Stars Over the Southern Ocean Page 6

  All her life she had needed to be in charge—that was a basic instinct—but never before had she been in this situation. Now her head no longer controlled her heart; now her will was a bundle of broken sticks in the hands of a man she barely knew. If he beckoned, she would follow. To question it would be to question life itself.

  Grant ordered the shikara and they explored the lake. They went alone, Esmé having elected to stay behind with the kitchen-boat children.

  ‘It’s good for her to have the company of other kids,’ Grant said. ‘Even though they are a few years older than she is. By the customs of their society, the oldest ones aren’t far off marriageable age.’

  ‘So young?’

  ‘It is their custom.’

  The boatman sculled them silently through a green world: every shade of green, from the jade water to the brightness of the leaves of breeze-stirred willows along the banks, the stern darkness of the pine trees, the patchwork brightness of flowers painting the emerald grass of the water meadows.

  They passed beneath a partially constructed bridge. Grant asked the boatman about it.

  ‘There was a disagreement about cost, so the building just stopped,’ he told Tamsyn.

  ‘In midstream? What will happen to it?’

  ‘Nothing will happen to it. It stopped; that is all.’

  In a dream landscape, the abandoned bridge was another manifestation of the unreality that had taken hold of Tamsyn’s life. It was more evidence, had she needed it, that being here with Grant Drake had transported her into a new and unfamiliar dimension. Two lines of doggerel formed in her mind.

  A bridge like this sure makes you think;

  One step too far, you’re in the drink.

  Where you’ll be, if you’re not careful, she told herself. If you aren’t sure.

  The same unreality cloaked their evening. They came back from their lake venture; they bathed and ate; they sat in the sitting room, where Esmé asked Tamsyn to read to her from a book she had discovered among others on the shelf behind the sofa. It was an adaptation for young readers of a story by Rudyard Kipling about a cobra and a mongoose, and Esmé held her hand tightly while Tamsyn read.

  ‘She’s taken to you,’ Grant said after Esmé had gone to bed. Tamsyn thought he was right, and was glad.

  They went up on deck. From somewhere there came the atonal piping of a flute. The smoky yellow of the lights along the shore was reflected in the lake’s still waters, while the sky was a blaze of stars. There was a fullness in Tamsyn’s heart that overcame her apprehension. Because now the moment had come. They did not speak but watched for a while before going back down the stairs together.

  Grant didn’t say much: that was one of the things she remembered. Perhaps the world of the engineer did not lend itself to over-much conversation. Or perhaps, she hoped, he had least to say about the things that mattered to him most. Certainly, he held her hand and, later, ran his own hand over her body, the hand questioning, exploring, at times barely grazing the skin, and it was at such times, when she barely felt him at all, that she felt him the most. He was the tingle of the nerves, the catching of the breath, the waiting. And the waiting.

  She was suspended in a world where nothing existed but her panting breath, the convulsive movement of her hips, the pounding of her heart. Her eyes watched the moonlight that reflected from the surface of the lake and cast its light upon the ceiling of the cabin, so that the moon added another dimension to her unsteady world of heart and breath.

  There was a yearning, too, a need to draw ever closer to this man whose shadowed features she could not distinguish against the moon-bright ceiling above them. She felt compassion for the man even as he taught her the importance of strength. She learnt new confidence in herself; she’d always had it but not to the degree she had now, and she knew that she was changed, not merely in the unimportant flesh but in her awareness of potential in herself and in her world that she had never before understood. This was the most important thing of all.

  The next morning, however, was a trial. The early sunlight shining through the cabin window stripped away all the self-confidence she had felt during the night, leaving only apprehension.

  She lay on her back in the big bed. She could hear sounds from the world beyond the houseboat: the distant bawling of a calf; the splash of sculls in water; the nearby murmur of voices.

  She turned her head cautiously but Grant was no longer there.

  She had never felt more naked in her life. She had never felt more alone in her life. Her breath was uneven, her mind sour with bad thoughts. What could she have been thinking? The attraction had been strong and immediate; she felt it still. But how did he feel about her? How well did she really know this man? Maybe he made a habit of picking up young and naive backpackers? Maybe he was even at that moment congratulating himself on another easy conquest?

  She took a deep breath as she tried to steady her thoughts. She reminded herself of the hostel manager, who had called him an honourable man. Had he done anything to cast doubt on that description? He had not. Had he done anything she had not wanted him to do? He had not.

  Her breath steadied. The sun was shining, the sky clear. The world had not ended because of what had happened the night before. She told herself to stop creating problems where none might exist.

  There was a knock on the cabin door.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Grant’s voice. How polite he was!

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  He opened the door. He was dressed and smiling, a vast bouquet of roses in his arms.

  ‘I’ve just been haggling with the flower-boat man,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like these.’

  She had tears in her eyes and the world was bright.

  The days passed and the floodwaters—which they were told had been higher than anyone could remember in the weeks before their arrival—subsided, leaving patches of moist mud that turned day by day into dust. The brilliant green of the new leaves dulled, almost overnight, the masses of flowers as bright as jewels faded, although roses and pansies remained. The country remained beautiful. They engaged a car and driver to take them to Gulmarg, a resort high in the mountains. Landslides, caused by the rains, had blocked the road below the resort so for the last two miles, accompanied by a guide, they had to walk steeply uphill through a forest of pine trees.

  Their room at the resort had daffodils flowering outside the door. They were at over seven thousand feet here, not far below the snowline, and in the mornings the cold air stung their nostrils.

  They stayed at Gulmarg for three days and on the last day hired horses and rode up through the trees until they reached the open ground beyond. Here the ground fell away into a wide valley. On the far side of the valley, no longer hazed by distance or mist, lay the snow-covered peaks of the Himalaya.

  It was a vista of grandeur as well as beauty and Tamsyn found herself wondering whether this might not be the most magnificent place on earth.

  Later they went back down to the lake and their houseboat and after the three days they had been away it was like coming home, while Tamsyn knew that the memory of those moments above the snowline, the sunlit mountains an exultation of silver light, would be with her forever.

  Time passed. They made love regularly and often. At the beginning she had thought that the act of love was the same as love itself but now she found it was not so. Making love was important, a transport of delight to own and be owned, but love was a light illuminating everything. There were days when she saw his name painted on the sky.

  Grant had still had no summons from Delhi, which he said was a miracle. Two days before they were due to leave, they hired rods and tackle and went into the wilderness, casting their baited hooks into rushing streams shadowed by mountains. They caught trout, made a fire beside the water and impaled some of the catch on sharpened sticks soaked in water and cooked them over the embers.

  That, too, was a good day.

  Then
it was the last day and on the evening of that day Grant came to her as she sat in the evening sunlight on the deck.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘I thought I might head south.’

  ‘It will be hot.’

  ‘I know. Maybe I should go home. I’ve put off thinking about it.’

  She wanted to do neither of these things but what she wanted was impossible. Sunlight or no sunlight, it was a grey day and a grey future.

  Grant said, ‘I have known you two weeks. I have known you all my life.’

  ‘That’s how I feel, too.’

  ‘I have to go back. It’s the last thing I want but Esmé’s mid-term break ends on the thirtieth.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I don’t want to go alone.’

  Silence. Heart pounding.

  ‘We’ve known each other so short a time.’

  A broken smile. ‘Grant, you are repeating yourself.’

  And agonising me in the process.

  His eyes were those of a hunted man. She watched him take a deep breath, in and then out.

  ‘Would you perhaps be willing to marry me?’

  She believed now that she had known what he’d been about to say, yet the truth was she had not been certain. She was laughing and crying at the same time, both tears and laughter welling simultaneously from some place deep inside her.

  Two weeks earlier, she hadn’t known he existed.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Not like that. You must do it properly.’

  She found it hard to believe she could say such a thing, at such a time. Yet when else could she say it?

  She looked at him, the meeting of their eyes both wonder and joy to her.

  He took her hand gravely. He knelt on one knee.

  ‘Miss Tamsyn Trevelyan …’

  More tears, now, more laughter, and the glint of rainbows in her eyes.

  ‘Oh yes. With all my heart. I will.’

  Later there might have been time for second thoughts, for common sense to remind her of her folly. Visiting a foreign country was an adventure; living there, with its different voices and customs, its odours and sounds, with those who might look askance at a foreign woman in their midst, was a different matter.

  And her family—Marina, Charlotte and Greg, whom she loved? What of them? What of Noamunga, which all her life had been her home?

  None of it mattered. Grant, whom she loved and with whom she was in love: Grant was her universe.

  CHAPTER 9

  Six weeks after leaving Kashmir, Tamsyn and Grant were married in St Patrick’s church, Kasauli. The church, with its sharply pitched roof, formed part of the convent-school complex and stood at the highest point of the school’s grounds. The main school building was built of red sandstone and from a distance looked more like a fortress than a school, but the nineteenth-century church was more traditional. Tamsyn would have been happy to be married in a pigsty, but the distinctive structure of the old church, with its striking wooden interior, gave her an especially warm feeling.

  Here my life changes, she thought, and it was a good thought, with no doubts at all. Mrs Grant Drake: her mouth spelt out the name silently, and it gave her the best of feelings. Mrs Grant Drake. My oh my.

  Pennies had never been plentiful in the Trevelyan household so it gave her a special delight that somehow Marina had scraped up enough of them to pay for the fare so she could be there for the wedding.

  From Noamunga to Kasauli was quite a journey. Even getting to Melbourne was an undertaking. Then it was a flight to Singapore, another to Bangkok, and finally a Japan Airlines flight to Delhi. Kasauli had no airport, although there was talk of one being built at Chandigarh, fifteen miles away, so Marina had taken the five-hour train journey from Delhi to the railhead at Kalka station, fifteen miles from Kasauli. There Tamsyn and Grant met her.

  Marina was in one of her miracle reincarnations. She was forty-nine years old, and yet, after a journey of almost four days, with her only decent sleep on the train journey to Kalka station, she emerged into the late-afternoon sunshine and fresh air of the hills looking not only like a teenager but as though she had just got out of the bath.

  She saw Tamsyn and threw open her arms, and Tamsyn ran. They hugged, arms around each other, and to Tamsyn, excited and thrilled though she was at the prospect of her forthcoming wedding, it was like returning home after a long time away.

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ she said.

  ‘The train journey revived me. And it was worth every minute of it to see you so well. And obviously so happy.’ She turned her radiant smile on Grant, as spruce as ever, standing at Tamsyn’s side. ‘So you are the man who is stealing my daughter away from me?’

  ‘I am pleased to say I am, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Look after her as you should and you’ll have no quarrel with me. You have a daughter, I think?’

  ‘Esmé. Yes, she was hoping to come with us to meet you, but there was a basketball match at the school and she’s in the team. St Mary’s is big on basketball.’

  ‘Then of course she couldn’t come. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up with her later.’

  It took half an hour to drive from Kalka station to Kasauli. It was a steep and impressively twisting road. There were pine forests on either side, with brown scars showing where earth slips had occurred in the rains. The road crossed a series of rushing streams flashing white in the sunlight and once passed between the twin arches of a steel bridge spanning a gorge at the bottom of which a river ran swiftly downhill towards the distant plains.

  They saw several cars coming down and twice overtook lorries labouring up the gradients in a stink of diesel.

  ‘We’ve booked you in at the 7 Pines,’ Tamsyn said. ‘That’s where I’m staying until the wedding and your room is next to mine. They call it an English retreat and that’s exactly what it is. You’ll like it.’

  ‘A long bath and a long sleep,’ Marina said. ‘That’s what I’m looking for.’

  ‘There’s a restaurant, if you want any supper.’

  ‘I’ll leave that tonight. Breakfast will be fine.’

  ‘Okay. Grant and I are going out for a meal later, but when we get to the hotel, I’ll help you book in and unpack.’

  ‘My dear Tamsyn, I may look in my dotage but I truly am not. Not yet. I can do all that myself. Drop me off at the 7 Pines and I’ll soon get myself sorted out. Go ahead and have your meal and I hope you have a lovely evening. We’ll catch up with each other’s news in the morning.’

  They did what she wanted. When they reached the hotel, Grant summoned porters to carry her bags and they left her to get on with it.

  ‘She always does that,’ Tamsyn said as they drove away.

  ‘Does what?’

  ‘Takes charge of me.’

  ‘About time somebody did,’ said Grant.

  They met, as they had arranged, at breakfast, which they ate at a cloth-clad table on the terrace from which they looked out at an infinity of blue-shaded hills. It was eight o’clock.

  ‘What a truly marvellous place,’ Marina said. ‘All those trees. They carry me back to my childhood.’ She buttered a freshly baked roll and bit into it with gusto. ‘I’m ready for this.’

  ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I thought you might want to sleep in, after that terrible journey.’

  ‘Arduous, I grant you, but not terrible. It was an adventure. I was too excited to sleep late. I was up by six-thirty. The sun was already up so I went for a walk. The air here is wonderful, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a fine place.’

  ‘Will you live here, after the wedding?’

  ‘No, down in Delhi. Grant’s got an apartment there.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s on the fourth floor of a new block in Uttam Nagar.’

  ‘Which I take it is a Delhi suburb?’

 
‘Correct. It’s a good area. Very comfortable.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy there.’ The turban-clad waiter brought scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and a large bowl of various fruits. He poured more coffee, rich and flavoursome, from a long-spouted silver pot.

  ‘Do you have any plans to come back to Tasmania?’

  ‘For visits, certainly. But Grant’s future is here.’

  ‘And your future, too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They tucked in to the scrambled eggs.

  ‘How are the others?’ Tamsyn said. ‘Charlotte and Greg?’

  ‘As always. Gregory will always be a dreamer, but he seems to be doing okay at school. And Charlotte is still seeing that Hector Ballantyne. You remember him? The lecturer at the university in Hobart?’

  ‘I remember.’ Tamsyn hadn’t thought much of him and her voice reflected that.

  ‘I’ve an idea we may be hearing something from that quarter before we’re much older.’

  ‘She’s surely not going to marry him?’

  ‘I suspect that’s exactly what she’s planning to do, but time will tell. Weddings seem to be fashionable, all of a sudden. I believe the last one I went to was my own.’

  They finished their breakfast and walked back into the hotel.

  ‘Steel yourself,’ Tamsyn said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Grant will come and pick us up. You are invited to join Esmé’s grandparents for mid-morning tea.’

  ‘You make it sound ominous. Don’t they approve of you?’

  ‘I think privately they’d like to see me dead in a ditch. Maybe not literally, but I suspect they would have preferred their daughter to marry an Indian, which I suppose is natural enough. Now it looks as though their granddaughter will end up with two English parents and it doesn’t make them happy.’

  ‘You’re not English.’

  ‘I doubt they make a distinction between English and Australian. Except, maybe, on the cricket field. And of course, I’m closer to Esmé’s age than I am to Grant and that doesn’t help.’

  ‘When am I going to meet Esmé?’

  ‘This afternoon, after school. I can promise you, she’s as eager to meet as you are.’