must surely have noticed. Her head is full of dreams.’
‘All fifteen-year-old heads are full of dreams, of one sort or another.’
‘And I do not want to have it turned too soon by some young man. She is very pretty.’
‘Well, it will be turned sooner or later. Perhaps she had better begin to get used to it.’
‘There has to be more to her life than …’
Than I have had. But she doesnot say it. And it is not so clear as that. She herself has been happy, has wanted nothing more.
Uneasy with the way the conversation has turned, he smiles, comes across and puts his hands on her shoulders.
Says, ‘But I daresay when Miss Hartshorn has calmed down, she will decide to stay here, after all.’
For a moment, she is almost blinded by rage at his obtuseness.
Amelia Hartshorn lies,stiff, still, wide-eyed. From the garden, through the shutters, the night sounds of India. And through her head, reeling endlessly, silently, terrifyingly, the events of the previous afternoon, every detail seen, heard again, every fibre of her body reacting, over and over.
They have been kindness itself. Lady Moorehead has sat with her, listened, murmured comforts. The servants have broughtfruit and iced tea, tiptoed about.
And the syce saved her life of course. And it is over, and perhaps they will not sympathise with her for very much longer.
It happens every day here, after all.
And through it all, she prays. Prays with a fervour she has not known herself capable of, a single-minded desperation. Prays for a place to be found for her on a boat soon, soon, to be gone from here.Prays for Home.
She cannot sleep and so, will not dream. But beneath the endless repetition, running through her head, is Home, England. She catches glimpses of it and tries to grasp them But they fade. India is more powerful. India overcomes and obliterates, its appalling brightness, the blazing colours, the chattering, the smell, the horrors, the craziness, the bedlam of India, fill her headlike the terrible, inescapable cry of the brain-fever bird.
And so she lies rigid, praying her passionate prayer, and so the night passes.
Kitty sleeps and dreams no dreams. But, waking at dawn, has a vivid recollection of walking with her mother along a flat, hard, shining beach in the rain. Watches the line of her footprints fill up at once with water, hears the sound of the sea and the cryof the gulls, remembers the joy she had in that great expanse. Remembers taking to her heels and running, running, running.
England, she supposes.
And turns, and sleeps again at once.
10
FLORENCE AND Thea Pontifex sat over tea in Thea’s room in the women’s college. They had been friends since girlhood but, in the face of opposition, Thea had attended the university, and so, gone on to teach. Florence had watched her without envy but rather, when she herself had married Chester Bowering at the age of twenty, with a considerable sense of superiority. She had treated Thea quitepatronisingly.
Thea, clear of mind and of purpose, fair and generous of heart, had gone on her way steadily, aware of, but unconcerned by, Florence’s airs.
Now, feeling herself to be a woman without a purpose in life, as well as grossly undereducated, Florence envied Thea.
She said, ‘You are the one person I know who is entirely contented, who has no dissatisfaction.’ Though even as she spoke,she recognised that it was not entirely true, and added, ‘Or at any rate, the only woman.’
Thea smiled, poured more tea. The room seemed too small to contain all of Florence’s restless energy.
‘It is perfect here,’ Florence gestured. ‘You see, I am simply envious.’
And at that moment, meant it, and longed for what the college room represented, and which she herself had never known; attendanceat stimulating lectures, afternoons spent in serious private study, the intense loyalty among a group of like-minded young women, talk late into the night, earnest, engaging.
It was a room full of
‘All fifteen-year-old heads are full of dreams, of one sort or another.’
‘And I do not want to have it turned too soon by some young man. She is very pretty.’
‘Well, it will be turned sooner or later. Perhaps she had better begin to get used to it.’
‘There has to be more to her life than …’
Than I have had. But she doesnot say it. And it is not so clear as that. She herself has been happy, has wanted nothing more.
Uneasy with the way the conversation has turned, he smiles, comes across and puts his hands on her shoulders.
Says, ‘But I daresay when Miss Hartshorn has calmed down, she will decide to stay here, after all.’
For a moment, she is almost blinded by rage at his obtuseness.
Amelia Hartshorn lies,stiff, still, wide-eyed. From the garden, through the shutters, the night sounds of India. And through her head, reeling endlessly, silently, terrifyingly, the events of the previous afternoon, every detail seen, heard again, every fibre of her body reacting, over and over.
They have been kindness itself. Lady Moorehead has sat with her, listened, murmured comforts. The servants have broughtfruit and iced tea, tiptoed about.
And the syce saved her life of course. And it is over, and perhaps they will not sympathise with her for very much longer.
It happens every day here, after all.
And through it all, she prays. Prays with a fervour she has not known herself capable of, a single-minded desperation. Prays for a place to be found for her on a boat soon, soon, to be gone from here.Prays for Home.
She cannot sleep and so, will not dream. But beneath the endless repetition, running through her head, is Home, England. She catches glimpses of it and tries to grasp them But they fade. India is more powerful. India overcomes and obliterates, its appalling brightness, the blazing colours, the chattering, the smell, the horrors, the craziness, the bedlam of India, fill her headlike the terrible, inescapable cry of the brain-fever bird.
And so she lies rigid, praying her passionate prayer, and so the night passes.
Kitty sleeps and dreams no dreams. But, waking at dawn, has a vivid recollection of walking with her mother along a flat, hard, shining beach in the rain. Watches the line of her footprints fill up at once with water, hears the sound of the sea and the cryof the gulls, remembers the joy she had in that great expanse. Remembers taking to her heels and running, running, running.
England, she supposes.
And turns, and sleeps again at once.
10
FLORENCE AND Thea Pontifex sat over tea in Thea’s room in the women’s college. They had been friends since girlhood but, in the face of opposition, Thea had attended the university, and so, gone on to teach. Florence had watched her without envy but rather, when she herself had married Chester Bowering at the age of twenty, with a considerable sense of superiority. She had treated Thea quitepatronisingly.
Thea, clear of mind and of purpose, fair and generous of heart, had gone on her way steadily, aware of, but unconcerned by, Florence’s airs.
Now, feeling herself to be a woman without a purpose in life, as well as grossly undereducated, Florence envied Thea.
She said, ‘You are the one person I know who is entirely contented, who has no dissatisfaction.’ Though even as she spoke,she recognised that it was not entirely true, and added, ‘Or at any rate, the only woman.’
Thea smiled, poured more tea. The room seemed too small to contain all of Florence’s restless energy.
‘It is perfect here,’ Florence gestured. ‘You see, I am simply envious.’
And at that moment, meant it, and longed for what the college room represented, and which she herself had never known; attendanceat stimulating lectures, afternoons spent in serious private study, the intense loyalty among a group of like-minded young women, talk late into the night, earnest, engaging.
It was a room full of
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