India Vik. Liz Gallois

said he thought about the colours of the sunrise and the sound of the wind and waves around the fishing boats while he stood at the foot of Romesh’s bed. He offered to help Mrs Mehta transport the body back to Kolkata, but she said one of her daughters would come shortly to help with arrangements. She did not want us to stay near her.

      Gerard was on the phone, trying to get us back to Australia without delay. None of us felt like continuing with our trip. He discovered we would have to forfeit our return fare, and pay for a more expensive new one.

      We had no choice but to continue with Romesh’s itinerary—Bhodgaya, Orchha, Khajuraho, Bharatpur. The people we met were kind, as if they divined our bereavement. Gradually the pain and the shock receded.

      I got to know Ursula better. She was a great comfort to me, we comforted one another. We had lots of chats about Romesh, remembering his love of good food, the scrabble game. I imagined that Gerard and Martin were finding manly solace together, surely recalling the fishing boat day and some of Romesh’s anecdotes.

      Ursula and I made a separate trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Together we agreed that it was the most feminine of buildings, smaller and more delicate than all the images of it indicated. We felt, or I felt, it was something only women could truly appreciate, this memorial to a dead wife.

      The men had told us they didn’t mind keeping one another company, bird watching at Bharatpur.

      We flew out from Delhi, without booking into a hotel there.

      For a while I sat next to Martin, until he went back to sit with Ursie.

      ‘I want to get some distance from you, Mum, I won’t be seeing that much of you when we get home.’

      I looked at him in amazement.

      ‘Why? What’s happened?’

      ‘You should know,’ he said.

      ‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

      ‘I’m bloody sick at the way you monopolise Ursula. You ignore Dad and me. You took her over, like you take over everything. Me, all my life, all this trip, you made all the decisions, didn’t you? Look at the way you interfered in that poor Indian’s life—yes, I mean Romesh. I mean it, I’ve had enough. I want Ursula to myself. I want out.’

      Martin, my adored son, my only child.

      We didn’t see much of them at all after that. In fact, I haven’t seen Martin since we got off that plane. He saw his Dad once. They moved to Queensland, but we had to respect their, or Martin’s, decision. Gerard held me back from enlisting the police to help find them, or employing a private detective. I could see Gerard was right.

      Martin didn’t attend his father’s funeral. That was four years ago. I sold the family home and live in an apartment in central Melbourne now. I’m not lonely. I still have the shop. I play bridge and do all the things women of my age do to ward off isolation.

      When I moved here I framed the two calico wrappings. All the green stamps were still stuck on. I hung them on the wall near the front door, there’s no entrance hall, the door opens straight into the sitting room.