A Sahib's Daughter (18 page)

“Was this really a good idea? My feet are killing me.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said Justin. “If we’re really lucky we’ll see a tiger and lots of rhinos.”

“I have a hangover. I need some more sleep!”

She pulled the covers over her head. Justin rolled over and tussled with her, mouthing into her neck, “I’m a big scary tiger, and I’m going to eat you all up!”

She shrieked as his body covered hers and his mouth found her lips. Suddenly, they were mad for each other. He reached under the sheets for her naked breasts. She gasped with pleasure as he entered her urgently and passionately.

“Say you love me,” she whispered into his chest a few seconds later.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow and looking into her eyes. “You are my adorable little wife, and I promise to always do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“You don’t have to do anything to make me happy,” she said, kissing his shoulder, “except be yourself and make love to me every morning and every night.”

“You’re incorrigible!” he laughed. “Now, get your sweet bottom out of bed, or there’ll be no safari for us today.”

They arrived in the nick of time just as the group was setting off and had to run to the last elephant and clamber on to the howdah. Prodded by the mahout, it rose in ungainly fashion on to its four legs and plodded steadily behind the other elephants in single file towards the forest. The sky was dark with monsoon clouds. A low fog cloaked the jungle. They were showered by droplets of dew that slid off the rustling leaves above them. The ground squelched and sucked under the elephants’ lumbering feet. It was silent except for the hiss and mutter of insects, the wail of a distant parakeet and the flutter of feathers in branches overhead.

They were cautioned to be quiet. Wild animals were easily scared away. The elephants proceeded steadily with a swoosh, swoosh, swoosh through the forest in the damp morning air.

“Sshhh!” hissed the mahout, riding between the ears of their elephant. He pointed to the right. “Bagh.”

“Tiger,” whispered Lorraine, though it was a word everyone knew.

In fear and excitement, they scoured the undergrowth till they spotted only a few feet away a pair of huge, startled eyes that stared back at them for an infinitesimal second. His privacy invaded, the beast turned his back on them and disappeared into the shadows. There was an awed hush among the humans, thrilled and terrified at the sighting.

The mahout told them they were fortunate as this was the first tiger he’d seen in almost six months. With each passing year, the number of wild animals declined. The convoy continued through the forest and saw a family of deer and a pair of wild boars before coming to a clearing where there were three open-topped Land Rovers waiting.

They climbed off the elephants and into the weather-beaten vehicles for the rest of their tour. They rattled through the forest for a few miles before approaching a stretch of lowland where large numbers of rhino were drinking from the swamp. Hearing the sound, the more timid of the animals took to their heels and fled while others approached the convoy angrily. The drivers baited the rhino, inciting them to batter the vehicles with their horns. Seeing the ferocious beasts so close, the women screamed in terror, and the men laughed with excitement, fearful that they might be speared by the deadly horns. Finally, one by one, the animals were outrun, and the vehicles arrived at the river bank where they came to a standstill. Elated but somewhat shaken after the bumpy ride, the group was directed to a pathway that ran through the jungle beside the river. Although the sun had risen, it was cool and moist in the forest, the sun’s rays pouring through gaps in the trees in bright shafts that illuminated the flecks in the air. The river was running high with monsoon rain and thundered ominously below. Lorraine was enthralled by the spectacle.

“This is the greatest adventure of my life,” she shouted to Justin. “What a wonderful idea it was to come here.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

The group followed the guide along the slippery pathway. He warned them to be very careful, saying there were often landslides after the rain. He explained to Justin that soon they would come across antelope on the banks of the river. This was the best time of day to see them. Lorraine lagged behind the group, absorbed by the magnificent view. She had taken plenty of pictures already and suddenly remembered that she had left her camera in the Land Rover. She called to Martha on the path ahead of her,

“I’m going back for my camera. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

“Would you like me to come with you?” asked Martha.

“No, there’s no need. I’ll be back in a wee minute.”

She ran to where the vehicles were parked, anxious not to hold up the group. Sure enough, her camera was on her seat where she’d left it. She snatched it up, slung it over her shoulder and hurried back along the pathway, taking the camera out of its case as she ran. Unseen by anyone, she skidded, lost her footing and found herself catapulted down the khud. She grabbed at the undergrowth and screamed as she saw the waters coming up to meet her. She felt a shock as the cold river enfolded her and swallowed her up in its turbulence. She rose up again and again, gasping and calling Justin’s name, desperate with fear. But the churning waters claimed her frail body, and she was swept away, a tiny, white figure in the gray river.

On the pathway above, Justin had allowed people to pass him, so he could rejoin Lorraine.

“Are you looking for your wife?” asked Martha, to whom Lorraine had spoken her last words. “She went back for her camera. She probably stopped to take pictures.”

Just then they heard a scream, a tiny, high-pitched scream of terror. Justin ran towards the sound. The group turned to follow him, making way for the guide who caught up with Justin just as he came across the camera lying on the path. They looked down the steep khudside and could see the trail of trampled undergrowth leading down to the river. There was no sign of Lorraine.

“Lorraine,” screamed Justin, “Lorraine, where are you?”

They called her name, running frantically in all directions, unable to acknowledge the terrifying possibility that she could be in the river. Justin wanted to dive in and find her and had to be physically restrained by Tom and the guide.

“Let me go,” he pleaded. “Let me go with her.”

They dragged him unwillingly toward the Land Rovers.

“We need to get help,” Peter Phillips, one of the local planters, said to Tom. “We have to make a report to the police and organize search parties. They need to check the river banks downstream.”

No one wanted to accept the futility of the situation, but there was little else to be done. The police were swift to dispatch dozens of men to comb the area and search the banks. They telegraphed districts farther south to check the river for the Memsahib’s body.

“Let me go find her,” Justin pleaded. “I need to do something.”

In the end, Peter, understanding Justin’s need to be physically involved, drove him to where there they were able to walk beside the river in safety. The water was at its highest point. In the dry season, it receded, exposing the jagged rocks that lined the river bed. Peter knew that the chances of her body ever being found were slim. The undercurrents would have sucked her down into the Brahmaputra’s murky depths.

He could not have been kinder to Justin. He insisted upon Justin spending the night at his bungalow. His wife Anne had the guest room, which had just been vacated by a couple attending the Annual General Meeting, made up for him. That evening Justin couldn’t eat but accepted a scotch and soda which somewhat calmed him.

“What am I going to do?” he moaned. “How will I live without her? And how do I explain this to her family? I have been remiss. I should have taken better care of her.”

He was beset with guilt. He blamed himself for allowing her out of his sight, his fragile, precious wife who had always been so plucky and accepting of every circumstance. He paced up and down the verandah until he was exhausted and collapsed into bed where he slept sporadically. When he awoke, he reached instinctively for Lorraine’s body and not finding it, moaned in despair as the memory of recent events bore down on him.

He left a note for Peter and Anne, who were still asleep, and jumped into his car which was filled with Lorraine’s things. He knew what he must do. He could not possibly telegraph the news of her death. That would be too terrible and too shocking for her parents. There was nothing else for it. He had to get home as soon as possible. He had to get himself on a plane, drive to the McIlroy’s home in Belfast and personally deliver the news to them that their beloved daughter was dead.

Chapter 15

Dooars, 1978

Charles was home for lunch from the factory. Jetha padded down the verandah with a glass of chilled nimboo pani for him on a tray. He gulped it down and went to join Ramona and Samira who were sitting under the whirring ceiling fan, a welcome oasis in the blistering heat. He was flushed and damp from the sun. It was June and people were longing for the rains. The tea bushes were smothered in a layer of dust. Spiked with brittle yellow shoots, the paddy fields were so parched that cows roamed through them, their coats caked with dried clay.

Time seemed to stand still for Samira. The days passed, and nothing happened. She was hot and constantly tired, waiting for some great crisis to enfold her and change her life forever. A feeling of lethargy took hold of her, an inertia that prevented her from moving forward. She had waited to be done with college, so her life could begin. And here she was, almost a year later, her fabulous life still not begun.

She constantly made excuses to postpone making decisions. It was summertime in England. All she had to do was book that flight. Inwardly, she denied that she was waiting for Ravi, unable to fathom what was going on in his mind. He alternated from being frighteningly remote and maddeningly unavailable to being his old charming self. She couldn’t bear the uncertainty of it. She knew there was no one else in his life. It would not have been possible for him to carry on another relationship in this small community. They were young, free and single. Her parents had no objection to her seeing him, going out of their way to make him feel welcome and giving them every opportunity for privacy. When exactly had things changed between them? What had she said or done to drive him away? Was it her reserve? Had she been too eager? She felt like an instrument that he could pick up and drop at will, always at the ready if he should happen to feel like playing.

The bearer announced tiffin, and they went to the dining room for lunch.

“Anything new going on at the factory?” Ramona asked Charles.

“For once, everything seems to be running smoothly. Nothing to report, really,” he replied. “Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Dilip Gupta, the VA, was here this morning. Nice chap. I invited him to lunch, but he had to dash.”

“So what’s the gossip?” asked Ramona. Dilip was notorious for gleaning information about everyone and then spreading it, something he was well-positioned to do in his travels as visiting agent.

“Nothing that I can recall,” said Charles. “Well, actually, yes, he did give me some news. There’s a new manager at Simling, Justin Laird, a Scot apparently, quite young. He was transferred from Assam.”

“Assam?” asked Samira, surprised. “That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?

“Yes, it is, rather. It’s something to do with his wife dying three years ago. She drowned in the Brahmaputra River, I think he said.”

“How awful! Did they have children?” asked Ramona.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t ask.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t go back home,” Samira said.

“Yes, it is. The few British planters who choose to remain tend to be the old-timers who’ve been here forever. Like me,” said Charles, rising from the table. “Well, excuse me, ladies. This old-timer is going to take his nap.”

The following club day, Samira was on library duty when a man who could only have been Justin walked in.

“Good afternoon, young lady. Are you in charge of the library?” he spoke with a brogue.

“Hello! You must be Justin,” said Samira, extending her hand. “And, yes, I’m on library duty today. I’m Samira Clarke,” she continued. “My father is the manager at Ranikot.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Samira. I was just introduced to your father. He told me you were here.”

He was of medium height, with dark, slightly graying hair. He was not particularly handsome or remarkable-looking in any way, except for the lines beside his eyes that creased in an attractive way when he smiled. He was dressed for golf in khaki shorts and a light blue bush shirt. Samira guessed he was in his early thirties.

“Please feel free to borrow some books. You’re allowed six. Shall I add your name to the register?”

“Aye, please. The name is Justin Laird. This is a nice library. Won’t take me long to get through this lot.”

The library consisted of thirty or forty shelves of well-worn books.

“So you like to read, obviously?” Samira asked.