible because my boss has fixed up dinner with some essential people whom I have to meet. But if it’s OK by you, I’ll definitely call round tomorrow evening. I’m sending you this note via Birendra since I can’t get over myself.

See you tomorrow, Ravi

For a second Sarah thought of going out for the evening, or even changing hotels. Anything, to leave something to her imagination. She spent most of that day in the Lodi Gardens, imagining resounding endings. In the shadier recesses of the gardens, pairs of young Indian lovers acted out their passion in a prim, stylised mime. But by six o’clock, she was back in her room at the YWCA waiting for Ravi.

He arrived at the hostel at half-past nine. The foyer made him chuckle; with its stern English decor and institutional cooking smells, it was just the sort of place which Sarah would have chosen. He was buoyant with the party he had
come from and slightly self-consciously aware of the spices and brandy on his breath. He was wearing a rather natty new suit and a bright tie. When he came into her room, he was suddenly sharply aware of the gulf between him and the bedraggled figure sitting on the bed who looked up at him with large, reproachful eyes. She did look awful and it was partly in an attempt to jolly her up that he began the
conversation
by exclaiming, ‘Well, what’s all this then? I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon.’

‘I’ve been ill,’ Sarah answered resentfully. ‘I thought
Birendra
told you.’

‘He did, he did,’ Ravi said quickly. ‘I was very worried.’ Since she did not respond, he continued. ‘What was the matter?’

‘Oh, I passed out in a restaurant in Varanasi and someone took me to hospital. I had a temperature of a hundred and four.’

‘Gosh!’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that desperate, really. I’ll survive.’

‘I think you still look a bit groggy though. You should rest.’

‘I haven’t got much else to do, have I?’

There was an unpleasant pause. Ravi felt Sarah slowly destroying all his jollity from the party and resented it.

‘How long are you intending to stay in Delhi?’

‘Don’t worry. Not for long.’

‘Oh Sarah, let’s not get into a fight straight away.’

‘No, that would take too much effort, wouldn’t it?’

‘Are you planning to do some more sightseeing?’

‘No, I’m flying home.’

‘Already?’

‘Yes, already. There really doesn’t seem much point in hanging around here, does there?’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘In three days’ time.’

‘In three days’ time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got it fixed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’

‘Why sorry? You’ve managed to pull yourself clear of the wreckage quite nicely, haven’t you? You’re all right.’

That angered him. ‘So will you be.’

She gave him a sour look. ‘That’s what you’d like to think, of course.’

‘Oh come now, stop being so dramatic. Of course you’ll be all right.’

She went on looking at him in that funny, hard way and didn’t say anything, so he sat down in the regulation armchair and after a moment, said, ‘Well, tell me what you saw in Varanasi, at least.’

She gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I saw the sights. I saw a lot of dope and I saw the inside of an Indian hospital.’

‘Did you see the sun rise over the Ganges?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s superb, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, are you too tired? Would you rather I went away?’

She didn’t answer him. She looked as if she might be about to cry. In a hasty attempt to stop her, Ravi said, ‘Well, you saw Varanasi, at least.’

And then, to his annoyance, she giggled.

He asked her, ‘What d’you think you’ll do when you get back to England?’

The same hard expression returned to her face and she shrugged. ‘I suppose I shall find something.’

He cast around in his mind for a cheery suggestion, but for some ridiculous reason all that he could think of was an Indian Art course. After a moment, he said, ‘You thought about publishing, didn’t you?’

She sighed. It was impossible, trying to have a conversation with this stubborn misery. Eventually Ravi lost patience and said to her rather coldly, ‘Maybe I ought to let you get some sleep.’ She made no attempt to stop him, so he stood up. He said, ‘Goodbye, Sarah’ as kindly as he could and walked to the door. He was disappointed that she did not reply. Before he opened the door, he turned round and looked at her; he thought he had never seen anyone look so totally wretched. He felt dreadful as he shut the door. It was as though he were stealing away from the scene of a crime. But on his way
out past the snooty Anglo-Indian receptionist, he recovered a little of his self-esteem. He thought sadly how selfish it was of Sarah not to have asked him anything about his new job or his new life.

She did see him once again, on her last night, in a smart restaurant in the centre of Delhi. He had had his first salary cheque and he was treating her. He made her promise that they would still write to each other from time to time. But her flight left at ten o’clock the next morning. Of course, Ravi could not possibly take time off during the day so soon after starting his new job so, in the end, it was Birendra who came with her out to the airport and Birendra who saw her off.

England was wrapped in an all-enveloping cloud. It muffled the noises at the airport and the speeding traffic on the motorway into London. It shrouded everyone in a cocoon of selfish privacy and muted their words and movements, as if they might suddenly shockingly be found to be dead.

For a long time Sarah Livingstone stayed at home with her parents and did absolutely nothing at all. For a long time she could not even make herself get up in the mornings.

‘But what did you expect?’ said Sarah’s mother’s eyes over the breakfast table.

‘That’s that,’ said her father’s knife, smiting his breakfast egg.

She hung her room with the pictures and the silks which she had salvaged from her adventure. She went on wearing her Indian clothes and her sandals. In the autumn, she enrolled on a History of Art course, not out of any real interest but because it seemed something appropriate to do. Gradually, she met up again with all the friends she had known at university. For a while, she did enjoy the
distinction
of her tragedy. At a drinks party, she met a man who said to her, ‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ She moved out of the house in the white crescent and into a
shared flat. When she had completed her course, she got a job of sorts in a museum.

A year went by, another, bland years. It would be wrong to pretend that Sarah’s whole life was ruined by her
adventure;
that she sat frigidly in the Indian Art department of the museum, cherishing the secret explanation for her expert knowledge of Mithuna erotic sculptures. Or that the taste she had had of brown skin stopped her from ever enjoying pink. Within five years Sarah Livingstone was married. But not one of her children’s names would begin with R. In fact, it was Ravi who called his first daughter Sarla and rejoiced that her skin was so fair.

For the last ten years Helen Harris has lived in London, writing short stories and working first as a translator and a tourist information officer, and then as a freelance magazine researcher. She has travelled very widely, including India and the Middle East.

Playing
Fields
in
Winter,
her first novel, won the Author’s Club First Novel award and was short-listed for the Betty Trask Award. Her short stories have appeared in a great many magazines and anthologies, including
Punch
and the Penguin
Fire
bird
collection.