Her flat at Highgate was tidy. The rooms, four of them, were large by London, and certainly by Highgate, standards. The drawing room had bay windows and I thought during the day, sunlight would really pour in. It was late October and the evening light outside was thin and watery. I was feeling cold the moment I had put down my bags—no season to come to London. I gazed out of the window and saw a maple, its leaves turning bronze—looked lovely, but the cold was getting to me. I wore a full-sleeve jersey over my vest, a dark-blue jersey, its colour almost showing through the shirt. The floors were carpeted and there was wallpaper in just one room—florid floral, if I may call it that. Her study was cramped, with books piled not only on the shelves but even the floor.
She had, of course, written earlier, but booking a passage, taking leave of my firm when the courts were in ‘full session’, as my senior partner put it, all that took time.
The thought had been nagging me: when would I get back to Claire? There was also an ‘if’ attached. A relationship like that doesn’t let go of you, and, of course, I didn’t want to let go of it; was fairly certain of her leanings also. There are intimacies beyond flesh. Her letters were still warm—and then I got one which said she was going to be lonely this winter—she could sense it coming. An aunt had died, leaving a slightly rundown cottage at Rye. (I didn’t know where the place was, couldn’t locate it easily on the map.) Could it be a ploy to get me to England—the thought did cross my mind, I am ashamed to say, but I dismissed it immediately. Deceit was beyond her, that’s what I had learnt during that one year I had been with her, including those tense months of love.
You can’t bend life to love—or can you?
‘You must learn all about my three years here,’ she had written in a long letter in that upright hand of hers, the t’s and the l’s rising like hillocks, like Highgate village itself. ‘It was quite dismal, to start with. I remembered (my error) the England I had left just before the war,’ she wrote. ‘It is different now. It was not just that the winter sky was grey. Houses looked like cinder blocks. Walls, faces, the looks of women trudging to the market–everything had a touch of nicotine-grey. To me, the streets were unremittingly dark-grey—I was used to the Indian sun, Sam. The national mood seemed to wear the same colour. One still came across a bombed-out crater or two. I saw such a crater with a fragment of a wall beside it. The wall looked forlorn, the crater seemed at home—familiar bloody surroundings, it seemed to say. I had no idea that even two years after the war, things could be so bad. I didn’t mind the rationing—the two ounces of tea and jam, and the weekly one little cheese cube, or the four ounces of bacon. And thank god for small mercies, bread wasn’t rationed. In fact, I was happy to share the privation, if one could call it that—had been feeling guilty living it up in Junagadh where you didn’t want for anything. What was galling was I had to queue up for a personal identity card in my own country!
‘And for a year or more after I came back, I heard gunfire in my dreams. I would wake up frightened and there would be utter silence around. Now and then, the silence would frighten me. But it would soon get broken by an ambulance siren. I dreamt of bombs falling, buildings on fire. I think it was some guilt working itself out, the guilt of not being here when the war was on—sirens and air raids and stuff.’
‘Thank god, I have no child. So I didn’t have to feel bad about depriving her (if I had a kid, I would have wanted a daughter) of sweets and chocolate and ice cream. But I did think now and then as to why we were in such a desperate hurry to leave India. We could have got all the sugar and meat we wanted. A ship full of live goats could have come up the Thames or at least to one of our ports—Falmouth, if not Rye. Talking of Rye, I’ve been left a cottage there by Aunt Maureen—she died this summer.’
I tried for a berth on a ship, then got impatient and booked an airline ticket. Yet, going to London, meaning Claire, I felt like an old truck backing up a slope from which it had just rolled down—the driver had forgotten to tug at the handbrake. She was in her mid-thirties now, her waist slim, though you couldn’t liken it to a wine glass. Zarine has turned a bit dowdy. Odd, one can’t somehow think of one without thinking of the other.
The chill got to me, had to make an effort not to shiver. ‘Feeling cold? You want the heating?’ I shook my head but tightened my muffler around my throat.
‘You can hang your jacket there, and for god’s sake, put that scarf away, no one wears it indoors here.’
‘No, no, thanks, I’ll keep my muffler on.’
Her eyebrows rose a fraction and then she laughed. ‘Feeling cold, I am sure. I’ll switch the heating on.’
I put down my two suitcases, found my room a bit bare. ‘Doesn’t this room lack something?’
‘What?’
‘Claire, it doesn’t have a bed.’
‘You won’t need one. You are sleeping with me, silly … or aren’t you?’
‘Of course, I am, don’t be stupid.’
We laughed and laughed and laughed.
She was into smoking, as before. As she ground her cigarette in the ashtray, I noticed two other stubs there.
‘You are into smoking in a big way now, are you.’ It wasn’t a question, I let it drop like a pebble.
‘I never stopped Sam, and it’s better than drink, don’t you think?’
I held up my hands. ‘I am saying nothing—in any case, have no right to. Yes it is better than drink, I guess.’
I didn’t agree next morning. For when I kissed her and went on kissing—it was a long session in bed—her mouth smelt of ash. I thought, you haven’t come all the way in this cold to lick nicotine, Saam.
Three years, and she looked just the same. Her body still seemed taut with not a sign of a sag anywhere.
‘Are you worried you’ll be bored? Don’t let that get to you. We have work cut out for us. I have to introduce you to my two aunts.’
‘Yes, you have spoken about them, your slightly weird aunts, Maureen and Lavinia.’
‘Aunt Maureen passed away. She’s the one who left me that cottage at Rye. I am talking of Lorna and Lavinia, both sisters. Lorna is red-haired, incidentally—you’ll think her hair is on fire when you see her.’
She took me to her Aunt Lavinia on a blustery afternoon. As we climbed up the stairs, I asked is she the red-haired one? No, no that’s Aunt Lorna. She had been a volunteer nurse during the war, done her bit by the soldiers and the country. Why are you taking me there, I asked. They’ll start suspecting something, don’t you think?
‘Let them.’
‘That is no answer.’
‘Why bloody not? I get a guest from India where I lived the last fifteen years with my husband. I had gone there when I was twenty, mind you. I don’t know what to do with him—the visitor, I mean, have no idea how to keep him interested. Why can’t I take him to meet my old aunt? Doesn’t one introduce a friend to the family?’
I thought if this aunt too has a house tucked away somewhere, she sure is not going to leave it to Claire.
‘What are you thinking, Sam?’
‘Just this, that if she’s really old and has a house in some cold wind-blown godforsaken port, you’ll be booted out of the will.’
‘Is that all? You wretched lawyers can think of nothing else, can you? And no, she doesn’t have a house tucked away anywhere. This flat is hers though. Yes, it is Golder’s Green alright, but it is a poky little thing—third floor and no lift, don’t know how she climbs up there daily.’
‘Why does she have to go down daily?’
‘It’s her only outing. Widows and spinsters and divorcees gather there and bicker over the price of potatoes and discuss rations after they have talked of the weather.’
‘You are even wearing the shawl.’ My tone was accusatory. I had given her a black jamawar shawl speckled with paisleys and a plain pashmina in the bargain. Aunt Lavinia had her cucumber sandwiches ready. I could have gobbled up the lot, but took care to pick just one. Of course, I refused sugar in my tea.
‘You seem to know each other well,’ she said, nodding slightly. Kindness showed through her wrinkles.
‘Obviously, aunt, or I wouldn’t have put him up.’
‘Have you come on work? Claire tells me you are an attorney at law.’
‘I haven’t come on work, but I’d love to see the courts here.’
‘He’s a constitutional lawyer, aunt.’
‘Oh, I see. So you would be taking a few tips back, is it? But we have the crown. You had Gandhi once, but now you don’t have anyone.’
What was I doing with this dim-witted woman, I was wondering. What could one say? Claire tried to explain things a bit, how Gandhi was more saint than political figure, and ending up by saying he was shot.
‘Must have been a Mohammedan,’ said the old woman.
We corrected her. ‘It was a Hindu, Mrs Harvey, a fanatic.’
‘You don’t say! A Hindu fanatic wouldn’t be killing a Hindu, stands to reason. Hindus kill Mohammedans and Mohammedans kill Hindus—thought you had picked that much up in your fifteen years there, Claire dear.’
It took us half an hour, but we did convince her in the end.
On our way back, Claire asked, ‘Why couldn’t you say you were here on work?’
‘I am out of practice with lies.’
‘You cheated on Zarine though. Morality didn’t get a look in there, did it?’
‘Yes, but I told her I had cheated.’
‘Oh, it’s the word that counts, that has to be right, but you can fuck around?’ I just nodded, easier than moving into a rambling answer.
Good thoughts and good words are fairly central to our creed, I added, a bit foolishly, later. When on the backfoot, never prolong an argument, I tell my juniors when they argue in court.
What about actions, she asked. They take care of themselves, do they?
‘Actions are moment-bound, Claire. Just as soldiers say a bullet has their name written on it, so a moment has love written on it.’
‘You mean sex, a fuck, Sam—riding away on a bullet, a moment in time, as you called it. Nice image, you could’ve been a poet, you know. Why do you shy away from bluntness?’
‘That’s not all, I meant. That first sudden flare of love, that has to be carried on the back of a moment, destined moment.’
At that she came into my arms—for a moment.
We were a bit tense during dinner that night. I don’t know why she said what she did.
She asked what food she could cook up for me. ‘Anything but calves’ foot jelly or beef tea,’ I said. That somehow broke the ice and we laughed.
The next day, she asked, ‘Are you just going to muddle through life or make something of it?’
I wasn’t going to tell her that as far as our relationship was concerned, I proposed to just muddle through. When you are stuck for an answer, evasions come in handy. I mumbled something and shrugged.
‘You want to be peaceable with life, don’t you?’
‘What exactly do you mean, Claire?’
‘At peace with your surroundings, moral codes of the people you live with—even if the codes are immoral.’
I jumped on that one. Which code of mine is immoral? That generated some heat on both sides. She came down a bit and admitted conscience was something our nannies and grandmothers left us with, ‘their bequests, if I may say so’. Then she talked about the ambience of approval, which I hungered for, according to her. I didn’t contradict her. After a drink, I pinned her against the wall and there was much of pelvis jabbing from my side and a ricochet from hers.
‘Neil Blackthorn hasn’t been around?’
‘He has smelt you, Sam. He’ll be here one of these days.’
We’d been over this earlier. She had mentioned him in her letters. A year or so ago, he wanted to marry her.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, why not, Sam? I have money, left behind by Syd, and he knows it. He courted my aunts merely to get close to me, I think. I haven’t told the Veraval story to the old ladies, would have just mucked up the atmosphere around here. You haven’t met Aunt Lorna yet.’
That evening, I heard the knocker. Claire opened the door and I heard a man’s voice and intuitively knew it had to be Neil. I heard his cheery voice after a while, deliberately loud, I thought, so that I could hear him. ‘Your Dark Prince is here I believe, Claire.’
‘What is it to you?’ answered Claire. ‘Keep your nose out of our affairs.’
‘Affair was the right word. Slip of the tongue, what? We seem to be getting very Freudian, aren’t we?’
I thought it was time to make an appearance. Nonchalantly, I played the host, asked him if he would care for a drink, and poured him a large whiskey. Claire wanted a sherry and I poured an Amantilado for her. She and I clinked glasses and Claire raised her glass looking me straight in the eye and said, ‘To us,’ never as much as looking at Neil. Nor did I. As put-downers go, I must hand it to her, one couldn’t beat this one. Claire sat down, crossed her legs and turned to Neil. She started talking of Jonathan and explained to me that he was her husband Syd’s cousin and so was Neil’s as well. ‘I am told he is sick,’ she said.
Neil nodded gravely. ‘I got to hear about it, got a touch of pneumonia, it seems.’
Then she turned to me and started talking about Jonathan Barnes. ‘He lives alone.’
‘No wife?’ I asked, to no purpose apparently.
Claire tried to answer but Neil cut her short. ‘Come on, he has to live alone, he’s a homo, you know. They can’t have wives, wouldn’t know what to do with them.’ He laughed and I couldn’t restrain a smile, which got wiped off when Claire gave me a dirty look.
‘He’s a brave man, Sam, worked behind enemy lines before the Normandy landings.’
Neil guffawed. ‘Worked on enemy behinds, more likely, or on those tarts of the Vichy regime.’
However disagreeable the fellow was, I wanted to laugh, but didn’t, seeing how Claire was frowning.
Our friend turned on me now. ‘How’s the hen house?’ I just shook my head to indicate I had no idea what he was getting at.
‘Isn’t your whole country a hen house, Sam, the hatching of human eggs that goes on the whole night in your chicken coups?’
I found myself at a loss for words. How do you respond to a thing like that?
‘Stumped? I am asking something very simple. Have the shanties moved on to the sidewalks, or pavements, as you call them? How are your multitudinous multitudes?’
‘Multitudinous multitudes? Your English has improved, Neil.’
‘Really now, my English needed improvement!’
‘I never thought it up to scratch, you know.’
‘Never dreamt it would take a fucking native to tell me that.’
‘Language Neil, I won’t have my guest insulted, not in my house.’
‘Guest! He looked a bit like the host, if you’ll forgive my saying so.’
I pretended to commiserate with him. ‘The war was a terrible thing for you folks. Always thought that but for the war you would have had a better education; would have done you a whole lot of good, Neil.’
Neil muttered his obsceneties noiselessly, I saw his mouth working away. After his first drink, he left. As he left, he said, ‘I hope we won’t be seeing each other again.’
‘Speak for yourself, Neil,’ I said in good cheer, ‘I’d love to meet you again, in fact, always, old boy.’
‘Don’t you old boy me!’ But he couldn’t leave without a parting shot. ‘When do you bugger off?’
To my shame it didn’t register quickly enough with me.
‘I mean,’ he added, ‘when do you return to your sidewalk shanties?’
‘I’ll be here as long as Claire will have me.’
‘That’s forever,’ said Claire.
It called for a celebration, Neil’s ouster, Claire’s boldness. Things had been a bit mechanical so far; we hadn’t really let ourselves go. Claire switched on the heating in the bedroom even before dinner. We stripped, letting our hair down, and all the cares fell from us, scattering like dandruff. Pace has a lot to do with bliss, I mean the lack of it, the utter unhurriedness of it; we loved as if we had taken leave of time, our rhythms slow as we swirled together, caresses coming unbidden from the gut, from a core of one’s being which had remained untouched for years, and we mussed our hair up and drove into each other, I into the wet lane of hers, she driving over the rock that was I.
My stay at Highgate was not an erotic spree. We went to the other aunt, Lorna, at last. Why are you taking me there, I asked.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Just that you speak of Aunt Lavinia with affection. I don’t see you speak of Lorna in the same tone.’
‘I don’t like her.’
We went all the same. Her hair was indeed on fire. But that was the only thing different. Otherwise it was the same cucumber sandwiches, coffee instead of tea, the same questions, how I was here. And I sensed she didn’t like me. Aunt and niece got talking of Jonathan. I was wondering all the while why we didn’t visit the man. He was in the Cromwell Hospital. When we came back, Claire asked what I thought of her. I noticed her freckles, I said.
‘Freckles! Liver spots rather. Is that all you have to say? You can be evasive when you want to.’
Then she got round to telling me that Neil had probably swindled some money off Jonathan’s account but that Aunt Lorna was taking Neil’s side. I didn’t wish to get into that.
‘But I must plan our trip to Rye, every detail. I’ll show you Hastings.’
She had been talking about it. I was surprised when she later said, ‘We’d bus it.’ I thought we’d drive around, I told her.
‘Yes, silly, I have a car there—Aunt Maureen’s car. I have someone to look after it. He moonlights a bit, and now and then uses it as a cab, but so what? We’ll drive around.’
Rye was a revelation. I couldn’t believe that town and church and cobbled street could be mothballed and preserved just as they were during the medieval ages. The gateway to the town (if that’s what it is called) left me stoned. It had survived since the fourteenth century or so. The cottage was liveable. Rye had escaped the Luftwaffe’s fury. Fool though the fat Goering was, he knew this much that there was no gain from bombing this eighteenth century smuggling centre. We went to the Mermaid Inn, the most notorious smuggling den some hundred, or was it two hundred, years ago.
For me, Rye was a bit of a wonder—mist and marsh, its churches with the old Norman stonework; the gull hatcheries nearby. It was cold, and the mist came over the marsh and the sea by late afternoon. It was one heck of a time we had. I loved walking on the cobbled streets and just gazing at the old town. Our cottage, sorry Claire’s cottage, was one of a cluster of cottages at the mouth of River Rother. I picked up titbits. Rye had five ships in the English fleet during medieval times and that gave it the right to serve fish straight to the monarch’s table. We would drive along the coast and she pointed out the castles and the Martello towers, built as a defence against Napoleon, lighthouses that dappled the coast, the place where William the Conqueror landed and, of course, Hastings, where I recalled my school history book and the arrow that got stuck in Harold’s eye and decided the battle. The towns were seemingly in retreat from the sea, for the shingle had built up. The chalk cliffs, of course, were clichéd, but so what? I thought in the summer glare one would need dark glasses to even look at them. Now they were draped with a thin, cold layer of mist.
Claire was good with birds, I noticed, spotted a marsh harrier, a herring gull, pointing them out to me. And she knew the coast, the red shingle at Felixstowe, talked of Caster-on-sea, the name derived from the Latin castra, which meant a camp, must have been a Roman camp. And she knew the coast well, the salt inlets further up and the fish that came in—herring and salmon and sea trout—could talk of wild cabbage that grew on the chalk cliffs, narrate histories of lighthouses. It was a pleasure just to sit by the fire in the evening and listen to her unwind. This was not the horse-riding woman I had known initially in Junagadh, and later discovered her to be stuck on her thesis on Manicheus. I caught myself wondering how little I knew of her.