Sophie’s Journeys

By Graham Dwyer

From streets where poverty is a living, tangible presence to the majestic splendour of the Taj Mahal, the contradictions and fascinations of unexpected adventures in India are vividly brought to life in this story about Sophie, the principal character from whom the book takes its name. Invited there to join an old school friend mysteriously connected to her by a peculiar English flower, Sophie experiences a land of exotic customs and breath-taking monuments. After encountering an enigmatic spiritual teacher and eventually acquiring wealth beyond her wildest dreams, she is ultimately faced with a unique opportunity to become an agent of heroic change in the struggling world of a poor, angelic housemaid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pustaka Digital Media
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 6580541606438

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Sophie’s Journeys

Author:

Graham Dwyer

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Table of Contents

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

SOPHIE’S JOURNEYS

PART 1

Sophie got up at 7 a.m., as she did every day, ate a piece of toast, drank a cup of tea then got showered and dressed. The daily routine for readying herself for work was like a carefully executed ritual, always done with precision. She left the house for the train station 60 minutes later.

Sophie found her regular spot on the platform. There was a squished light blue circle of hardened bubble gum at the platform edge, a marker of where Sophie knew where to stand. The train doors opened and separated on arrival at that very spot. It was a cold morning and the sky was grey. Rain threatened to fall.

She got on the train and sat in the usual compartment. Three stops further down the line other commuters crowded into Sophie’s carriage, standing wherever there was space to be found, the seats all having been taken up by Sophie and the familiar seated faces of office workers who, like Sophie, lived further out from the city. She turned her head to the window. Beads of rain formed on it beside her and simultaneously took a downward, diagonal route in trails that resembled a teacher’s hurriedly made ticks on a school boy’s essay.

Sophie could see her own reflection hazily in the glass against the background of the wet, grey sky. She allowed her eyes to glaze over. From the light of the carriage behind her on the glass she picked out the shape of her soft round face and long brown hair, which shone along new strands where silver wires had recently appeared. Her eyelashes opened and closed, moved like Chinese fans, first coming together gently then separating, revealing in their aperture a hint of chestnut, the colour of Sophie’s beautiful, brown eyes. But her eyes appeared darker in the glass, a little older, too, now these days.

Her thoughts turned to Mrs Thurman, a short, stout piano teacher with an army officer’s demeanour and commanding military voice from primary school days. Sophie had played truant the day before with Julie. Mrs Thurman was not to be trifled with and always struck quaking fear in the soul of every pupil. After pointing out the seriousness of truancy and the threat of a fine or imprisonment for their parents, Mrs Thurman again asked the pair who the main culprit of the outrageous breach of school rules had been. There was a continued frozen silence and knees knocked as the question was raised. Sophie and Julie, both their heads positioned in perfect alignment with upturned toes in scuffed shoes, remained without words. After what seemed an interminable duration, Mrs Thurman’s voice softened a little. Again, she asked whose idea it was to play truant. Sophie told her, to Julie’s surprise, that it was Julie who instigated it. It was actually Sophie who was responsible; but Julie alone was held to blame and duly punished. Sophie was returned to her desk at the back of the classroom where she usually sat.

As more beads of rain gathered on the window of the train, Sophie’s thoughts further reflected on Julie. Dead now. A strange cancer killed her at the age of 25. Sophie did not see her much after primary school. Their lives had simply moved in different directions. But still she remembered her classmate fondly at that moment and felt ashamed now about the lie she had told Mrs Thurman that day. Yet it was all such a long time ago.

Sophie had just celebrated her 45th birthday the week before. She was married and had a daughter of her own, a daughter who had also truanted from school, not often but still enough to cause some degree of anxiety at the time, a memory which quickly faded as the rain fell against the window. A large sphere of water too heavy under the weight of its own mass collapsed in front of her. It shot down the window pane at high speed, sweeping away all the smaller beads that had formed themselves into delicate patterns of past events and memories.

The train suddenly stopped and the announcement that followed shortly afterwards assured all passengers that they would soon be on their way again. A signal problem. Sophie allowed her head to fall back and relax into the chair, as the train continued on its course. More rain gathered on the window next to her, and when Sophie turned her half-opened eyes on it, she thought of the number of times she had made this journey to the office. It was well over 15 years. No. Twenty years exactly. She was 25 when she got the office job at Bernstein and Cohen Solicitors in the city. She had mostly worked casually in high street shops before that. Working for a law firm was a significant step up for her at the time. She had been lucky to get the job and remained a reliable employee for the established law firm ever since. The rain hitting the glass, she thought, looked magical in a way. It sparkled and danced in the light from the carriage. No one seemed to notice that. Sophie noticed that no one paid it any attention whatsoever.

When she was 16 years old Sophie left school for college. It had not been planned in any kind of definite manner. It was a sort of accident in a sense. She simply drifted that way, following other girls who had high aspirations, even though Sophie had none to speak of herself. As her friends at the time were doing further study, she simply did the same. She next saw an outline of Monica on the train window strangely appear for a moment and then just as rapidly disappear again in the shifting movement of the beating rain. Monica had been a close friend throughout primary and secondary school and in college but married a Canadian businessman and moved to Toronto. They wrote letters to each other avidly for at least six months; yet that became less frequent soon afterwards, even before the first or second year was out. Later still it was just a short note or two and a card that was exchanged between them, mostly at Christmas time. Monica on completion of her studies had got married almost immediately and quickly became absorbed in her Canadian husband’s world, his in-laws, contacts and friends.

The train arrived at Sophie’s stop. She got up and joined the line of passengers funnelled into the stairwell exit. Out on to the street, she passed Chico’s Café, the new sandwich bar that had opened only a few days earlier, Shirly’s Hair Salon and then stopped outside a florist shop to put up her umbrella. She had seen this shop countless times, had walked past it on her regular journey to and from work. She never had any real interest in flowers, as such, even though from time to time she had gratefully received bunches of them from her devoted husband. But today in front of her was a strange looking flower she had never seen before. It was a daffodil, a daffodil in the month of February. It was not so much unusual because of its untimely appearance in a cold, winter month. That was peculiar enough in its own way. It was something else, something she could not quite work out. She stopped her contemplation and went directly into the shop and bought it.

The flower had fully formed deep, yellow petals supported by a fresh, strong stem. It sat in soft, moist, nourishing earth, embedded humbly but firmly in a simple brown plastic pot. Still it appeared fragile in a way, not quite the way that all flowers are obviously delicate but just in need of care and a home. She took it to work and placed it on the window ledge next to a photo of her husband and daughter. The flower caught her eye all day long as she completed her routine tasks. She was especially efficient, too, and was aware of her own industriousness as the hours went by to the end of the working day. After she had filed away the last of the legal documents her employer had instructed her to attend to, and after franking and dispatching the law firm’s urgent letters, work for the day came to an end. She then put on her thick, warm coat and, before picking up her bag and umbrella, she removed the daffodil from its resting place and gently returned it to the protective polystyrene tray given her that morning by the florist.

On her way back home, she carefully held the daffodil with both hands and sprinkled a few tiny drops of water on it as soon as it was brought inside the house. It was then positioned in the large bay window of the kitchen, a resting spot near the ventilator where it could both get clean air and natural light. It was no ordinary flower at all, she thought to herself again. Her husband John commented on it as soon as he returned home too.

A daffodil in February? he said. How nice.

But then he walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs hurriedly, his mind caught up with other things. Sophie sorted out the laundry, put a few items of shopping away and went through the mail. Amongst the bills, a bank statement, advertisements for pizza deals and take away Cantonise meals there was a letter addressed to her in familiar handwriting. What was unfamiliar about it was the stamp in the corner displaying a picture of Mahatma Gandhi. The letter gave off a faint but pleasing aroma of sandalwood. She opened it at once.

Dear Sophie,

I hope you are well. Sorry for not writing for such a long, long time. I hope you can forgive me. I’m sending this letter from India, where I settled ten years ago with Brian. Yes, it’s that long since you and I last communicated. I have very sad news to report. Brian died suddenly last month. It was a heart attack. He didn’t suffer much though, thankfully. He had been in good health otherwise as far as anyone could tell. It happened while he was at work. The funeral has already taken place, and I feel horribly lonely. Our relatives in Canada came to the funeral here in Delhi but ceased to be friendly with me long ago. They are nice, of course; but we stopped getting along together when Brian and I were still in Canada. Two of my cousins from England came to the funeral, too, but they have gone back home now. My inability to get along with our Canadian relatives is one of the reasons I encouraged my husband (my late husband) to embrace the business deal that brought us both to India.

Can you come out to see me? If you could visit, even for a short time, that would be truly appreciated. I hope you can come. I miss you and want to be close to you again.

Please tell John I send my best wishes to him. I hope he is well.

Your friend,

Monica

When John came downstairs to make the dinner, as he always did, Sophie was deep in thought.

I’m going to start the dinner now, said John.

Sophie remained silent. John came back into the living room from the kitchen.

I said I’m going to put the dinner on now, dear. I’m doing an Italian dish tonight. Alright?

Sophie remained absorbed in the letter she had just read. Its shortness was arresting, as was its message. She knew Monica needed her by her side at this difficult time.

Yes, said Sophie, after a moment’s pause. That sounds good.

John carried on with his preparations. A few minutes later he returned to the living room with a glass of Chardonnay.

There you are, and it’s nicely chilled. Dinner will be ready soon. What’s that you’re reading?

It’s a letter from Monica, said Sophie.

Who? John enquired.

A letter from Monica. She was my best friend in school and in college. Remember?

Oh, yes, of course. She had bright, red hair. She loved dancing, right? How is she doing?

Not good, replied Sophie, in a tone of seriousness. Her husband has died. She lives in Delhi now, and she has put her full address on the back of the letter she has sent. That was 10 days ago. It seems she’s all alone out there. She’s asked me to visit her. It’s a definite request to stay with her for a short while. She mentioned you in the letter, too, and said she wishes you well.

Well, said John, after a little hesitation, if you feel it’s the right thing to do, maybe you should just go out to see her. Poor woman. I can take care of things here. I know you got on well with her and that you had many good times together during your school days. How long does she want you to stay? Did she say?

It’s not mentioned like that, said Sophie. But she does want me to go to her for sure, at least for a short while. She sounds needy and a bit distressed. I’m sure it won’t be for long.

If you feel it’s right, you should go. I can book the flight, so long as they grant you leave from work. You could ask them tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll agree, given the circumstances. You haven’t had a break for a long time from work either and you deserve it, especially when some personal matter like this arises.

John kissed his wife on the forehead and returned to the kitchen. Sophie thought about the flower in the kitchen where her husband had started cooking the evening meal. The flower she had bought today was just like the one she and Monica had stumbled upon by chance one afternoon when they were both just 14 years of age. It was very strange. Sophie thought about that day. They had visited the meadow behind their school after classes were over and found a solitary, beautiful bright yellow daffodil, swaying happily in the breeze. They never picked it. It was so majestic. The two girls were so alive and happy together at that time. They did everything together. They went out for walks in the fields; they went to each other’s houses for countless sleepovers; they talked all night without exhaustion; and they listened to their favourite music as well as watched their favourite films. Sometimes they talked of boys, but mostly to point out how spotty, smelly and unwashed they tended to be. Often, they discussed going away together when they were older to travel the world: to Rio de Janeiro to see Jesus on the mountain top; to the Valley of the Kings to see the tomb of Tutankhamen; to Ayers Rock in the Northern Territory; to many exotic places. Never India though. But that is where Monica is right now, Sophie reflected, and all alone.

Sophie did not sleep much that night. And when she did finally rest her dreams were mostly of the school she had attended with her best friend Monica as a girl. The long field behind it also appeared, as did the daffodil she and Monica had once marvelled at. Her dear friend and companion strangely did not enter her dreams at all, however; but Sophie sensed Monica’s presence in them. In the trees at the edge of the field behind their old school was a peculiar darkness that descended in the swinging branches of her dreams. Heavy shadows moved over the tall grass at the field’s edge. Birds as black as death danced together and made screeching sounds that hurt Sophie’s ears. One of the birds, monstrous in size, suddenly left the rest and swooped down over Sophie’s head. It frightened her. But, as quickly as it started its menacing attack, it flew away again to re-join the rest of the sinister flock. All of them crowed and crowed loudly in unison, tearing at the dark sky overhead with ear-piercing noise. Sophie woke up. Her body was motionless. Anxiety slipped away. She fell back momentarily into unconsciousness. All the black crows vanished.

The next morning Sophie immediately spoke with her boss Samuel, who was very understanding and sympathetic. It was agreed without complication for her to take 10 days’ leave. Sophie’s husband John set about arranging the travel itinerary. Plans were swiftly put into place and everything that was necessary to do was quickly organised by him.

And in the evening after work that day she sat down to spend time with him. It would be the last meal with him until she returned from India.

While I’m away, said Sophie at the dining table, would you kindly remember to water the daffodil in the kitchen, the one I brought home yesterday?

Yes, of course, John replied, reassuringly.

Following dinner and some relaxation with her husband Sophie eventually made her way upstairs, got out her suitcase and a few items of clothing and toiletries. John did most of the packing for her. Passport, credit card and £500 in cash he had already put into a secure money belt ready for the journey. The cash itself along with the cost of the flight removed a significant sum from their joint savings, but Sophie considered it a necessary expense, and John