Anna looked at Eliza as if gauging how much to say. ‘He’s gone away with his new wife.’
‘Well, let’s not spoil a lovely day with thoughts of him. Let’s eat.’
Her mother clapped her hands. ‘I hope we have ginger beer. I love ginger beer.’
‘I never knew that.’
‘There’s lots you don’t know. Lots and lots.’
Eliza was glad that for the next couple of days her relationship with her mother carried on in the same vein, with Anna happier than Eliza had ever seen her. It was as if Anna’s words were unstoppable, like water suddenly released from a previously blocked pipe. Then the postman called. Anna didn’t receive much mail. In fact nothing had been delivered since Eliza’s own arrival back home, but she spotted the Indian stamp the moment the postman gave it to her. She had been wondering if Clifford would write, and had lived in dread of hearing from him. For now, out of sight was out of mind. It was more than she could hope that it would contain news of Jay.
She heard her mother’s shrill voice.
‘Is there mail for me?’
The envelope was addressed to Anna, so Eliza handed it over the moment her mother followed her into the small hall. For a split second she had considered opening it herself first and then claiming she hadn’t noticed it was actually for Anna.
Her mother took the envelope and went up to her bedroom, leaving Eliza perplexed. She hadn’t recognized the writing, but surely the letter must have come from Clifford. Who else knew her mother’s address, though why write to Anna and not to her?
When her mother didn’t come back down, Eliza thought she must have decided to have a nap and set about spring-cleaning the old attic, the place Anna had stored all sorts of unwanted stuff. Eliza didn’t mind the dust or the scent of sandalwood, though it had never seemed so pungent before. She’d expected the childhood scents to have been stronger, the way that colour was once so bright, yet despite that, it did feel like one of those lonely summer days when she’d run up the stairs to crawl beneath a dustsheet while her mother went outside to drink. After a while she would stand on tiptoe to peer over the bottom of the tiny dormer window to watch. The fields opposite the house had seemed so wide, inhabited by stout farmhands rubbing the small of their back as they straightened up.
She glanced out at them – they were only small rectangular allotments now – then she moved aside a few rolls of wallpaper and shifted some of the boxes. At the back an old-fashioned leather trunk had been pushed against the wall. It had metal studs and two canvas belts wrapped around the middle. She squatted down to undo the buckles, the key turned, and the lid was lighter than it looked.
She didn’t know what she had expected, except perhaps for the trunk to be full, but, surprised to see a small bottle of sandalwood oil, at least she’d found the source of the aroma. There was a suitcase inside the trunk. She lifted it out and picked up the bottle to sniff it. The aroma, stirring the memory of his skin, seemed to spread around her as if it were he who had been carried on the air. She hurriedly put the bottle back down. She had told herself she would get on with her life, get over the loss of Jay, learn how to live again, and that would be an end to it, but she couldn’t erase her feelings so easily. At least while she remained with her mother she did not have to confront the reality of her impending marriage. And though she had tried so hard not to think about Jay, when she realized this little piece of India had lived inside the trunk all these years, once again it occurred to her that a hidden hand had taken her back to India. It had to have been for a reason. It couldn’t all have been for nothing.
A luggage label pasted on the front of the case showed a grainy line drawing of a grand building and a name:Imperial Hotel, Delhi. Inside it something rectangular had been wrapped in white paper and tied with string. She undid the string, then tore the paper and pulled it off to reveal a framed photograph of two people with a small child, now faded and stained. She turned it over and saw the name of a photographic studio in Delhi.
Later she went to Anna’s room, wanting to ask about the people in the picture. Her heart sank when she opened the door; the bedroom reeked of gin. Eliza went over to Anna. She stroked her mother’s thinning dark hair away from her damp forehead – so different from her own thick hair – feeling such unbearable sadness. No longer judging her mother, she felt only pity. She glanced around to see what had happened to the letter, thinking something in it must have upset Anna, and soon spotted it in the bin, torn in two. She pieced it together and read that Clifford had informed Anna about his engagement to Eliza. She had hoped there might be some news of the explosion in Delhi. Not that Clifford would be likely to tell Anna what had happened to Jay, but he might have mentioned whether her prints and plates were safe or not.
By the time the afternoon had dragged on and the shadows outside were lengthening, she was thinking of making something for supper when she heard the hiss of breath.
‘You’re leaving.’ It was a statement, not a question, and spoken in a slurred voice.
‘Not yet, Mum. Not for –’
Her mother interrupted. ‘You always go. It’s what you do.’
‘And what you do is drink. Why? Why now? I thought you were happier.’
She waited for a reply, but her mother just snorted and looked away.
‘Mum?’
‘I haven’t been happy since you were five.’
‘But that isn’t my fault,’ Eliza said, fearing all the old recriminations were starting again.
‘You read the letter?’
Eliza nodded. ‘I would have told you about the wedding.’
Anna pursed her lips before she replied. ‘And yet I had to hear it from Clifford.’
‘I’m sorry. Really.’ She held out a hand to Anna but, when her mother did not take it, let it drop.
Her mother coughed weakly, then began to speak. ‘You were only five years old when I found out about your father.’
‘About the gambling?’
