A Tear in the Cloud - Malina Douglas

Hugh leaned toward Laura, his face twisting into a scowl. 

'We're in the House of Peace,' he hissed. 'You can't raise your voice like that.'

'Oh stop it,' said Laura. ‘You're always reprimanding me.’ She continued, her voice low and urgent.

'We need to make the transfer before we sleep.'

'Just leave it,' snapped Hugh. 'We can do it in the morning, it's fine.' he stepped into the bathroom; began brushing his teeth.

'It's not fine—' But Laura's words were drowned by the sound of the toothbrush.

Laura stood, mouth open, about to speak but left with an empty room. She closed her mouth. The emotions churned on within her, unexpressed. It was a pressing matter. She wanted him to acknowledge that, to ease with his soft words the burden on her mind. But he would not. He was blindly convinced it was unimportant. He could not feel the urge that churned in her gut to resolve it.

*

The persistent unmet need burned on, even after they climbed into bed and pulled the wool blankets over them.

She wanted him to put his arm around her—it would not solve the matter, but at least it would be something, a little sign he cared. Instead, he turned his back to her. She lay awake for a long time, the wheels of her mind churning, spinning anxiety, doubt, confusion. Hugh's closed stiff form had already sunk into dreamland, worlds away.

They'd arrived at the monastery's blue and white arch the day before. The guard let them in, and they drove down a lane lined with slender trees and pots of red flowering cacti. The auto rickshaw stopped below a flight of stone steps. Peering through the rickshaw's tiny window, Laura looked up; saw a building with a pure white façade, its surface filled with windowpanes, the upper ones arrayed into fan shapes. Above the double doors was a miniature roof with red tiles. 

'Come on, let's go,' said Hugh's voice beside her. Over their seven hour bus ride he'd missed lunch, and his mood was foul. Laura was in no fine mood herself. 

'Alright,' she groaned, squeezing out of the rickshaw and pulling her suitcase after her. She had to crouch to ease it free. 

*

Hugh pushed open the double doors and strode in. His loud boots echoed. They found themselves in a long foyer, facing a sofa and chairs with plush red cushions. On the small table lay a selection of newspapers. The walls were a yellowish off-white. Down the centre of the room were a series of columns painted peach and embellished with gold leaves. 

Hugh strode through the cream double-paned doors calling out, answered only by silence.

Laura peeked into the foyer and let him go. She returned to the steps, where she sat with her suitcase. She rubbed her forehead. The ride up from Salem had been formidable. 'A lovely place in the hills,' she'd been told. She'd pictured the hills as the little English sort, not the huge stony heights the bus had ploughed up at full speed.

At each bend was placed a thoughtful sign. 'Hairpin turn, 9/20' one said. Twenty hairpin turns, she'd thought with an inward groan. Just knowing made it worse. She'd craned her neck out the window, seen a high, verdant ridge, a few white buildings clustering atop it. So we're going up there. It made her feel weak just thinking about it. She turned to Hugh, but he was absorbed in his usual podcast. Environmental politics, a subject as worn out as an old pair of boots. She would have to put up with him talking about it for ages after. Why suffer to sit through it, too? She pulled out her book, a period romance about two sisters in India seeking husbands in the time of the British Raj. 'Codswallop,' Hugh had called it. Laura had defended it stoutly, then given up at Hugh's complete unwillingness to give merit to literature that was not bristling with facts.

She noticed Hugh's disapproving glance but read on anyway, a small act of defiance. Is this what our marriage has come to, a series of small defiances?

*

The bus stopped. Laura looked up, frowning. In front of them was the green nose of another bus but the road had narrowed. It didn't look big enough for both.

A man standing alongside the other bus waved. The bus backed up. They inched forward, the driver pressing as close as he could to the metal rail, lined with monkeys, a quite blasé audience. The other bus pressed close to the rock wall. They passed. If Laura stuck her hand out the window, she could scrape her fingernails on the other bus's pea green surface. But her hands were twisted in her lap, sweaty, shaking. She breathed relief.

The roadside had grown dense with vegetation, cream-coloured umbrella flowers hanging. From time to time they passed fruit stalls, women in saris presiding over piles of oranges. Chipping away at the time with talk, or staring into the distance.

The bus twisted sharply and Laura grabbed onto the bar of the window. 'Hairpin turn 12/20,' the sign read. Laura groaned and closed her eyes.

You should do more joint activities, their counsellor had said. Laura’s agreements had chimed against Hugh’s protestations. She’s not interested in anything I am, he’d moaned. Laura had given him a withering look. Shed tried to join him in various activities—listening to podcasts, badminton, chess—but every time he had come up with some kind of complaint. You’re not paying attention, or you’re not doing it right. She switched her thoughts to drown his whining voice out of her mind.

India had appealed to both of them, albeit for different reasons. Laura was more interested in the cultural side, Hugh in hiking. But whether he was ploughing up soggy hillsides or Himalayan slopes, he kept the same dogged pace, regardless if Laura kept up.

She winced at the thought of their first hike, a predawn slog up the rocks of Arunachala.

'You're wearing those on a hike,' Hugh had exclaimed, looking at Laura's loafers with derision.  

'Yeah... so?'

'Where are your hiking boots?'

'They're too heavy. I left them at home.' She was glad she'd left those heavy, clunky things. The loafers were lighter, and far more stylish. But Hugh was immune to considerations of style.

Hugh shook his head like a sailor giving up a lost ship. 'Now you're really going to struggle to keep up.'

And struggle she did.

*

Laura rubbed her eyes. They were pouchy from a patchwork sleep on a hard hotel bed, her nerves frayed to ragged. Her body felt jarred, almost nauseous.

A woman in a midnight blue habit strode up.

'Good, you've arrived,' she said briskly. 'Welcome to the House of Peace.' Her brown cheeks grew round when she smiled.

'Thank you,' said Laura in a voice like a fraying cardigan.

Hugh stomped out of the building. 'There's no one—' he began. 'Oh, hi.' 

The nun turned her smile on him.

'You must me tired. Come, let me show you your room.'

The nun led them through the cream double doors. She must be profoundly peaceful, untethered to a complaining man. For a moment Laura envied her peace. What am I thinking! Guilt twanged. She thought of Hugh fluffing her pillows and spreading jam on her toast. Of Hugh deriding the sugar content of the jam she made. Stifled the thought.

Their room, at the end of a passageway, contained a double bed with wool blankets under a window that looked out to the adjacent building. Woollen blankets—in India! Laura had thought at first but the cold of the night later proved that they were needed. Wooden wardrobe and desk, marble floors, en suite bathroom. There was something old-fashioned and grand about it. 

'It's lovely,' said Laura.

'Will you help me with the bags or what,' snarled Hugh, as he left the room. Laura lingered as long as she dared to. 

*

While Hugh tramped off to explore, Laura took the steps down to the garden, a swath of grass edged with yellow-green hedges and squat prickly palms. The moulded concrete fence-posts, some sections crooked, were trailing with a vine of orange flowers. Like little flared tubes, she thought. She sank down on a blue-green bench to read her book.

She'd barely read a few pages when Hugh's voice shattered her peace. 'I've booked us a hike,' he declared.

'I never said I wanted to hike,' replied Laura, turning the page of her book. 'I want to relax. You can go hiking.'

Hugh clenched his fists. 'But Janice said we need to do joint activities.'

Laura gave him a determined look. 'She also said we need to talk to each other more nicely. I don't like your tone. Why do you have to be so forceful all the time?'

Hugh frowned and gave her a dark look. 'Fine,' he said. 'I'll be nicer. We leave in the morning, five thirty sharp.'

Laura folded her arms across her chest. 'I don't want to go that early.'

Hugh let out a sigh of exasperation. It reminded Laura of steam rising up from a manhole cover in London.

'Why should I have to convince you all the time? Getting you to go anywhere is like pulling teeth!'

'If you weren't so bloody forceful about it, I might actually want to go.’

Their stand-off lasted well past dinner, which they took in the empty dining hall, immersed in an icy silence. Laura was disturbed by every clatter of fork on metal plate, by the unbearable noise of the ticking clock.

In the hall on the way to their room, above an unlit fireplace, Laura spied a framed quote titled Love. 'Love is patient, love is kind,' it read. Pffft, thought Laura. But the bottom part made her think. 'Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.' But can it really? Can ours? She frowned as she walked to their room.

*

At some ungodly hour, Hugh's alarm pierced Laura's sleep. He sprang out of bed like a goat and began to get dressed. Laura pulled the covers over her head.

'Rise and shine, porcupine,' said Hugh in a sing-song voice.

Laura groaned and rolled over. She heard Hugh, in his hiking boots, stomp into the bathroom. She lay in bed till the last possible moment before Hugh would be seriously irked. Then she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

Hugh was doing press-ups on the cold tile floor. Laura yawned. She pulled her suitcase towards her, pulled out beige cotton trousers and a lavender top, and slid them on under the covers. She tiptoed around High, wincing with each cold step, and splashed her face in the sink. Shuddered. The water was ice-cold. In the mirror her eyes looked pouchy, her long face haggard. She sighed and went over to ready her day pack. By this time Hugh was dancing with agitation and in a few harried minutes they were off.

Hugh pulled open the stained glass door. 

‘Whoa, look.’ 

Laura paused in the doorway. Beyond two tiers of steps and the grassed, walled garden, and past a long blue-black slope lay the horizon, revealing the first streak of dawn. Hugh put his arm around Laura, and they stood in silence, absorbing the band of gold. She felt the familiar weight of his arm around her and sank into it. Then just as abruptly Hugh let go and sprang two at a time down the steps.

*

They walked down a lane with high walls to a place where five roads met. In the centre of the little concrete bus shelter, Laura saw the charred remains of a fire. A man in a blue plaid lungi and hooded jacket huddled in the corner. In front of them was a small flat roofed hut with a hand painted sign that said 'Chai Stall'. Laura was intrigued by the mailbox, a rusted red cylindrical thing attached to the wall with a tiny metal door at the bottom.

The old man in the chai shop grinned, displaying white teeth. 'Your guide is on the way,' he said. 'You want chai?'

There was only one plastic stool. Laura sat while Hugh stood, gazing out at the high-walled lanes. He was far away on the next horizon, somewhere she could not reach him. How could I have nothing to say to him? She felt emptiness, and arising from that, despair, mingling with gratitude for the chai now warming her hands.

'Chai's good isn't it,' she said to break the silence between them. Beneath those words, a small forlorn voice was saying, I want to reach out to you, I want to connect with you.

'Yeah,' grunted Hugh, and in his short abrupt answer she heard him saying you’re not going to reach me and you're foolish to try.

Before she could say more, their guide strolled up, enveloping their hands in strong handshakes and smiling.

Then the game was on, and they morphed into the agreeable British couple. Their guide Kumar, a sturdy strong man, led them past a colonial manor and began to explain its history. The House of Peace, he told them, was built by a British family. Laura imagined children running down the stairs to the lawn.

Hugh asked questions and soon launched into a discussion of history and politics. Their talk darted avidly from the ancient trade routes to sieges to failed expeditions. An irked Laura trailed after them.

*

They hiked down a hill and across a stream, lined with ferns, angel's trumpet with its deadly umbrella-shaped flowers, and cardamom plants.

'What does a cardamom plant look like,' asked Laura, scrunching up her face in puzzlement.

'That one, with the large leaves,' pointed Kumar. 'And these are silver oaks.' He indicated a mass of tall straight trees with silvery foliage. 'The pepper vine grows up the sides of it and the villagers harvest it from ladders.'

They continued down the slope until the forest opened up to large slab of a rock sloping down to a village. A blue house, a pink house, banana trees, a stream.

'If we're lucky, we might catch sight of the wild gaur,' said their guide.

'Wild what,' asked Laura, puzzled, but their guide had already stridden up to a group of women. They wore long skirts in simple printed cotton and shawls. They were holding jugs, elegant the way the rims narrowed at the neck and flared, except that the jugs were of red and blue plastic. He spoke to them in Tamil, a series of quick sounds and a lot of ah's that Laura couldn't catch.

Kumar turned back to them, grinning. 'One of the girls is going to the spring. She can lead us.'

The girl turned to smile at them in a flash of white teeth.

Her slim frame was clad in a yellow collared school shirt and tan skirt with light print. Her black hair was looped in two braids.

She crossed the rock and slipped into an opening in the foliage, where there was a slim dirt track they never would have seen.

'These are coffee bushes,' said their guide with a wave to the waist high bushes. 'See the berries?'

Laura brushed a red berry with her fingertips. Amazing to think a coffee bean is in there.

The girl strode ahead with sure bare feet, followed by Hugh and Kumar. Laura dashed forward to keep up.

All around them were silver oaks, some wrapped in pepper vines as if they wore shaggy cloaks.

Hugh, she noticed, was silent.

Morning sunlight slanted through the high oak leaves, dappling the path and the dark glossy leaves of the coffee bushes.

'It's beautiful, isn't it,' said Hugh softly, and Laura saw the sunlight had affected him—it had shone through his crusty exterior to reach his heart.

She was transported to a moment, seven years ago, when they'd strolled in the lake country, and he'd said those words. And it was awe in the presence of nature that had brought them together, and she'd forgotten that, amidst the flurry of stresses that were tearing them apart.

'Over here, look.' Kumar had skipped off the path and was beckoning them in a stage whisper. He pointed to the ground. 'Gaur spoor,' he declared. He poked a stick in it. 'Fresh, too!'

Laura squinted at the droppings on the ground. 'What do they look like?'

'They're this big,' said Kumar, spreading his arms wide. 'With dark hides and huge curving horns. If spooked they can attack. This way!'

The slender girl was already ahead, hips swaying as she walked.

They followed along the side of a stone building with a sealed door, to a place where the ground sloped down to a stone rimmed square pool. The girl knelt at the edge and filled her jug.

'The stream at the village is for washing only,' explained Kumar. 'So the villagers must come here for drinking water.' Laura nodded. She'd seen a woman knee deep in water, a red sweater over her sari with the sleeves rolled up, clothes trailing through the water as she washed.

Hugh paced the area, snapping photos with his phone.

Laura watched the girl filling up water. How lovely, thought Laura. But if I had to do this every day, I think it'd be rather annoying.

Kumar looked around. 'Looks like no gaur today.'

Laura was secretly glad.

*

He led them back to the village and through it, down a narrow stone ledge over the stream. The woman in the stream was still washing, squatting as she beat laundry against the rocks. The surface of the water swirled with suds. Laura looked up concrete steps leading up to pale blue houses.

Kumar lead them down a forested hillside, over large rocks. While Laura huffed and scrambled to keep up, their guide walked in sure easy steps, Hugh stomping placidly behind him. Laura felt each of the stones through the soles of her shoes.

They descended the rocks, covered with pale green lichen. She paused to touch it. It had a silvery glint to it, like frost. We're on the rocks, she thought, literally. She wanted to laugh out loud but knew Hugh would look at her strangely.

Laura turned; drew in breath. The hillside dropped away to a slope of boulders and golden grasses which descended to a tree-thick valley below.

They began to pick their way over rocks down the slope. Kumar marched ahead, resuming a lively dialogue with Hugh, while Laura trudged at the back. As she walked, she returned to a new and disturbing train of thought, in which she envisioned the various ways she would leave him.

Perhaps they would be in a chai stall, a roadside one, plenty of street noise. I've had enough, she'd say. What? Hugh would answer, leaning forward in that irritating way he did, because the horns would be blaring, and he wouldn't have heard her. And she would be forced to say it again, in clear forceful words, it's over. She'd expect Hugh to say something combative, like, no, it's not, more for his ingrained urge to take a differing view than anything else. This ending would be messy, drawn out. Laura would sip her chai too soon, scalding her mouth.

Or maybe they'd be in a hotel room somewhere. Laura would be watching a film on her laptop, Hugh would be doing his own thing, likely tapping out something mysterious into his phone.

It's over, she would say out of nowhere. The film? he'd ask.

No, our relationship, you idiot. Except she wouldn't say the last part. It sounded far too harsh.

Oh but that's awful, she thought. How could I be so horrible? A bitter pang of regret welled up from inside her.

The golden grasses swished against her legs; stirred up memory. Santorini, cliffs, sunset. Hugh's hand brushing her bare shoulders, the surge of joy that had risen up in her. The thought that flared up as the sky ripened peach. He is the man for me.

Her mind teetered to a recent argument. Words flying like barbs. You don't understand me, do you? Sometimes I wonder why I married you. The sting of Hugh's words. Laura blinked back tears, forced herself to look at the landscape.

From dark rocks patchy with lichen she gazed out to a slope with tan and green bunches of lemongrass, to a slanting ridge clothed in slender silver oaks, their leaves grey green brushstrokes. Beyond stretched a low blue spread of mountains, wrinkled as a coverlet, with clouds in its folds. The city of Salem was a faint spread of white dots below.

The sky was covered with clouds, woollen and silver, impenetrable. The sun will never break through. Laura narrowed her eyes. There was one small place, far to the east, where the clouds were torn away like tissue paper, revealing a thin line of pastel yellow sky. 

She drank in cool air; heard the white rush of water. She made no response when Hugh came to sit next to her. 

‍ ‍It's like a blanket, our relationship, thought Laura. Thick and woolly and comfortable. But sometimes the wool itches. I want to wrap myself up and snuggle into it. But I get so cocooned I fail to see the world around me. I sweat, I get restless, I push the covers away from me. 

What if he pulled it away? I would shiver.  

She cast a sidelong glance to Hugh. He was lost in his own contemplation.

Or it’s like a cloud, she mused. Thick, cottony and protective. But then the hard glinting sun comes out and burns it away, and the footless skies have nothing to grab onto.

Across the plains, clouds drifted. They sat steeped in silence. There was Hugh, right beside her yet impassive as a mountain. She gazed out, alone with her thoughts. I don't know if our marriage is going to survive, but I'm okay with not knowing for now.

Hugh took her cold hand.

Originally published by Bridge House in the anthology Evergreen, 2022

Malina Douglas is inspired by the encounters that shape us. She made the shortlist of the Bath Short Story Prize in 2025, was awarded first place in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 2023 and made the top three of Leicester Writes. Publications include the National Flash Fiction Day Anthology, Night Shades, Neon & Smoke, Typehouse, The Rumen, Ginosko Literary, Samjoko Magazine and Consequence Forum. She is an alumna of Smokelong Summer and can be found on BlueSky @iridescentwords