We’d only been there a couple of weeks when Sirhan Sears came down to stay. He knew the Terai well, as he often organised tiger shoots there. So during his visit we’d be out together every day, and every evening we’d spend in talk. Talking of how flying squirrels fly and fishing cats fish, of how the scaly-armoured pangolin digs for ants, and of the courage of the small ratel, the honey badger, which will take on any odds when attacked – and on moonlit nights can be seen turning somersaults in the sand. After telling us about that Sirhan Sears had turned to me with a grin and added, ‘Just like you, Eve – I think I shall call you “Ratel” from now on!’
I protested, ‘But I turn somersaults in the daytime, too.’
‘You do “rattle on” though sometimes, Eve!’, was Apa’s swift rejoinder – and then we were all laughing together.
A new world was opening out for me. And for Apa. He was so pleased to be back in the Terai again. But what pleased him most of all were those Terai rivers, into whose wide and shining waters he could wade to fish, fishing with rod and spoon, or chilwa or fly.
He was going fishing on the last day of Sirhan Sears’ visit, while Sirhan Sears and I were to ride through the jungle on the back of an elephant, and see what we could see. We arranged that on our way back we would veer round to the river, meet Apa there, and picnic together from the tiffin basket. Faizullah was to bring one out to him. But for now, breakfast was over, and we were lingering in the sun, enjoying its warmth after the cold of a frosty night.
And then some chance remark of Sirhan Sears’ reminded me, and I pointed out to Apa that he’d promised that if I agreed to go to a hill boarding school without whingeing, then I might learn to ride. And although I hadn’t actually had to go, I had agreed to, if it’d been necessary, so –
Sirhan Sears glanced at Apa, laughing, ‘She drives a hard bargain, your daughter!’
Ignoring him, Apa spoke to me quietly. ‘Eve, I would be so much happier if you didn’t ride.’
And I was going to go on arguing, until I noticed his expression – he looked so troubled and unhappy. And that new-found, though erratic, protectiveness of mine came welling up into an impulse of generosity, so I wanted to reassure him and I said, ‘Oh, it’s alright – if you’re frightened about me doing it, then I won’t.’
He didn’t answer at once, and I could see his relief at my reply warring with the decision he’d made all those years ago – the decision to let me grow free and fearless, at the expense of his own fears. At last he drew a deep breath and said, ‘Eve, you may ride, if you wish to.’
And because I loved my father very much I told him then, ‘I don’t wish to any more. In fact, I’ll make a promise, now – I promise I won’t ever ride a horse, if you don’t want me to. There!’
Sirhan Sears was still amused. ‘If I were you, Evelyn, I should strike now, while she’s in an obliging mood, and extract a second promise from her – that she won’t keep pestering you to release her from the first one!’
And my Apa replied, with perfect confidence, ‘She won’t do that.’ He smiled across at me, and I smiled back, in a shared moment of love and trust.
That was to be our farewell, that simple moment of love and trust.
And then the elephant was arriving, bringing with it all the excitement of a new toy. The elephant knelt, and the orderly held her tail out straight to make a step for me. I sprang on to it, then went clambering up on to her back and took my place behind the mahout. Sirhan Sears climbed quickly up behind me, and with one lurching heave our elephant was on her feet again. Perched on the pad I called, ‘Bye, Apa.’
He waved back. ‘Enjoy yourself Eve – I’ll see you later.’ He picked up his rod, and stood watching us sway slowly away from him, into the jungle.
We saw so much that day. High on our soft-footed elephant, with only the swish of a branch above and the rustle of grass below, it was as if we were invisible to the animals around us. So we saw handsome swamp deer and squat hog deer, familiar barking khakar, graceful spotted chital and a galloping sambhur stag. We saw a herd of black buck and a sounder of wild pig, a single blue bull, two shaggy-coated sloth bears raiding a termite mound – and the fast-moving ripple of grass which might even have hidden a tiger. We saw so much that day.
Late in the afternoon we came back towards the river, as we’d arranged. We were nearly there when we saw Faizullah waiting in the pathway. He saw us and came running forward, ‘Missy-sahib, Missy-sahib,’ he was gasping for breath, ‘When I went with the tiffin basket – the Sahib, he must have slipped and hit his head – fallen under the water – he was lying under the water still – I pulled him out, but—’
I was already down and running, running to the river. I ran and ran, and saw him lying there on the bank – I shook him and called his name over and over again, until at last Sirhan Sears pulled me away. ‘It’s no use, Eve.’
My Apa was dead.
Chapter Eight
I hardly know what happened next. When the foundations of your world collapse, you go down with them.
They buried him the next day; that’s the way things are done in India. I was taken to Naini Tal to stay with the Benhams, while someone packed our belongings from the bungalow. I never saw Almora again.
Sirhan Sears took me to Bombay. I sat and stared out of the train window and saw nothing. A thousand miles of numb disbelief. A thousand miles of grieving.
I remember Sirhan Sears trying to say goodbye to me on the ship at Bombay.
A woman going back to a sick child had agreed to take charge of me; Mr Sherring had arranged it. That’s the way things are done when you leave India. I remember turning to Sirhan Sears and crying, ‘I don’t want to go – can’t I stay? Can’t I stay here with you and Aunt Mary?’
And his reply, ‘No, Eve. Your future is in England, you must go – it’s what your father wanted.’ Then, ‘I promised him that if this should ever happen, I would send you back. To your grandfather, when he was alive – now, to his lawyers. They’ll take charge of you.’ Then he came closer, lowering his voice, ‘Eve, in your trunk – there’s something there. I sold his guns, and some of his books – and there was something more from the sale of the furniture. Your father asked me to, if this happened – to pay for your fare. But the lawyers have telegraphed the funds for that. So the money’s sewn into a petticoat, Mary stayed up all night to do it. It’s all in gold coins – sovereigns – so you can use it in England – and then you’ll have something of your own.’
I hardly heard him. My brief moment of consciousness was gone, and I sank back into the stunned apathy of grief.
The three weeks on the boat. Three weeks of numbed despair, punctuated now by sudden spurts of anger. Why did you do it, Apa? Why did you slip? Why did you fall? Why did you go away and leave me? They were gone as suddenly as they came, and left only my desperate longing for my father – for his voice, his face, his touch, his laugh – until the longing became unbearable. Then that went too, and there was nothing. Nothing.
* * *
England in February. Cold, dreary, damp, and grey – grey, grey, grey. No colour, no life. But I didn’t want colour or life, all that had gone with Apa.
Mr Henderson, my grandfather’s London solicitor, met me at Southampton; I stayed overnight in his house. I can’t remember any of it: journey, house, second journey the next day to the school he’d chosen. I know he talked. I don’t know what he said; I was still too stunned with the enormity of my loss.
So I came to the school. I can’t remember arriving. It was a few miles to the west of Northampton, but it was weeks before I realised that. But I do remember that they called me Evelyn. It seemed to make sense; I wasn’t Eve any longer. Eve had gone, dead with Apa. A new creature called Evelyn had taken her place: docile, obedient – crushed.
Over the following weeks I was like a stringless puppet. I daresay people were kind – I suppose they must have been, I don’t remember the reverse – but I didn’t want kindness, I only wanted Apa. P
resumably I carried out the tasks I was set, and went to the places to which I was directed, but I was so numbed with grief I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. I don’t even remember crying any more – I’d gone past that, deep into the darkness of despair.
But as winter gave way to spring, the numbness turned to searing pain – the necessary pain before healing. Tears came back, and every night in the dormitory I stifled my sobs in the pillow.
Easter arrived. The school included a large number of girls with parents serving in India, or elsewhere in the Empire, so some of them stayed for all or part of the holiday. I suppose that’s why Mr Henderson chose it. The rising bell rang half an hour later, otherwise it wasn’t all that different from term-time: fewer maths lessons, more sewing – which I did extremely badly – less essay writing, more supervised reading. And we went on even longer walks in regimented crocodiles along lanes that led between flat, dreary fields. I was the tail, the left over. ‘Marjory, would you like to walk with Evelyn today?’
‘If you want me to, Miss Jennings.’
Seeing the irritation in Marjory’s face at being parted from her best chum Kathleen, I exclaimed, ‘I don’t want to walk with Marjory.’
Irritation turned to indignation as she flounced back to Kathleen, and their two heads met in resentful muttering.
But there was a little more free time over the holiday, so I used it to creep away from the other girls and find an empty classroom, where I could sob, noisily.
That’s where Miss Baker found me. The needlework mistress – of all subjects the one I loathed most. I raised my tear-blurred eyes, and her spare, thin form and grey hair tightly drawn into a bun came slowly into focus – last of all was her pince-nez, with a pair of sharp eyes behind them. ‘What are you doing here, Evelyn?’ It was such a stupid question, I didn’t bother to answer it. Voice brisk she told me, ‘Crying won’t bring your father back – and it certainly won’t make you feel any better.’
I exclaimed, ‘I don’t want to feel any better!’
She sniffed. ‘That’s a rather feeble observation – and an extremely ungrateful one.’
From pent-up misery and anger I shouted, ‘Ungrateful! Why should I be grateful to you?’
‘Not to myself – ungrateful to your father, who spent thirteen years of care and concern in bringing up his daughter – and now apparently, all she wants to do is spend the rest of her life in misery. I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted that.’
Shock. Apa, who used to say, ‘Remember Eve, happiness can generally be found – if only we choose to look for it.’
My anger gone I whispered, ‘But I miss him so much.’
Miss Baker’s voice was firm. ‘You can’t go back, child – the only way is forward. Have you the courage to take that path? Or do you prefer to play the coward?’ She turned to the door. ‘I’ll leave you here to think it over.’
It didn’t need any thinking over. Courage – cowardice; there was no contest. Going over to the curtains I used them to scrub my eyes until they were so dry they prickled. I wouldn’t cry again. And I didn’t – not for a very long time – and those were tears of relief, not sorrow.
But going back to that time, at school. I didn’t recover overnight – how could I? But I stopped fighting against recovery – and I learnt to sew. I can’t say I’ve ever particularly enjoyed sewing – when you’ve darned one stocking you’ve darned them all. But – there was a sense of achievement in mastering a new skill. And I was determined to show Miss Baker I was no coward.
I suppose Miss Baker must have said something to one of the girls in my form, because the next day Olave and Dora approached me. ‘Would you like to take turns walking with one of us, Evelyn?’
I saw the pity in their eyes; nobody was going to feel sorry for me. ‘No thanks,’ I said, very off-hand, ‘I like walking by myself. And my name is Eve.’
‘Miss Garside doesn’t like us to use abbreviations, Evelyn.’ They stalked off, huffily.
I hadn’t a clue how to mix with girls – I’d never done it before, and never wanted to. So now I was surrounded by them I was like a fish in sand. All I could think to do was turn myself into a crocodile and snap.
They snapped back, even harder. When carrots were served at lunch: ‘Oh look – Evelyn’s hair is just this colour.’
‘Mm, I’m not sure – don’t you think it’s more marmaladey?’
Then, the horrified squeal at the dormitory mirror as I came back from the bathroom, ‘Oh Dora – I think I’ve found a freckle!’
‘What had luck Ursula,’ peering at her chum’s nose, then, ‘No, it’s alright, just a shadow, after all.’
‘Phew – what a relief!’ I felt my freckled face reddening as they turned to me in a pantomime of pseudo-sympathy, ‘Oh Evelyn, it must be awful for you – having so many of the wretched things. But my sister says there’s a lotion you can get – it takes the top layer of your skin off, but still, anything’s better than being covered in freckles, isn’t it?
Dora chipped in, ‘And there’s another lotion that takes the crinkles out of your hair – you could try some of that, too.’ The bell rang, and they tittered off down to breakfast.
When they’d gone I peered into the mirror. Fiery orange hair, crisp springy curls – and freckles. Lots of them. Not just on my nose, like other girls, but on my forehead and cheeks, too. My bright blue eyes stared back at me, hurt and angry.
But at least I wasn’t numb any more. Though I still hadn’t come properly alive again when the Mr Hendersons came to call. Two of them, because they were cousins: one had been my grandfather’s London solicitor, the other his Edinburgh one. The Edinburgh Mr Henderson was the one who really mattered, because almost all of Grandfather Courtney’s income had come from land and business interests inherited from my Scottish great-grandmother, who’d been a considerable heiress.
It wouldn’t normally have all come down to him, because he’d been the youngest of seven brothers, but the two Mr Hendersons now painstakingly explained what I’d only dimly realised before. Four of my grandfather’s brothers had, like him, ‘served their country’ in the army, three of them dying on active service while still quite young, and unmarried. The fourth had only married after he reached general’s rank, and then to a childless widow. As the Scottish Mr Henderson explained in precise detail, army officers did tend to marry late. I knew that already, from India – which had been the destination of the other two Courtney brothers, both of them entering the Indian Civil Service. One had died of malaria in Bengal, unmarried. The other had survived to retire, but his wife hadn’t.
The Scottish Mr Henderson looked a touch embarrassed at this point, since she’d died ‘in – ahem – childbirth’. He forged on rapidly to inform me that the child hadn’t lived either – so I was the last of the Courtneys.
‘The last of the Courtneys’. I still remember Mr Henderson saying that – and my sudden, horrible shock as I realised it was true. So it was a minute or two before I took in that the London Mr Henderson was telling me that I wasn’t to worry about this because after my grandfather died my father had re-written his will, appointing the Scots Mr Henderson as my curator. And, he reassured me, you could almost say that a curator under Scots Law was the equivalent of a guardian under English law – so I had no cause for worry at all. The two Mr Hendersons would ensure that all proper arrangements were made for me, just as my grandfather had planned. I was to stay at school until I was grown-up, then, once my education had been completed, they would find a suitable lady of good family, under whose care I would reside, and under whose chaperonage I would make my debut in Society, as was appropriate to my station in life.
Then, no doubt, I would find a nice young man who would want to marry me, and – once his prospects and intentions had been carefully vetted by the two Mr Hendersons – I would become his wife, and he would take care of me for ever after. So there was absolutely nothing for me worry about, my future was all under control. Their control.
r /> At that point, as if by some pre-arranged signal, the headmistress returned to her drawing room, followed by a maid with a silver tray and three glasses of sherry. I sat unregarded while all the usual, tedious adult comments about weather and journeys were made. The two Mr Hendersons were staying overnight at Northampton, and explained to the headmistress that first thing the next morning they would both proceed together to the Castle station, and from there could leave virtually simultaneously for their respective destinations. The English Mr Henderson would catch the 6.22 for London, and a mere minute later the Scottish Mr Henderson would depart on the train for Glasgow and Edinburgh – dividing at Carstairs. All so very convenient.
Story and sherry finished, they stood up to leave, telling me I must be good and work hard – and that I really was a very lucky girl, since despite all his differences with my father, my grandfather had taken so much care to secure my future.
Lucky! I was so furiously angry now – I was ‘a lucky girl’ – when I’d lost Apa! The anger spilled over into the history lesson which followed and finished off any slight chance I might have had of making friends with the other girls. Yet I can see now that the Mr Hendersons had actually done me a very big favour – their visit made me realise that if I didn’t take charge of my own life, somebody else would, and control it for me, for ever.
But back to the history lesson. You didn’t ask questions in that school. Mistresses asked questions, and even then only certain answers were permitted – the ones they’d taught you to give. Now as Miss Jennings was informing us that ‘the Duke of Marlborough was a great man, who won many victories for England’, her voice finally penetrated my misery and I raised my own voice in reply – even worse, without raising my hand first. I shouted, ‘He wasn’t a great man – he was a murderer!’
There was a terrible indrawn communal hiss, followed by an awful silence, then Miss Jennings’ freezing tone, ‘I think you have not been paying attention, Evelyn, I was talking of the Duke of Marlborough – one of our greatest generals.’