Under the Jeweled Sky (23 page)

“What about Kay and Dr. Reeves?”

“Back in England, last time I heard from them. I ran into him a little while after you left, when I was doing a stint in one of the refugee camps.” Dr. Schofield paused for a moment. He picked up his glass and took a thoughtful sip. “You wouldn't believe these places, Sophie; still, after all these years, thousands of people, and I mean countless thousands living in camps and colonies without a hope of much help. I don't see how it can ever be resolved. There are just too many people and not enough resources. I think the government was hoping they'd all just disappear.” He tutted to himself, reflecting on it. “You can't displace millions of people and expect it to be tidy, can you? I don't know what on earth they were thinking of.”

He stopped for a moment, having forgotten where he'd started. “Rawalpindi was the worst. What a hellhole that place was. I'd never witnessed so many people in my life, like a carpet of bodies with virtually nothing to call their own.” He shook his head gently in disbelief at his own recollection of the carnage and destruction he had witnessed first hand. He had done five voluntary tours in the camps, and the memory of it would never leave him.

“How are things at the clinic?” Sophie asked.

“Fine. We're up to twenty beds now. The extension made all the difference, and it turned out to be a much simpler job than we first thought. Dr. Pretti looks after the women and we have half a dozen nurses on rotation and a ready supply of junior doctors keen to join us for a busman's holiday. They come in from the big cities and lend a hand in return for a nice little sojourn here at Iona or in one of the guest houses in the town.”

“You don't mind people staying in the house?”

“Never in your room, of course,” he assured her. “But yes, why not? I'd rather that than let the cobwebs set in. Besides, it's nice to have a bit of young blood around to talk to. It doesn't do for an old codger like me to be sitting around on his own for too long.”

“You're not old.”

“Tell that to my knees.”

“I do miss it here,” Sophie said. “Delhi feels like a madhouse by comparison.”

“Rather you than me,” her father said. “I can't remember the last time I set foot in that kind of bedlam. Calcutta probably, on my way back down from one of the camps. I could barely hear myself think.”

“It's not so bad, once you get used to it.”

“And how is married life treating my girl? I won't say it's about time or anything like that, but I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever take the plunge.” He set down his glass. “Then again, I don't suppose your mother and I set the best of examples in that department.” Dr. Schofield sighed to himself inwardly and shook his head. What's done is done, he thought, and there was nothing else to be said about it. Sophie was a grown woman now, and she was certainly smart enough not to repeat the errors of her parents. Given the circumstances, it was a blessed wonder she had turned out so well.

“Better late than never,” said Sophie.

“So what's he like, this chap of yours?”

“He's very clever.”

“Is that all?”

“And hugely ambitious.” Dr. Schofield looked at her over his spectacles. “What I mean is that he has excellent prospects, so you needn't worry that I've gone and married a no-hoper.”

“I'm not worried about that in the slightest. You're more than capable of looking after yourself and you've never been one to suffer fools. My only concern is that you're happy.” He peered at her. She had lost a great deal of weight since he last saw her. Perhaps it was the fashion. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Very.”

“Good. But I won't pretend I'm not disappointed that he couldn't come along with you. He's already denied me the honor of giving my daughter away.”

“We didn't want any fuss.”

“You mean
he
didn't want any fuss.”

“Not at all,” Sophie said. “It was my decision entirely. Best get it over and done with and get on with it. I couldn't have been doing with all the airy-fairyness of a big do.”

“Did you…” Her father stopped himself, his sudden halt awkwardly obvious. Sophie felt it, the unsaid. “Your mother, did you ever…”

“No. I didn't see the point,” Sophie said. For months she had agonized over whether to say anything to him about the brief visit that had churned everything up and left her feeling ill, and she had remained undecided until this moment. “Best let the past alone, I think.”

“Yes,” her father said quietly. “Yes. I think you're probably right.”

“Gosh.” Sophie sighed uncomfortably. “I don't think I can manage another thing.” She pushed her plate away. “It's this fresh air. Gives me the appetite of a horse.”

“How are you finding Delhi?” her father asked.

“Much colder than I expected, especially at night, but the house is lovely. It's set in one of those little residential enclaves. You know the sort of thing. A private gated road of about a dozen houses, so it's all very safe and we don't have to worry about being broken into or having beggars pitch camp on our doorstep.” Sophie heard the vacuous words coming out of her mouth and felt herself cringe. This was not the way she spoke with her father; it was the way she spoke in Delhi, in the company of her husband and the people she now mixed with. She had forgotten where she was, and for a moment had slipped into the other Sophie, the one who tried to fit in and talked like a stuffed shirt. She felt herself blush.

“Sounds to me like you're nicely cosseted with the real world held at arm's length,” her father said.

“Yes. I suppose we are.”

“Well, don't let it go to your head.”

Sophie smiled at him and tried to remember who she was. “We're in the new colonies area, not far from Lodhi Gardens,” she said. “The people next door have been in their posting for two years, so I've had plenty of help getting to grips with everything, but it still feels a little strange.”

“What does?”

“Being somebody's wife,” she answered, although she wasn't entirely sure if that was what she had meant.

“He's a very lucky man.” Dr. Schofield cleared the last of the rice from his plate. “And if he's half as clever as you say he is, he'll already know that.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You realize I'm going to have to meet him one of these days, don't you? So far all I know is that he's a fine-looking fellow and you make a very handsome couple. I put your photograph on my desk.”

“I saw.”

“So why didn't he come with you?”

“He's terribly busy,” Sophie said. “I've hardly seen anything of him myself recently. There's a big tour coming up which I'm not supposed to say anything about. Harold Macmillan is coming to visit and it's got everyone jumping up and down and rushing about.”

“Oh, really? When?”

“Beginning of January.”

“Do you think you'll get to meet him?”

“The Prime Minister? I don't know, but I'll definitely get to meet Lady Macmillan.”

“That'll be exciting.”

“I'm not getting my hopes up,” Sophie said. “It'll probably turn into a lot of squabbling and backbiting over who should sit next to whom. Everybody will want to have their photograph taken with the Prime Minister so that they can hang it on the wall at home where everyone can see it. It seems that Lucien and I are the only ones who don't have a whole gallery of us posing like mad alongside a string of dignitaries, although he assures me that there is one of him with Nehru somewhere, not on his own of course, but one of those group pictures.”

“Well, you be sure to push to the front when your time comes,” Dr. Schofield said. “And send me a copy so that I can display it prominently in my office in the clinic and tell everybody that that's my daughter.”

Sophie laughed. “You're as bad as the rest of them.”

“Worse,” her father said. “I'm far prouder.”

Mrs. Nayar appeared. “Finished?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Dr. Schofield leaned back in his chair, touching his stomach briefly and groaning his appreciation. “That was delicious.”

“Good.” Mrs. Nayar started clearing the plates. “I'll bring you some sweets.”

“Oh, heavens no!” Sophie lifted a hand in protest. “I really couldn't eat another thing.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Nayar said sharply. “You will have sweets.”

Sophie's father raised half an eyebrow at her. “You should know better than to argue with Mrs. Nayar.”

“I'm not allowed to argue with anyone at all these days,” Sophie said. “One has to watch one's Ps and Qs all the time. It's like living in a military camp. There's always someone watching and listening.” She sighed and passed the rice dish to Mrs. Nayar. “I do miss London. I had a letter from Margie recently. It was so nice to hear her voice in it. She's getting married to Fred, her doe-eyed cellist. She's been in love with him for years.”

“And is he in love with her?”

“I think so. He certainly seemed to be, although Margie complained that he was far too gentlemanly about it.” Her father smiled into his wine. “Heaven only knows how Fred will cope with her. Margie likes nothing better than a good old argument after supper, although she prefers to call it a lively discussion.”

“So no arguing with Lucien, then?”

“No. We don't have anything to argue about.”

“Give it time,” her father said with a playful wink. “I'm sure you'll both think of something.”

“I hope not,” Sophie said, feeling suddenly grown up. It was good that they could talk like this, make an everyday joke out of something that just a few moments ago had seemed unspeakable. All married couples argued. Some a little, others a lot. Everybody knew that, and the exchanges that she had had with Lucien could hardly be called arguments. Nothing had been broken. Nobody had been hurt. And the silences were soon over. He would go out, saying that she should have a rest and that he didn't care to be around her when she was being like this, and then come back later, in the dead of night, and slide into bed, the scent of whisky on his breath as he reached a cool hand to find her warmth under the covers. Sometimes he would make love to her silently before falling into a deep slumber, and in the morning he would hum to himself while he shaved and would give her a kiss before leaving the house.

As a girl, Sophie had dreamed of the handsome princes and castles and happily-ever-afters that didn't exist except in fairy tales and fables, as all girls one day discovered. Those stories of childhood lay far away now. This was the backdrop to the way she lived, and she was beginning to become accustomed to it: the marriage that she had entered into, the husband to whom she was bonded. She had not expected it to be easy, but nor had she expected it to be quite so hard, the idle hours that filled her with emptiness, the awful sense that she was somehow wasting her life, watching it seep through her fingers as though it were out of her hands. If her marriage to Lucien was somehow lacking, then she must accept her part in that and make it stronger, a firm foundation upon which to build the family she yearned for.

“And how does it feel to be back in India?” Dr. Schofield ventured the question tentatively, having considered it carefully before its delivery. He had always feared that she might return one day and that it would do her no good. It had been hard enough to get her to leave in the first place.

“It feels strange,” Sophie said quietly. “When I was away, I missed India so much, but in the same breath I was afraid to come back. I hadn't realized quite how mixed up I felt about it all until Lucien started talking about Delhi. I can't help it.” She shrugged at her father. “I belong here.”

Her father looked into his wine and nodded silently in a small way. “Did you hear about the Maharaja?”

“Yes. Such a shame, although I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did, the size of him. The maharanis would have been heartbroken.”

“I doubt it,” her father said. “I expect the First Maharani will have been rubbing her hands together with glee. With the old man dead, her son would have stepped into his shoes and she'd be sitting pretty. He's a pretty useless sort, I understand. It's probably just as well that there's nothing left for him to rule. He'd only drink it or lose it on the tables. His mother was an impossible character, from what I heard, although I never actually got to meet the woman.”

“You couldn't be more wrong,” Sophie said. “She adored the Maharaja.” Her father glanced at her in surprise. “Fiona Ripperton and I used to go and visit her for tea sometimes in the
zenana
. It was unbelievably grand, and she was the most wonderful company.”

“Well, I never.” Dr. Schofield sat back in surprise. It was the first time they had spoken of their life at the palace, that wonderful fool's paradise of his that had come crashing down around their ears. Perhaps she had come to that age now, that age when one began to take stock of one's life, the mind wandering the shadows of the path that had led them to this time and place. He watched his child as she remembered, his heart clenching for a moment before being released by the small smile that settled on her face. It was a good memory visiting her. He shared in her smile.

“She had her jewelry caskets brought out one afternoon so that I could feel for myself just how difficult it was to wear. You simply wouldn't believe the things she had in there. It was like a pirate's treasure chest. Her ladies must have spent an hour or more sifting through it all while the Maharani told them to find this or find that. They covered me from head to toe and I could barely get up from my seat. It was like trying to walk with two huge lead weights clamped to your ankles and a yoke around your neck. She told me how painful it had been when they were first married and said that her skin had been so bruised and grazed that she had cried and howled when the jewelry was finally taken off her at the end of the day.” Sophie glanced down at her own engagement ring, the expensive diamond glinting insignificantly, a mere speck in comparison to the myriad gems that had spilled like icicles from the Maharani's gilded caskets. “You know, she used to smoke an enormous hookah pipe. I had a try of it once. Almost choked me to death. Fi Ripperton was a dab hand at it.” Her father laughed. “Do you ever think about the palace?”