“A gift? Do you mean to make people well?”

“To ease pain,” she said.

“I do not know. It is in higher hands than ours.”

Some evenings I went riding with my father. I had my own pony who was one of the delights of my life; and it was a very proud moment when, in my white shirt and riding skirt, I rode out by his side. The older I grew the closer we became. He was a little shy with very young children. I loved him dearly the more because he was a little remote. I was at an age when familiarity could breed contempt. I wanted a father to look up to and that was what I had.

He used to talk to me about the regiment and India and the task of the British. I would glow with pride in the regiment and the Empire and mostly in him. He talked to me about my mother and said she had never really liked India. She was constantly homesick, but bravely she had tried not to show it. He worried about me a motherless child whose father could not give her the attention he wished.

I told him I was well and happy, that Mrs. Fearnley was a good companion, that I was fond of her and loved my ayah.

He said: “You’re a good girl, Susanna.”

I told him about the incident with the boy in the road.

“It was so strange. Father. When I touched him I felt something pass from me, and he felt it too because when I laid my hand on his forehead he ceased to feel the pain. It was obvious that he did.”

My father smiled.

“Your good deed for the day,” he said.

“You don’t really believe there was something, do you?” I said.

“You were the good Samaritan. I hope he received proper attention. The hospitals here are less than adequate. If he has broken bones. God help him. It’s a matter of luck whether they will be reset as they should be.”

“You don’t think then that I have … a special touch … or something. Ayah does.”

“Ayah!” His smile was kindly but faintly contemptuous.

“What would a native know about such things?”

“Well, she said something about a healing touch. Really, Father, it was miraculous.”

“I dare say the boy thought it was pleasant to have an English lady kneeling beside him.”

I was silent. I could see it was no use talking to him, any more than it would have been to Mrs. Fearnley, of mystic matters. They were too practical, too civilized, they would say. But I could not dismiss the matter so lightly. I felt it was one of the most important things that had happened to me.

After my tenth birthday my father said to me during one of our rides:

“Susanna, you can’t go on like this. You have to be educated, you know.”

“Mrs. Fearnley says I am doing very well.”

“But, my dear, there must come a time when you will outgrow Mrs. Fearnley. She tells me you are already outclassing her and, moreover, she has decided to go home.”

“Oh! Does that mean you will have to find someone else to take her place?”

“Not exactly. There is only one place where English young ladies should be educated and that is England.”

I was silent, contemplating the enormity of what he was suggesting.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I must stay here, of course.”

“You mean I must go to England … alone?”

“My dear Susanna, it is what happens to all young people here. You have seen that. The time will soon come when it will be your turn. In fact, some would say you should have gone before.”

He then started to outline his plans. Mrs. Fearnley was being most accommodating. She had been a very good friend to us. She was making plans to return to England and when she went I should go with her. She would take me to my mother’s brother James and his wife Grace at the Humberston rectory, and that would be my home until I could rejoin him in India when I was seventeen or eighteen.

“But that is seven years away! A lifetime!”

“Hardly that, my dear. I hate the thought of parting as much as you do perhaps even more … but it is necessary. We cannot have you growing up without education.”

“But I am educated. I read a great deal. I have learned such a lot.”

“It is not only book learning, my dear child. It is the social graces how to mix in society … real society, not what we have here.

No, my dear, there is no way out. If there were I should have found it, for the last thing I want to do is lose you. You will write to me. We will be together through our letters. I shall want to know everything that happens to you. I may come to England for a long leave eventually. Then we shall be together. In the meantime you will go to school and the rectory will be your home during holidays. Time will soon pass. I shall miss you so much. As you know, since your mother died, you have been everything to me. “

He was looking straight ahead, afraid to look at me, afraid to show the emotion he felt. I was less restrained. One of the things I had to learn in England was to control my feelings.

I saw the sea, the hills, the white building through a haze of tears.

Life was changing. Everything was going to change . not slowly as life usually did, but drastically.

There had been more than a month to get used to the idea, and after the first shock I began to experience a glimmer of excitement. I had often watched the big ships coming into the harbour and seen them sail away. I had seen boys and girls take farewells of their parents and depart. It was a way of life and now it was my turn.

Mrs. Fearnley was busy with her arrangements and lessons were not so regular.

“There is little more I can teach you,” she said.

“You should be well up to others of your age. Read as much as you can. That is the best thing you can do.”

She was cheerful, looking forward to going home. She was to stay with a cousin until, as she said, she ‘found her feet’.

It was different with my ayah. This was a sad parting for her and for me. We had been so close closer than I had been to Mrs. Fearnley.

Ayah had known me from the time I was a baby. She had known my mother, and the bond between us had grown very strong since my mother’s death.

She looked at me with the patient acceptance of her race and said: “It is always so with the ayah. She must lose her little ones. They are not hers. They are only lent.”

I told her she would find another little one. My father would see that she did.

“To start again?” she said.

“And where is there another Su-Su?”

Then she took my hands and looked at them.

“They are like lotus blossoms,” she said.

“Slightly grubby ones,” I pointed out.

“They are beautiful.” She kissed them.

“There is power in these hands.

It must be used. To waste what is given is not good. Your god . my gods . they do not like to see their gifts despised. It will be your task, little one, to use the gifts which have been given. “

“Oh no, ayah dear, you imagine there is something special about me because you love me. My father says that that little boy liked to have me kneel beside him and that was why he seemed to forget his pain.

That was all it was, my father says. “

“The Colonel Sahib is a very great man, but great men do not know all… and sometimes the beggar of the lowest caste has certain knowledge which is denied the greatest rajah.”

“All right, ayah dear, I am wonderful. I am special. I wilt guard my beautiful hands.”

Then she kissed them solemnly and raised her soulful eyes to my face.

“I will think of you always and one day you will come back.”

“Of course I’ll come back. As soon as I have finished with school I’ll be here. And you will have to give up everything and come back to me.”

She shook her head.

“You will not want me then.”

“I shall always want you. I shall never forget you.”

She rose and left me.

I had said goodbye to all my friends. On the last night father and I dined alone. It was his wish. There was a hush atmosphere in the house. The servants were subdued and watched me silently. The Khansamah had excelled himself with one of his favourite dishes which he called yakhni - a soil of spiced lamb which I had always particularly enjoyed. But I did not on that evening. We were too emotional to want to eat and it was as much as we could do to make a show of eating and afterwards to tackle the mangoes, nectarines and grape^ which were set before us. ^ It seemed that the entire household was in mourning for my departure.

Conversation was stilted on that last night. I knew that my father was trying hard to conceal his feelings, which he did admirably of course, and none would have realized how moved he was except that his voice was brittle and his laughter forced.

He talked to me a great deal about England and how different it was from India. I should have to expect a certain discipline at school, and I must remember, of course, that I was a guest of Uncle James and Aunt Grace, who had so kindly come to our rescue and offered us holiday hospitality.

I was rather glad when I could retire to my room and lie for the last time under the mosquito net, sleepless and wondering what the new life in England would be like.

The ship already lay in the bay. I had looked at it many times and tried to imagine what it would be like when that ship sailed away with me in it. But it is hard to imagine a place without oneself.

The day came. We said our goodbyes, and there we were on board, in the cabin Mrs. Fearnley and I were going to share. The moment had come. We stood on deck waving. My father was standing very straight, watching.

I threw a kiss to which he responded. And I saw my ayah. Her eyes were fixed on me. I waved to her and she lifted a hand.