Belonging Read online

  Mina, you cannot imagine how alarming it is to find oneself surrounded by these Olympians. They argue and bicker about how India should be ruled and the best way of dealing with the natives, quite as the Greek gods used to fight amongst themselves about the tricks they planned to play upon poor mortals. The talk at table is all of politics. I feel very foolish and stupid, but they are all perfect gentlemen and, having realised the extent of my ignorance, have taken it upon themselves to educate me. At every meal, therefore, I sink under the weight of words such as ‘annexation’ and ‘abdication’ (I am still on the letter A!). Apparently Lord Dalhousie has been annexing native rulers’ kingdoms like a governess confiscating sweets from naughty boys, and there are fears the natives may rebel. Some of the Great and Good, like Mr. Weston, say the natives should prefer to be ruled by us for we are just and impartial; others, like James, feel the natives do not necessarily appreciate what is good for them but would rather be ruled by their own kings, however corrupt and dissolute these may be. Fortunately, when I begin to drown, James diverts their attention with some observation about ‘growing unrest among the Zamindars’ or some such exotic phrase (he has reached Z).

  After an evening of such talk I retire to my bed with my head spinning. I am so worried that when Arthur meets me again he will realise how empty-headed I am and regret his proposal.

  You are naturally wondering why I do not talk to the ladies, but they are even more alarming than their husbands. I spend much of my time at table trying to avoid Mrs. Weston’s scrutiny. She is the wife of a judge and her eyes bear a remarkable resemblance to those of the poached pike we used to have on Fridays. The life of a memsahib seems so dull! They talk of nothing but their servants – their laziness, dishonesty and stupidity – and warn me how I must guard against diluted milk, falsified accounts and tailors who cut garments too small in order to steal the extra cloth. They have not a good word to say about anyone. One of them complains that her khansamah, ordered to serve jugged hare for a dinner party, served it with its fur still on, having singed only its ears! Another tells of how her ‘boy’ informed them, in front of their dinner guests, that the pudding had been burnt, but in trying to dodge her husband’s attempts to box his ears for his impertinence he dislodged his turban, and the pudding, which he had concealed there, fell to the floor. When I laughed they looked quite shocked, but it seems to me that such antics must provide some diversion in what otherwise seems a very dull life.

  I almost feel sorry for the poor natives, and wonder if they feel themselves to be as fortunate to be ruled by us as we consider them to be. If I were a native I should much rather be at the mercy of an oriental despot than Mrs. Weston! At lunch today she told us how she once suspected her children’s ayah of stealing their sweetmeats, so she poisoned the sweets with emetic of tartar and turned the woman off when she became ill. In future I shall take the precaution of arriving at the table before she does!

  Please tell Cook I have her lucky stone safe. I wear it around my neck under my dress, but at dinner yesterday it slipped out when I leant forward and Mrs. Weston saw it and asked me what it was. I explained that it is believed to ward off witches, and that it also serves as a talisman against drowning. She gave me her poached pike stare, muttered something about superstition and has not spoken to me since. So please tell Cook it is fulfilling both its purposes!

  But really, Mina, despite my complaints I know I am fortunate, for if I were not travelling with James and Louisa I should be confined to the lower deck with the other unaccompanied ladies. For the sins of being unmarried and travelling alone, they are segregated from the rest of the passengers and must even eat separately. As many of them are going to friends in India in the hope of catching a husband there, they are nicknamed ‘the Fishing Fleet’, and those who return unwed are called ‘Returned Empties’. How very humiliating that must be!

  I must stop now as I must write to Arthur and to Mama and Papa. We shall be at Gibraltar tomorrow and I can post my letters there. I shall write again from Malta. How I wish you were with me, but you must come and visit as soon as we’re settled!

  Your loving sister, Cecily

  Malta, 23rd September 1855

  My precious Mina,

  Your letters were waiting when we got here and it was so good to have news of everyone at home. I received a letter from Peter too. He says his heart is broken and he will never care for anyone again. I am sorry to have disappointed his hopes, but I never led him to think I cared for him. I could never do so, knowing him as we have since we were babies. I know you will be kind to him, Mina.

  Since we entered the Mediterranean, the sea has been much calmer and Louisa has been able to get up and move around. She says she is so thankful to me for caring for the children, but I need no thanks, for I have not enjoyed myself so much since I put my hair up and was no longer permitted to climb trees.

  There is a Mrs. Burton at our table who is returning to India after leaving her children in England. She eats hardly anything, drinks only water and seems always on the verge of tears. The other ladies hardly address a word to her. Her husband, who is a magistrate, seems very solicitous. He told James the Indian climate did not suit her and she came Home a year ago with the children to recuperate. She is now returning to India with him, and the children have been left with relatives.

  Louisa says she dreads the thought of parting with hers when it is time for them to go to school, as neither she nor James has any family living and they will have to go to strangers. They have found a respectable couple in Bognor Regis who are willing to take them, but she says they are so dull and humourless that she cannot bear the thought of the children growing up like them.

  The more I become acquainted with Louisa, the more I admire her. It is too bad you and Mama did not have time to get to know her. She grew up in India – her father was in the Army and her mother died when she was very young so she managed his household and acted as his hostess. She knows much about the natives and their customs, as well as Anglo-Indian life, so she is a great help to James. I know Arthur likes her very much, for he told me so, but I hope he does not expect me to be like her.

  It is almost suppertime so I had better close this letter. We stopped at Gibraltar, which is a large rock in the sea, where I wrestled with a monkey for possession of my hat, but I was laughing so much I let go and it put on the hat and followed me up the rock, mimicking the airs and graces of a coquettish lady! Today we spent a lovely day at Valletta, driving to the Città Vecchia and visiting the catacombs and St John’s Armoury. I have enclosed some watercolour sketches of both places with Mama and Papa’s letter. Our next stop will be Alexandria, where we will leave the Candia and travel by boat to Cairo and then cross the desert by camel or horse carriage to Suez, where we shall take another ship to India. I shall write to you from Cairo.

  Goodnight, dearest Mina, from your Cecily

  P.S. Mrs. Weston took Louisa aside before dinner and told her that Mrs. Burton is not a respectable person and had to return to England, not to recuperate from an illness as she says, but because she was addicted to gin! She said that is why none of the other ladies speaks to her, and warned Louisa against her. So at dinner we both made a particular point of addressing her as much as possible, though I fear it only alarmed her, poor thing.

  Lila

  Poor Aunt Mina! When I look back I can see how difficult I must have been, but I could not see her side of things then. It seemed to me that she wished to annihilate everything that made me me – my name, my memories of India, even my character. She was trying to turn me into someone else, someone who would fit into this new life – but I did not wish to be anyone but myself and I fought her with all the weapons at my disposal. I know she found our life together as hard as I did. She was doing what she thought was best for me, but I was too much for her, and try as I might – and I did not try very hard – I could not like her.

  During the first few weeks I lived with her she took me to various doctors, all of
whom said the same thing: that there was nothing wrong with my vocal cords. They suggested that the cause of my silence was shock (Aunt Mina told them, as she told everyone, that both my parents had died of the cholera) and that all I needed was time. Apart from my morning lessons, which she took herself, I was left to my own devices. On the whole I did not mind those lessons, though it annoyed me when I wrote ‘Lila Langdon’ on my schoolbooks and she crossed out ‘Lila’ and put ‘Lilian’. ‘Lila is a native name,’ she said, ‘and you have a perfectly good English name.’ I wished I could have the satisfaction of telling her that ‘Mina’ is also a native name. But, if I could not talk about the things that meant most to me, then I would not speak at all.

  I spent most afternoons hidden away in my great-grandfather’s study, picking out books at random from his bookshelves. I was used to entertaining myself. When Mother was unwell, Ayah would sit with her, placing handkerchiefs soaked in cologne on her brow and massaging her temples, and I would be ordered to go away and be quiet.

  Most of my great-grandfather’s books were dry and difficult to understand but one day I came across Robert Louis Stevenson’s story ‘The House of Eld’, about Jack, who was born into a land where everyone wore a fetter, fixed upon each child’s ankle as soon as he or she could walk. These fetters were regarded as a mark of superiority, even though they raised ulcers, and unfettered strangers who could move about freely and painlessly were looked down upon. But Jack questioned what everyone else accepted, even though his uncle, the catechist, warned him against it, and one day he decided to take a sword and seek freedom from his fetter. The story ended with him accomplishing his mission, but at a savage cost: the loss of everything he loved.

  It was a parable intended for grown-ups, not for children, and I did not understand it then. Reading that cruel ending always made me weep, but still I found comfort in it, for in some strange way Jack’s story seemed also to be mine, and made me feel less alone. I too had lost everyone and everything that I loved: Father, Ayah, Afzal Khan and all my other friends. I missed the sun-warmth that, even in an Indian winter, greeted me as I emerged on to the verandah each morning to sit basking in its golden glow, its red-gold light behind my sleepy eyelids; the sound of monsoon rain rattling on the roof. I missed Afzal Khan’s teasing when he brought me breakfast, the syce’s broad smile as I emerged for my ride; I missed my picnics with Father, sitting on a hilltop looking out at the great orange sun changing shape and colour, slowly turning purple as it sank towards the dusty plain. I missed the colours and the sounds and the smells, but most of all I missed the feeling of being loved. And yet I did not give anyone a chance to love me; I held myself apart through my silence, and slipped away as soon as visitors came, retiring to the study to hide myself in books.

  Aunt Mina did not approve of my spending all my time reading. She was a woman of her generation and thought I should learn some more practical accomplishments. She tried to teach me embroidery, but I resisted all her efforts until eventually she gave up in irritation, saying crossly, ‘You are just like Cecily: stubborn and wilful.’

  I knew that Cecily was Aunt Mina’s twin sister and my grandmother, and that the room I was given must once have been theirs, for on the wall opposite my bed were two cross-stitch samplers. The first was a neatly embroidered picture of a square three-storey Georgian house like High Elms, with a border of tall trees and a text that read:

  REGARD THE WORLD WITH CAUTIOUS EYE

  NOR RAISE YOUR EXPECTATIONS HIGH.

  SEE THAT THE BALANCED SCALE BE SUCH

  YOU NEITHER HOPE NOR FEAR TOO MUCH.

  Wilhelmina Emily Partridge, aged 9 years, 1845

  The other contained just lettering formed in large clumsy red and black stitches and read:

  CECILY DID THIS AND

  SHE HATED EVERY STITCH!

  Cecily Alice Partridge, aged 9, 1845

  I decided that I liked Cecily and wished I knew more about her; all I did know was that she had died shortly after Father was born. But there were traces of her all over the house: there was music with her name on it in the compartment of the piano stool, and in the schoolroom I found some old exercise books in the drawer of the table at which I did my lessons. They were full of sums and Latin and French vocabulary. Mina’s notebooks were neat and tidy but Cecily’s seemed to have been filled hurriedly in an untidy scrawl disfigured with blots, and there were pages and pages of lines: I must not be hasty and impatient. I must guard my tongue in the presence of my elders and betters. I must study patience and perseverance. But along the bottom of each page was scrawled, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

  I liked her more than ever.

  One afternoon when Aunt Mina was out I went down to the morning room, where she wrote letters and paid bills, to drop off my homework. On the corner of her writing bureau stood a photograph of two girls. They looked almost identical and yet I knew at once which was Aunt Mina. She was seated, wearing a dark dress, her hair neatly arranged and her mouth unsmiling. Standing behind her, with a hand lightly resting on her shoulder, was a girl in a pale dress; her hair was coming loose from its pins, creating a soft halo around her face, which was in three-quarter profile and slightly blurred, as though she had turned to smile at someone standing outside the frame.

  As I placed the picture back on the bureau I noticed, lying on the top of a pile of letters and notebooks, a small knobbly pebble on a leather thong – one of those ‘lucky stones’ with holes pierced through them that one finds on Sussex beaches and which hang outside almost every cottage in the village to ward off witches and evil spirits. I recognised it at once: Father used to let me play with it as he told me stories about his adventures across the Northwest Frontier with Uncle Gavin. Then he would bend to kiss me and I would put the cord back over his head, as I had that night of his birthday party when he finished reading to me. He told me his mother had placed it around his neck when he was born to keep him safe. It was his ‘lucky talisman’ and he promised me that one day it would be mine – so I did not feel guilty for taking it.

  I unbuttoned my collar and slipped the cord over my head, tucking the pebble into my blouse, where the lump hardly showed beneath my serge pinafore dress. Later I wondered about those letters and notebooks and went back to see, but they had disappeared and the bureau drawers were locked.

  The weather improved towards the end of the month and Aunt Mina kept urging me to get some fresh air, so after our lessons were over each day I began to explore the Downs behind the house. I made a hideout for myself in a hollow thicket of gorse and on my way up the hill I buried under a bush the packed lunch that Cook had carefully prepared and wrapped in waxed paper.

  On windy days the hill sheltered me, and I huddled, wrapped in a blanket I had taken from the chest in my room, waiting for the day to pass. If it was sunny I sat looking over the Weald, imagining Father was sitting beside me. He had told me he used to play on the Downs when he stayed with Aunt Mina in his holidays from school, and imagining him there made me feel closer to him.

  Simon appeared, one afternoon, poking his head into my hideout as I was rehearsing the names of our household in Peshawar, scratching them into the moist earth in order not to forget them. He looked like a pixie from one of my old storybooks, very pale-skinned, with white-blond hair and silvery-grey eyes. I had never seen anyone so pale and, perhaps because he looked so different from anyone I had ever known, I immediately took a dislike to him. He peered curiously at me and then around my hideout and said, ‘May I come in?’

  I shrugged.

  When he stepped in I saw that he was dressed in a Norfolk jacket, tweed knickerbockers, long socks and muddy boots.

  He stood for a moment looking around my shelter. ‘What are you doing?’

  I kept scratching names in the dirt.

  He held his hand out. ‘I’m Simon. Simon Beauchamp. It’s pronounced Beecham but it’s spelt B-e-a-u-c-h-a-m-p. What’s your name?’

  I picked up my stick and scratch
ed ‘LILA’ into the mud next to the other names.

  ‘LIE-la,’ he read.

  I shook my head and wrote ‘LEE-LA’.

  He looked at my other scratchings. ‘Are they names too?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But they’re not real names, are they? They’re just made up.’

  I shook my head again and wrote ‘INDIAN’.

  ‘Oh! You’re that girl who lives at High Elms. The funny one who can’t talk.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Sorry.’ His eyes shifted down, then up to meet mine. ‘Are you really an orphan? Mother says your parents died of… choler… choleric… or something.’

  I maintained my stare as a tide of colour washed up into his face. He shuffled his feet and his eyes wandered the shelter in search of inspiration. At last he blurted, ‘Do you know we’re nearly related? It’s true! My great-uncle Peter wanted to marry your grandmother, but she married your grandfather, so he got engaged to your aunt Mina instead.’ I frowned while I tried to work that out. ‘They were twins so I s’pose it didn’t make much difference. But then he went out to India to fight the treacherous natives and died there of the… the same thing…’ He trailed off. ‘His name was Peter Markham, and he was my mother’s uncle. So we are nearly related, aren’t we?’

  I could tell that he was babbling because he was uncomfortable. That silence gave power was an unexpected and welcome discovery.

  He looked around again and his face brightened. ‘Do you want to play a game?’