Almost Christmas, the world glowing gray and white outside the kitchen, and snow dusted over the frozen ground. The sun will be down far too soon, and the coming close of day throws lavender shadows as the trees lengthen into the afternoon. It’s the coldest winter in Scotland for more than sixty years, and June is more than happy to sit by the fire while she works her crossword. She’s layered herself in jumpers, her back to the hearth while the flames hiss and gallop. Ursa lies nearby, her paws quivering in her sleep. June regards the puzzle, confronting a clue about maths, which seems like a happy omen on a cold afternoon, especially one on which she has spent the morning honing the details of the latest draft of her dissertation. She smiles and pens the letters into the boxes.
Alec comes back from the kitchen with a heavy mug of tea cradled between his palms.
“Bloody cold,” he says, settling into the warm spot beside her on the floor. “You know what it reminds me of?”
June sets the puzzle on the hearth and turns her attention to Alec—sometimes the cold reminds him of the brittle world of the German camp and all the stories he hasn’t told her. What he has told her is ghastly.
“Once upon a time, there was a river,” Alec says, “and on that river lived a bear.” June lets out her breath, relieved and pleased, and follows him gladly into the world of the bear and his princess, the story swirling with enchanted stones and the gleam of Himalayan snow. When he trails off, she lays her fingers against Alec’s shoulder, and he leans into her touch. He has always been rawboned and lean, but now, almost five years after his return from Odessa, some of those hard planes of bone have finally layered with flesh, and the feel of him under her palm blooms a warm sense of well-being in her. She wants the rest of the story—will Alec ever not stop before he gets to the end? Long ago she had given up asking him to finish; if he wanted to, he would. But it has seemed sometimes as if he leaves them incomplete on purpose, like the girl in the thousand and one nights, or Penelope with her weaving.
June has loved the bear stories for most of her life, ever since she gave Alec a map she had drawn of Fenbourne, the path from the vicarage to the cottage on the sluice road marked out one precise black x after another. He had looked at the map, tracing the roads, his fingers lingering where she had marked the bridge over the Lark, the overgrown yew bush behind the postmistress’s cottage. The next day he had appeared at the vicarage with one of his father’s old uniform buttons, taken from the small metal box of treasures he’d brought from India.
“Second Lancers,” he had said, offering the button to her as they sat on a bench in the conservatory. “I had two, and I thought it might be best if you had one and I the other.”
June had thanked him, and she’s sure she must have said more, if nothing else to ask him about the Lancers, or about his father, but all she remembers now is the way the button had sat in the palm of her hand, a small brass nub that meant more than she could say. The button is upstairs now, huddled with other treasures in a small ivory box her father had brought back from the Boer War before June was even born—one of the few relics she has of the vicarage. But she and Alec are the same, in some ways, the small things writ large, handed back and forth like a canteen in the desert.
Later that evening, she and Alec are due at Sanjay’s home at half past six for dinner. She likes Sanjay and Parvati, although it can be hard work, pretending to be more ignorant of India and the topics they raise than she truly is, until the result is that she feels more distanced than she would have if she’d never seen India at all. Too, there are the babies. There are three of them now, a four-year-old girl and twin boys who have only just turned two. June wants to look at them and feel the rush of heat to her heart, that longing to nurture, that she knows Alec feels.
“I’m looking forward to seeing Sanjay,” Alec says, smiling.
“I should think so,” June says fondly. Alec’s job has changed somewhat as they’ve given him more responsibility—he functions now more as a liaison between design and sales than he had before, with a secretary dedicated to interpreting his cramped, dreadful handwriting. Both men have become increasingly integral to Livingstone & Gray, but the trade-off has been that they’re in different offices now and see each other much less frequently. And it’s good for Alec to see Sanjay, to have that extra bit of connection to India and his time in the RAF. To be reminded, among other things, that a man can leave the RAF and find a new career without it being a loss.
Alec always takes the same route, up through Bruntsfield, and June watches the city pass outside her window. Edinburgh is laced in ice, a winter filigree adding a festive sense to the night where it glitters on windows. Ahead of them, the castle crouches above the city like a giant stone animal, watching and protecting. June has always loved the way it glows at night, lit by countless lanterns and the moon.
The Kichlu household occupies a tidy Georgian town house a stone’s throw from the narrow, jagged lanes and alleys of the Old Town. Parvati’s family has lived there for nearly a hundred years, their ancient Punjabi heritage blended into the Scots traditions they’ve lived among for so long. Sometimes June envies them the long history they have in this place; she doesn’t feel nearly so connected to anywhere.
Parvati welcomes them into her home with a kiss on each cheek, her accent more Edinburgh than Lahore, completely at odds with the rich red and gold fabrics of her outfit. The four of them exchange pleasantries, Sanjay and Alec chatting away about sports and slapping each other’s shoulders companionably. Parvati watches them with an affectionate smile. “Look at them,” she says, “blethering like old aunties.” June laughs, but she’s right—most of what the two men ever talk about is their coworkers at the shipyards or their heroes on the cricket and football pitches.
Sanjay’s mother is waiting with the children in the drawing room, where Parvati has set out pistachios and a bowl of roasted chickpeas that remind June of Anderson. Sanjay pours drinks, and June takes her gin and tonic gratefully. Shivani, the four-year-old, clings to the tail of her grandmother’s dupatta. The twin boys, Ronit and Rakshan, are less reticent, and when they swarm Alec, June hangs back. She has no idea how to talk to a two-year-old, much less a pair of them. Alec, though, has no such issues, and it’s only a moment before he’s sitting on the floor with the boys climbing him. When he pulls sweets from his jacket’s inside pocket, the boys crow with delight. Shivani drifts closer, considering.
There’s a pair of lavishly upholstered ebony footstools not far from Alec, and June sits gently on one. She watches Alec coax Shivani closer, losing track of what the boys are doing until their wrestling bounces them off the inlaid center table between the footstools. It’s an old, sturdy table, the base of it an intricate carving of a banyan tree surrounded by jackals and birds, and Rakshan lets out a wail, clutching his elbow.
Parvati bundles him close to her, examining his arm with exaggerated care until she’s tickling him. He chortles happily, elbow forgotten, and his brother joins him on Parvati’s lap.
“Let’s get you all upstairs,” Parvati says, hugging them. She stands and puts her hand out for Shivani. The children say their good nights as Sanjay swoops them into hugs. Alec shakes each child’s hand, and even Shivani giggles at him. Then Parvati and her mother-in-law usher the children out and up the stairs.
“They’re so big,” Alec says to Sanjay.
“My little warriors. Their sister is the smart one, I think.” He laughs. “You need some of your own, Cosmo.”
Alec glances up at June. “We’ll get there.”
June smiles, but her face feels tight. “Something smells awfully good,” she says instead of responding directly.
“I have been kept out of the kitchen all day while she’s worked on our dinner,” Sanjay says, his face lighting up as Parvati comes back into the room.
Parvati regards him indulgently. “It’s a surprise.” As they move from the drawing room to the dining room, she leans close to June with a conspiratorial grin. “He is so easy to keep happy.” She shrugs encouragingly. “Your Alec is not so different. And, June . . . He is a canny touch with the little ones. He’ll make a fine father, that one.”
June forces a smile. Parvati is quite right.
All through dinner they talk about the Partition of India and Pakistan. Sanjay’s family has been split by the new border, and he’s hoping to bring more of his relatives to Edinburgh to join his mother in this household. June has never been as far north as Punjab or Kashmir, so it’s a relief not to have to pretend at not knowing. But as the conversation shifts from the northern mountains of India to a hill station both men remember closer to Bombay, her discomfort grows. June hasn’t been there, either, but she remembers Bombay itself, and the mountains all green and hazy in the distance. And even more than that she remembers Kandy and the hill station where she recovered from the attack on HMS Anderson.
The food itself only makes it worse. Part of June’s effort to build a wall between her secrets and Alec was to pretend that the spices and flavors of Indian food were completely new to her. Since the beginning, she has let herself “develop” a palate that is closer to her actual preferences. But sometimes the lingering effects of the earlier pretense catch up with her, and that can be galling, as it is tonight, when Parvati sets a simmering dark cauldron of dhaba-style chicken curry on the table. Sanjay plasters his hands over his heart with feeling. June’s mouth waters at the scent of it, the way the cardamom and masala sweep the room, and she wants nothing more than to take a bit of roti and scoop the curry into her mouth.
“I should warn you, it’s a bit spicy,” Parvati says, with an apologetic glance at June. She gestures at a second serving dish, a rich butter paneer. “But the paneer is quite mild.”
“Thank you,” June says. “They both look lovely.”
Parvati beams proudly, arranging the ceramic bowls so everyone will be able to reach the food. June reaches for the dish of chutney, adding some to her plate. She dips her spoon into it and takes just a bit into her mouth. The burst of mango and tamarind grabs at her, and she pauses as the memories rush in. Parvati leans in, heaping a plate with curry, roti, and chutney, and June smiles. Her pleasure fades when Parvati hands the plate to Sanjay, who rubs his hands together gleefully. While the others are talking about boating on the Dal Lake in Srinagar, she serves herself some of the curry and scoops a bit onto a piece of roti. The curry and the chilies it contains are hot enough to make her eyes well up, but God, the wealth of flavor. She closes her eyes, savoring the heat and richness.
When she opens them again, Alec is eyeing her indulgently. “Sure that’s not too hot for you?”
“Not at all,” she says. “It’s delicious.” Alec nods and asks Sanjay to pass along the curry.
“Funny, rather,” Alec says, “but when I was there, we mostly ate English food. And now here I am in Scotland eating curry.”
Parvati chuckles. “There have been curry houses here for a hundred years or more.”
“Rather a catchall term, though, isn’t it?” Alec carefully sets down the serving plate.
“It comes from a Tamil word,” June says. “Kari. It can be translated as ‘relish for rice,’ generally.”
Sanjay raises an eyebrow. “That’s right—good job!”
“June’s a whiz at crosswords,” Alec says to Sanjay. He grins at her, then turns back to Sanjay. “I can hardly understand a word of her dissertation—she’s brilliant, really. Quite a girl.”
June looks away. The pretending is hard enough on an average day, but this is all exhausting, the colors and smells and tastes taking her back to places she cannot say she’s ever been, and often misses. It’s been a long time since she felt so alone with the secrets.
After dinner, Parvati goes to check on the children and see if her mother-in-law, who has remained upstairs, needs anything. June stays with Alec and Sanjay, who retire to the drawing room, nattering on about airplanes and tugboats. She’s not sure that’s where she’s meant to be, but certainly Alec doesn’t expect her to join Parvati to look in on the children. It’s confusing, though, to parse what Alec believes their future holds. When Parvati returns, bringing in a tray of coffee and small sweets from the kitchen and setting it on the old teak sideboard, June finds herself watching the other woman’s meticulous attention to fixing a cup of coffee and a plate of sweets for Sanjay. Her own mother had been like that, fussing over June’s father’s tea until it was perfect. June stares down into her own coffee, missing her parents and trying again to identify where she should be, which role she should assume. How much of her own dreams she will be expected to give up to support Alec in his.
They’re quiet in the car on the way home, June ruminating on the waves of emotion, the food, the possible blight on her future.
Alec sighs happily. “They’re a grand bunch. The little ones are delightful, aren’t they?”
She almost flinches. What is there to say to that? Yes, of course? No, please stop asking about children? At last she says, “They’re certainly a handful.”
Alec glances at her. “I know three at a time is a lot for you to consider,” he says quietly, “but imagine how grand it will be when our children can play with theirs. They’ll be like cousins, nearly.”
June has neither siblings nor cousins, and, having found Alec when they were so young, she has never felt as though she needed them. “I suppose so,” she says at last. She’s starting to have a headache. “When it’s time. We have our whole future ahead of us, Alec.”
“Well.” He frowns. “Your degree will be finished this spring. And, if you’ll forgive me saying so, we’re in our thirties now. We don’t have all the time in the world.”
“I know,” she says.
“It’s been years, June. Years.”
“I know,” she says again, tersely, and leans her face to the window, hoping the cold will soothe the dull ache coming up between her eyes.
When they get home, he whistles Ursa to his side, clips on her lead, and goes out into the night.
Left alone, June pulls her arms tight around herself, as if she can pull herself away from the endless argument. Because it is endless, Alec pushing with various degrees of subtlety, and her responses never what he wants. Endless because she has known all along what he wants, what he believes family looks like. She may have agreed to marry him, to start a family with him, but he can’t expect her to become one of those women whose lives revolve around their husbands and children, can he? He knows very well what kind of woman she is. They can’t both win.
Perhaps Floss was right, all those years ago, before Alec came home, when he said she was meant for more than making babies. But how can it be that she and Alec can be so far apart on this issue, even after years of talking about—or at least around—it? They have been Alec and June, June and Alec, for a score of years and more. Despite her doubts in the darkest years of the war, when he was lost and she was not sure what there would be for either of them if he came home, they have ended up as a pair, a nearly matched set. And Edinburgh, for the most part, has supported that. They have found their way together, have they not, just the two of them?
That first year, they had been so busy, what with Alec starting at the shipyard and working with Captain Carnaby, and her own time filled with the thrilling crush of mathematics and schoolwork. They had not seen each other enough, but the time they’d carved out had felt so immediate and important. And now, with that hard year firmly in their past and both job and doctorate resolved, she almost wishes it back. When they’d become more established, there had been different pleasures—the ability to take time now and again to explore Scotland, even a summer fortnight, once, delving into the dark green world around Inverness, all that water and mystery. The tall, ragged stones of Culloden Moor, redolent of grief and a fierce, devastating hope. Alec had been too quiet there, and for a while she had wondered if it had been a mistake to visit the old battlefield with him at all. But that night in their room in an inn looking out over the loch, starlight creeping up along the water into their bed, he had opened himself to her at last, finally beginning the process of telling her about his war.
When Alec comes back, he pours himself a whisky and joins her in the drawing room. She can hardly look at him. Nothing has happened; she has done nothing wrong, exactly. But these waves of feeling have her feeling unmoored and reactive. She needs time to think, but what, really, is there to think about? She is here, with Alec, the man she loves and wants to spend her life with. Sooner or later, she will give him the baby he wants so much. Sooner or later that will happen, despite her quiet efforts to prevent it thus far, and then, she imagines, Whitehall and the rest will be lost to her.
God. She has never meant to hurt him. What he wants must seem so simple to him—a matter of love and biology, but even more than that, tradition. Family. And, because he doesn’t know the truth about her war, that makes sense. He has no idea what she stands to lose or what she’s already given up. He will not give up because he doesn’t know why he should.
He has loved her so hard, since almost before she can remember. She longs again for the days when things were more immediate and less complicated. “Do you remember the stars?”
He looks up, startled, with a slow smile. “Under the bridge? Of course.”
“I was just thinking about them,” she says.
“I should make stars here in Edinburgh,” he says.
Through the pang in her chest, June smiles. “I like that idea.”
“Perhaps I’ll paint them in the nursery,” Alec says quietly. He regards her a bit diffidently, as if he’s wondering how she’ll react.
June takes a breath, quells the panic. “Perhaps so.”