—67—
As I made dinner for myself and Mother, I listened to the radio, keeping half an eye on the weather, which promised to be clear and cold with a bright moon. Good flying weather. My nerves were on alert, and I kept the kitchen curtain open as I cooked.
The radio provided some company. Lately, the news had been a little better, with a big naval victory and Roosevelt’s re-election, but I was happy when music came back on.
I was trying my hand at mock fish cakes, made with a very small amount of mackerel mixed with mashed potato, and was quite pleased with the way they looked when I fried them.
With some mayonnaise mixed from eggs I’d got from Nina, and a half a head of cabbage, dinner would be rather appealing for a change.
Mother wouldn’t eat much, of course, but I had enough for three, and I could put the extras away for tomorrow.
I fed Bastet and her kitten, whom I’d still refused to name, although he was clearly staying, then I sat down to the table.
I saved my letters for dinnertime, and although they didn’t arrive every day, I’d had one this afternoon.
It was a ritual to sit down and open it, taking my time to read his handwriting.
We’d been comparing English and Indian poets at the turn of the century, and I had made some mocking attempts at imitation, which he then expanded.
It was lighthearted, and gave me a smile, as it was meant to.
After I saw to Mother, I’d write my daily letter in return.
The letters were a lifeline, even if we were out of sync because they took so long to arrive.
I’d often receive three or four in a day, some long, some short, some a simple drawing meant to make me laugh or remind me of something I loved.
Sometimes, he enclosed dried flowers or rubbed the paper with spices so they would fill the room with the fragrance of the Punjab.
When the letter was over and my dinner was finished, there was only the empty room with its overhead light shining too brightly on my bare table. Beneath the music was silence.
In the silence, with my single place setting, loneliness descended. It walked with me every hour. These were Mother’s last days, and I wished I could share the sorrow with someone.
So when I heard Peter’s step in the front hall, my spirits lifted. I hoped he was in a good mood.
I could see the minute he came through to the kitchen that he was not. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his hair was askew. “Peter!” I cried. “What is it?”
“I’ve just heard that one of the office girls was killed in a raid last night. Last night! There were only a handful of bombs because the weather was so terrible.”
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.” I pulled out a chair. “Sit down. Let me get you some dinner. It’s not terrible, and I have real mayonnaise.”
He dropped in the chair, head in his hands. “I can’t believe it.”
“Who was killed?” I filled a plate with a fish cake and some of the fried cabbage. “Anyone I would know?”
And the second I settled the plate on the table, I knew.
“You met her, the night at Nina’s. Trudy. Just a girl, only twenty years old.”
A clutch of warning moved through my middle, but I brushed it away as a memory of another time. I touched his shoulder. “It’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
From upstairs, I heard a cry. “That’s Mother. I have to check on her.” At the door, I added, “Will you come up and sit with us? She likely won’t know you’re there, but you can bring your plate up.”
He raised his head. “Of course.”
Mother was restless, clearly in pain. I tried to give her some water, but she couldn’t take it. I wasn’t sure she was with us in any way, but Peter held her hand and told her a story about a childhood game he lost. She fell into a deep stupor after a time, and we left her, a lamp at her side.
“Would you like to play cards?” I asked. “I have some Ovaltine.”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “That sounds lovely, Elsie. Yes, please.”
As I boiled the milk, he said, “She hasn’t long, has she?”
It gave me a sharp pain through my ribs. “No. I don’t think so.” I thought about the revelations she’d spilled, and wondered if I should ask him if he’d known, and then chose not to. What difference did it make? None of it mattered now, and as I’d said to Tanveer, I hadn’t left India for her sake.
“Will you leave me then?”
“What?” I looked over my shoulder. “I’m going to stay with Nina, which you already knew. It will be safer.”
He nodded. “I can see it would be lonely here, by yourself.”
“Yes.” I sliced the cheese ration for the week into small squares and arranged them on a plate. “I miss Betty terribly. Any news of her?”
“She was moved to Oxford, but I haven’t heard anything else.”
We sat down with our malty drinks, and I passed the cards across the table.
“Do you suppose we’ll ever have a true marriage again, Elsie?”
Again that wash of warning edged around my gut, my elbows. Why this concern when he was clearly grieving the loss of his mistress? It was too much like the nights in Cairo.
Lightly, I said, “It’s as true as many others, I reckon.”
“Don’t you ever want more?” His eyes were red as he looked hard at me. “We could start again, you know.”
I thought of my mother upstairs sleeping, of the moon rising, of the winds in Cairo that drove the British mad. “Considering all we’ve endured, our good friendship is a treasure, wouldn’t you think? How many are miserable? We are not.”
He sighed. “You are not.” He calmly placed his cards in the middle of the table. “I believe I need a drink.”
“Peter,” I began, but he was gone. For a moment, I sat at the table with its two filled cups of Ovaltine, and the stack of cards.
My intuition prickled, running up and down the back of my arms in warning.
Should I collect my things in case he showed more signs of instability?
But I could not leave my mother. A stab of fear and fury twisted in my chest.
And the sirens began to sound.