Rain

Trains and Trauma

The rest of the week began to flit by much like moths to the oil lamps on the veranda. Rumors continued to float from servant to servant, and Liliane told me that these  "truths" became more animated and impressive by the hour, judging from whispered conspiracies in Bengali. The romantic notions that had existed between both adult couples was replaced with a solemn secretive air. Little conversation existed at a tangible decibel. The adults became immersed in planning— 'twas a good thing we were first to hear about the rebellion, otherwise our relations would have kept us entirely in the dark. Liliane and I spent most of that week sitting in the corridor, a spot most strategically chose for its vantage point— anything on the main floor could be heard with giving our position away.

It became a great game of ours— as if we were espials in a drawn-out war. We would bring things to occupy our hands (for me, a whittling knife and a piece of wood, and for Liliane; watercolors, paper and pencils) all the while trying to guess that whatever came into our hearing. Occasionally Liliane or I ventured out alone to her waterfall to think, but it seemed that we were mutually fixed into each others' company. Our friendship became a necessity; a way of life. She was hardly ever removed from my presence, and when she was, it was at the summons of her mother to point our character flaws in my friend. Based upon a desire to have some control or knowledge of our fate, the foundation of our camaraderie seemed that it would last til the very end. It entered my mind sometimes that we would soon go separate ways, through from our spying I had no proof of the instinct. Snippets of whispered words Liliane and I pieced together seemed to lead to "train", "my mother" and "boarding school", but whom they spoke of we could never tell.

"Do you suppose you and your relations will return to England, then?"

I studied Liliane for a short time following her question. She was, as usual, intent upon her sketching, not even looking up in inquiry. "I will never leave unless you and your kin do so, Liliane," I replied matter-of-factly, coaxing the form of a bird from the wood I held, whittling away. "I promised your father."

"Will your mother worry if you don't return?"

I had hoped she would never have cause to bring up the subject of my mother. "I don't know."

Liliane's eyes raised to meet mine. "You don't know?"

"No."

There was an uncomfortable recess in her interrogation  but Liliane broke it with two dreaded words. "Why not?"

"Some day I will tell you, Liliane. I have other thing to worry about for the moment," I spoke rather harshly; impatient with her queries. "Return to your sketches, I will see to Arnie." With that blurted, I removed myself from the corridor. She would probably think I was running like a coward from my roots. Truly however— I fled because I did not want her to see my watery eyes.

I stopped by the kitchen for some milk and bread for my new charge, who had lately adopted a stray kitten from the grounds. Arnie was a bright and caring boy from what I had seen. The extent to which Arnie believed every word his sister uttered was amazing, he never questioned her. "Well hello, Arnie, old chap! How fare you this hour?" I ventured this with an attempted cheeriness.

"Quite well, sir," my younger friend assented from his position on the floor. "Stand still, Evan!"