Seahorse (26 page)

“I wouldn't like to be here if—”

“It isn't a bother, Nem… I invited you. It was only fair. We couldn't possibly have you travel back to London or god knows where in the middle of the night. Besides, it's quite a victory he relented. One of few.”

“How did you convince him?”

“I told him you were an Indian prince.”

We laughed into our drinks, and I said, “It would've been a waste, to come all this way and then leave without seeing you…”

She nodded. “Yes, I think we both need… help.”

I'd expected her to say
to talk.

She glanced at her watch. “I must check on Elliot… and look through some music. You must be tired… would you like to go to bed? Shall we talk tomorrow?”

I couldn't wait any longer. Suddenly, I didn't think I could ever sleep.

“What about tonight? Later…”

She hesitated. “I'll come across if I can.”

Back in the loft, I lay on the bed and stared out the skylights into pitch darkness. Waiting for footfall, for a soft knock at the door, but no one visited apart from the wind, stronger and louder here, away from the enclosures of the city. A fluttering came from the roof, the movement of small creatures, birds or bats. My eyes burned, but I couldn't sleep. Perhaps it was the silence. In London, always the stirrings of the night, the wail of police sirens, or ambulances, the distinct whir of helicopters.

When the creatures stopped moving, the quiet lay deep and unyielding. The strangeness of being here kept me awake. The utterly unexpected turn of events. The awkwardness of being a guest in a household where I was little more than a stranger.

I stood up for a glass of water. Maybe I could read something from the bookshelf. Or, if I was truly enthusiastic, work on my article for Nithi. That would send me right off to sleep. Yet I suppose what truly provoked my sleeplessness was that I was here, and still hadn't had a chance to speak with Myra. I'd waited a century already. And who knew how much our stories would tally, how many of our memories were similar, how far they'd diverge.

Do you ride, Nem?

What other things had she forgotten?

And what of all the things I couldn't remember?

When I moved to the window and looked out, I saw a lit window in the main house. What a strange, unrestful place. If Myra was still up, why didn't she come across?

A figure moved into view; it was Philip. Standing between the gap in the curtains, looking down, at something in his hand. He lifted his head and glanced outside, the darkness held his stare briefly before he moved away.

One afternoon, when I visited the bungalow on Rajpur Road, Nicholas and Myra were talking about horses. The previous night, they'd visited the Delhi Gymkhana Club, and one of the members offered them, on his invitation, to ride at the Army Polo and Riding Club. Myra was thrilled.

“She attended some horribly posh school where they learnt useless skills like that,” said Nicholas. A shower of cushions flew at him across the veranda.

“While you played rugby at your all-male, all-gay boarding school.”

“I won't deny it. I was star scrum half.”

Myra was nursing a gin and tonic on the divan; she'd declared it much too warm for tea that day, even in the dead of Delhi winter. “Won't you come with us?”

“Who? Me?”

She laughed. “Of course, who else do you see here?”

It was hard to believe, since, so far, she'd hardly taken the trouble to include me in any of their plans. Nicholas was sitting at the table, watching me. I wished he'd offer an indication of what my answer should be.

“Well,” I replied. “I don't know how to ride a horse.” That was an understatement. I'd never been near one in my life.

This time, Nicholas spoke up. “Don't worry, all you need to know is which way is front.”

The next afternoon, I found myself wishing it really was that simple.

We were at the riding club, nestled in the leafy environs of central west Delhi, carved out from the Ridge,

What petrified me was their height.

I hadn't imagined horses could be so tall. That far off the ground.

And I looked ridiculous in the gear, the shiny boots, the fitted pants, the nut-shaped helmet. Hastily sourced from Nicholas' wardrobe and the alleyways of Connaught Place.

At the dressage arena outside the club house, Myra adjusted her riding boots, while Nicholas spoke with one of the instructors.

“Two advanced,” I could hear him say, “and one absolute beginner.”

When our horses were led out, I was relieved to see I'd been allotted the smallest of the trio—a black mare with patient eyes and a sweetly curved mouth. We were encouraged to acquaint ourselves with the animals, speak to them softly, stroke their long noses. Soon, Myra had mounted her horse, laughing in delight. It was easy
to see she was a skillful rider, light and confident. She'd been doing this all her life. Beyond the arena lay acres of forested ground, with winding trails crossed by jackals and peacocks; that's where, she said, she'd like to head. Nicholas too, mounted, and moved about in a gentle trot.

“Have you been on a horse before?” asked the instructor. He was a petite man, with an elfin face and large, toughened lands.

Did you not hear him say ‘absolute beginner'?

“No, I haven't…”

“Okay, no need to be afraid.” He smiled, and I tried to feel a little more encouraged. Rather than allowing me to mount straight away, he first explained the equipment—the halter and the bridle, the reins and the stirrups. By the time I stepped on the mounting block, Nicholas and Myra were nowhere to be seen. He led me circuitously around the arena, at a slow, steady pace, all the while calling out instructions.
Keep your elbows tucked in… sit square in the middle of the saddle… keep your hands level when holding the reins… push your heels down and point your toes up to the sky…

After an hour, he allowed me, for a short instance, to move on my own. It was frightening, and thrilling. I liked that it depended on small gestures, moving gently on the saddle in sync with the horse's rhythm. It was easier than swimming; somehow, less alien, less unfamiliar.

“Good… good,” said the instructor as I passed him. I could see Nicholas approaching, with Myra a short distance behind, their horses cantering swiftly. Nicholas slowed down, and dismounted by the arena; he leaned on the railing, watching, smiling. “Well done,” he called. “You're a natural.”

I swelled with joy and pride.

Slow down by briefly squeezing your thighs against the horse…

The instructor helped me dismount. I slipped off my helmet, turning around to Nicholas. I looked past him at Myra; I should thank her for
inviting me, but I stopped short—she was frowning at the sight of us, her face twisted into something raw and enraged.

Perhaps, that's why I was there. Because she hoped I'd make a fool of myself.

Yet, in an instant, it was gone. I could have imagined it. She waved, laughing. Like a cloud moving across the sun, or a bird's shadow rippling on water.

That first morning at Wintervale, I breakfasted in the loft.

Myra had said I was welcome to join them, but they ate early, at half past seven.

Maybe I'd prefer to lie in?

Wastrel, I was certain Philip would say.

Which is why I had every intention of waking up on time and proving him wrong.

But it was almost dawn before I finally fell asleep. I'd watched the sky lighten, gradually like a slow miracle. When I opened my eyes, the clock showed past nine.

If there'd been a chance to impress Philip with my rigorous self-discipline, it was irrefutably lost.

I took my toast and tea outside, to the wooden stairs. It was a cold but patchily sunny winter day. Beyond the stone wall around the edges of the garden, the Hawthorne hedges along the road, farmland dipped and swelled, marked by the straight tallness of poplars, the rounded sprawl of oak. Wintervale had no immediate neighbors, surrounded instead by windswept fields. What struck me was not the unfamiliar quiet, the unfamiliar sounds—the persistent mooing of cows in the distance, the whir of machinery—but the smell of the countryside. How the air was laden with richness. Each shift of wind carried earth and grass, or the deep, piquant odor of dung and wet leaves.

It was, strangely enough, un-repulsive.

At that time, the house lay stonily quiet, and I thought I was the only one out, but in the yard, Elliot was riding a bicycle. In regular untiring circles. I hadn't yet had a chance to observe him well until now.

I watched the boy, his curly dark hair, the shape of his nose, the slant of cheek.

In daylight, all could be revealed.

Soon, Myra emerged from the back of the house and strolled over to him, her boots crunching heavily on the gravel. In the pale sunlight, her ochre-blue jumper, asymmetrical and oversized, looked like a piece torn out of the sky. She stroked Elliot's head, and glanced up towards the loft.

“Good morning,” she called.

“Sorry I wasn't up for breakfast…”

“That's alright; Dad thinks you're a wastrel.”

I said I wasn't surprised.

“I'm joking… did you sleep alright?”

“I think the bats kept me up all night.”

“Oh, I was going to warn you about that… I'm afraid we can't touch them… we're part of some bats conservation trust. Volunteers drop by to check on them… we'd have you to blame if anything happened.”

“I'll make sure I sing them a lullaby tonight.”

She laughed, squinting up at me. The sun was in her eyes. “Would you like to go for a walk? You can see the horses after…”

I sipped my tea. “Alright.”

Swiftly, I washed up and changed, and twenty minutes later, walked past Elliot's abandoned cycle. Outside the kitchen door, I found Myra surveying a pile of muddy, military green wellington boots.

“I wasn't sure of your size.”

None fit perfectly, so I wore double socks and pulled on ones a size too large. She'd changed into a black pair.

“Is Elliot coming along?”

She shook her head. “Mrs Hammond will keep an eye on him.”

I hesitated. “And your father?”

“Out with the horses.”

I silently hoped we wouldn't run into him on our trail.

We set out and walked along the main road for a short while before turning off into a dirt track flanked by thick blackthorn hedge, too late now for their sloe berries that would have ripened in October. Fields unfurled behind us, pockmarked by frost, the soil hard and bitter-brown, scattered with sycamore trees molded into strange shapes by the wind. They were barren now, and their branches looked like a vast network of veins against the sky. The short tough grass crunched beneath our boots.

“How old is Elliot?”

“Ten… almost eleven…”

“He's Nicholas', isn't he?”

Her silence was affirmative.

We walked without speaking; somewhere I could hear the sound of running water. Soon the blackthorn that flanked us dipped and disappeared; the path swerved to the right alongside a swift, clear stream.

“Nem,” she began, “I called you here—”

“You said we needed help? What did you mean?”

To my surprise, she laughed.

We were approaching a cluster of weeping willows, their branches so low and heavy they formed a long canopy, a bare, brown cage. She twisted through, and I followed.

“Don't you see?” Her eyes were the color of morning frost.

“I'm not sure what you mean…”

She tugged on a branch, it dipped easily.

“When I met you at the concert… and you told me you were there because of Nicholas… you had that look on your face… such hope. That he'd be there. You hoped he'd be there, didn't you?”

I didn't reply.

“How many years has it been?”

“Since?”

“Since you lived with him in Delhi… for… oh, I don't know… six months…”