She noticed with a smile that the cookie jar had been restocked. Her eyes flew to the table in front of the small sofa. Yes, fresh flowers and fresh fruit. How she was enjoying these little treats. Even her towelling slippers were replaced weekly and a new pair in a new pack put neatly beside her nightdress on that enormous bed. The bed that was about a quarter slept in with only herself sleeping in it.
chapter 2
It was whilst reading The Times one afternoon that she saw the advertisement. Liz loved the ads, in their own way they were so informative of life in India. “Bahrain,” she read. “Staff for the palace and v.i.p. families. Housemaids, house boys (under twenty-five), cooks, butlers.” She envisaged the sort of households they must have to work in. She looked at the salaries with some horror, by English standards, a pittance.
Even graduates, she noticed, with several languages and skills were offered next to nothing to work in hotel receptions. Beach staff, sales staff. Mostly no prior appointments were made, just turn up on a certain day and hope you might be picked out of the hundreds of applicants.
It was on one of these days as she read through with a mixture of interest and despair about the lack of good opportunities for employment that she noticed in the “For sale”column under Property. Portuguese Villa in need of renovation. Away from the road near Benaulim Beach. There was, Liz saw, a contact number. On a sudden impulse, she pressed eight for an outside line and dialled the number. A man answered, and she didn’t understand a word. He spoke quickly and although she realised it was English the dialect overtones were so strong she found it impossible to interpret!
He finally stopped talking long enough for her to speak. Very slowly and carefully she explained that she had seen the advertisement of the old Portuguese Villa for sale and she would like to see it. “Ah yes, Madame. That you can do. When would be convenient for you?” he too spoke slowly now and she understood perfectly. “Tomorrow,” she began a shade hesitantly, wondering what she was getting into. “Of course, Madame. At what time, and where are you dwelling?” She smiled, glad he couldn’t see her reaction to his charming English phraseology. Early or late, she thought, cooler then. “Is six o’clock alright?”
“Is that morning or evening Madame, may I enquire?”
“Six o’clock tomorrow evening.” She gave her name which he solemnly repeated back as he did with the hotel name and the appointment time. She put down the telephone. “Well Liz O’Malley,” she said aloud. “What have you done this time!” A sense of excitement took over. She nearly telephoned Kathy then thought better of it. Kathy might try to put her off, though knowing Kathy she probably wouldn’t. Still, it was early days and probably nothing would come of it.
That evening she decided to try the beach barbecue. She knew there was one every evening and several other guests had said how good it was, but she had, up until now, found it easier to eat in her room. Tonight though, she showered and washed her hair, thankful for the dryer which at least made a stab at drying her hair. She put on a simple long white cotton dress and in case she needed it a soft pink pashmina Kathy had brought back for her after a photo shoot.
She had tried so hard not to think of Steve but dressed up ready to go out brought back memories of him eyeing her up and down before they went out. One of her favourite phrases of his was, “My little cat looks like a tiger tonight.” She looked in the mirror again. “Well I don’t feel like a tiger tonight,” she muttered to her reflection. “I feel like a pussycat Steve, you kicked all the tiger out of me.” She pulled a rueful face at herself in the mirror and, putting her room key in her evening purse, walked out into the balmy night air. It always surprised her that after the coolness of the room, even with the air-conditioning turned low, the softness of the evening air was liked being wrapped in the warmth and comfort of a lover’s arms.
Liz meandered slowly along one of the paths that wove through the grounds and that would ultimately lead to the barbecue area. There was a direct route, but she found it pleasant to take in the evening like this. The stars so clear, so bright, untouched by the light pollution in London where it was seldom possible to even see the stars. The perfume of the flowers, night scented jasmine, oleander and the ever-pervading frangipani that was, she thought, as sensuous as any perfume she had worn.
By the time she reached the barbecue, it was nearly eight-thirty. The Maître d’, anticipating her arrival as he saw her walking slowly in his direction, hastily checked the booking sheet. Not one single booking only twos and fours. Still, he always kept one table, the one nearest the beach. He beamed as she approached. “Good evening Madame, a table for one?” Liz nodded mutely, suddenly feeling alone and unnerved. It was times like this Steve’s presence would have changed the way she felt. Arriving as a duo was so much easier.
She was shown to a table on the fringe of the beach. Two small spotlights shone in small arcs across the beach and just reached the sea. She watched in fascination as waves crashed down, the crests looking whiter under the spotlight. In moments the candle on her table, in its glass protection against the light breeze, was alight. Her waiter offered to show her around the buffet and she rose with alacrity, grateful for his help.
She followed him across the grass, which was dotted with occupied tables and lots of noisy chat. The waiter pointed out two huge copper pots of soup. One fish, he explained, the other mushroom. Then, on to a large selection of salads and terrines, both fish and chicken. Next, two chefs in their tall white hats cooked fish or steaks to one’s personal preference. Then it was casseroles from lamb rogan josh to spicy curries, pasta and rice, and finally the most amazing desserts. The waiter turned to her proudly and with a flourish.
Liz was alone, but suddenly she didn’t feel a sense of aloneness that she had anticipated. The staff were diligently attentive. She was accompanied back to her table and her chair held out for her every time she returned after another foray to the “feast”, as she mentally described it. Her wine glass was kept topped up and the music, from two very able musicians, was relaxing and not intrusive. She was glad she had taken the major step, for her, of eating out and by the time she returned to her room, she felt deliciously tired for the first time. She read for a few moments, then, putting down her book turned over with a contented sigh and fell into a dreamless sleep.
chapter 3
The next morning found her by the pool a shade later than usual. The guard and the garden boys smiled their greetings and she started her regular swimming up and down the pool, going from furthest point to furthest point of the irregularly shaped pool. Half an hour later, feeling refreshed, she slipped back into the towelling robe. She suddenly felt ravenous, despite dinner the previous evening.
After a quick shower, she put on a pair of cream shorts and a sleeveless pale blue top. Tying her hair back with a ribbon and putting on a mere touch of lipstick she found herself humming on her way to breakfast. For the first time since Steve, she felt happy and independent. She was coping – really coping – and she had an interesting appointment to look forward to later in the day.
Mr Chundra was exactly on time. Liz had arrived a few moments early and was enjoying the expansive marbled reception area with its easy chairs and sofas. She took the opportunity to change some English money and was served as usual by the beautiful Indian girl who looked smart as ever in her beige Taj uniform. Liz looked again at the lovely face and the most beautiful and darkest eyes she had ever seen.
“Madame O’Malley?” a voice beside her made her jump slightly, still bemused by the beauty and depth of those eyes. Somewhere, she decided, she must use them in a novel!
Mr Chundra, although at first overly obsequious, soon relaxed and chattered about the house he was about to show her, his neck moving from side to side as he spoke in the chatty way many of the people she had met in Goa did. The house, he explained, had belonged many years ago to a very important Portuguese government minister. When the Portuguese left Go
a, he gave the house to his main “houseman” and his family. This was, Liz was informed, either the grandfather or great-grandfather of the present owner who, it transpired, was Mr Chundra himself. Liz found the whole history interesting although totally confusing, but the more he spoke the more she felt that it was what she was looking for.
The car drew up in front of a pair of finely wrought iron gates about eight feet in height Liz guessed. Mr Chundra opened the car door. “It is best we leave the car here,” he said. Liz smiled, rather wishing they could drive through the gates. However, as the gate was opened, newly oiled she noticed, she understood why they couldn’t drive in.
Vaguely, through the trees, she could pick out the house. The drive, or where a drive had been, was completely overgrown as were the gardens. Bushes ran into trees. Branches of trees were so intertwined it was difficult to find beginnings and endings. It was a completely overgrown and long-neglected garden.
A small path had been cleared by Mr Chundra and/or his family she correctly assumed as they made their way towards the house. At first sight, it was what she had expected. Graceful trellis balconies, wide steps up to an almost American-style porch, verandas, shutters some open, some not. That was the first glance. Then she saw broken trellis, shutters hanging by one hinge, broken steps and missing planks from the veranda.
“What a mess,” she said involuntarily.
“Ah but Madame, you must see it with your soul, with your heart. Then you will know if it is right for you.” Liz couldn’t help smiling imagining an estate agent in England trying to sell a derelict property with such flowery language. Liz mounted the steps cautiously, feeling them move and hearing them creak as she did so. Mr Chundra produced a large key and with great solemnity tried to unlock the door. Either the lock was rusty or it was the wrong key. Whichever, Mr Chundra seemed to anticipate the problem and within moments he had opened a window and climbed inside, indicating, with his charming smile, that Liz should follow.
“That key,” he said by way of explanation. “We have always had problems with it.”
“Perhaps it is the wrong key?” Liz said gently, trying not to laugh at what she deemed a serious moment.
“You know Madame, I have said that very thing to my father when he was alive, and he too thought it could be the wrong key,” responded Mr Chundra. Liz put her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter breaking out. He would be, she sensed, offended if she laughed.
The house was as good and as bad as Liz could have imagined. The rooms with their lovely proportions and high ceilings were in themselves perfect. The state of the rooms, of the whole house, was unbelievable. Rotten floorboards, peeling walls, limited plumbing and an archaic kitchen. Yet the more she saw, the more she wanted it. Even with the overgrown back garden, the view from the room that would be her bedroom was stunning. She caught glimpses of the sea and beach and knew opening up the vista would be inspirational for her.
She was surprised when she looked at her watch. They had been there almost two hours and Mr Chundra had lit the lamp he had brought with him. Now she needed answers to questions. “Yes,” he assured her. “The house is registered, therefore it can be sold. No, you do not need a permit to renovate, unless you want to pull down the outside walls. Yes, here is water and electricity laid on to the house. No, there are no main drains, just a pit which is emptied as required. Yes, he would take an offer today and they could meet with the lawyer and the paperwork would be completed with all due speed in one week exactly.”
Her questions answered, she felt she had an understanding and apart from pursuing a resident’s permit and registering her tax details she was all set to move forward. “What are you expecting for this house?” she asked. He named a figure which she mentally converted to English pounds. By English standards, even for a ruin, it was low, but she knew that she must haggle a little or he would lose face! “Too much,” she said firmly. Mr Chundra looked suitably downcast.
“Tell me your price,” he said, his expression sufficiently forlorn to make Liz think he was either a very good actor or he was genuinely disappointed. She named a figure, he countered with a higher one, so they settled on a figure in the middle. Liz held out her hand. “You have sold your house.”
*
The enormity of what she had done really hit Liz as she sat in the bar later that evening, drinking a Bloody Mary and eating marsala peanuts which she had come to adore. The trouble was, she thought a shade ruefully, that they were for her somewhat, if not totally, addictive. Still, they went well with her drink and she was as lean as a bean anyway. All her clothes hung on her these days, and although she hadn’t bothered to weigh herself since Steve had left, she thought she had probably lost about fourteen pounds.
Thinking about clothes reminded her that she had noticed a tailor’s sign in the village adjacent to the beach. On impulse, as she finished her drink she decided to visit the tailor and see what materials and ideas he might have. She walked quickly down the wide marble staircase and along the path to the village.
The first time she had seen the village she had been shocked by the poverty so close to the luxury and splendour of the Taj. Mud dwellings, some with corrugated roofs others with woven palm fronds and branches. Children ran around everywhere, the toddlers wearing just a short top. Nappies she realised were unheard of here. She had met several of the villagers. Pretty young girls selling sarongs and saris. Men, sometimes up to four of them, manning a small stall selling attractive papier-mâché boxes in varying sizes and shapes, and always, “Something special for you lady, we have gold, jewellery too.” Liz always smiled and shook her head. The boxes, though attractive and beautifully decorated, didn’t appeal to her at all.
She reached the tailor who surprisingly had brick-built premises, albeit very rough and ready. Like any tailor at home he had shelves filled with rolls of fabric and, to Liz’s surprise, a number of fairly recent fashion catalogues and magazines.
Liz was looking for something long and cool with a jacket for back home. After measuring her carefully he pulled out silks and cotton for her to see. She finally chose a cream silk and arranged to have a loose shift dress and long matching jacket to go with it. The tailor tried hard to persuade her to have something else made, but she would not be persuaded. “Make this,” she said, “and I will think about something else, perhaps,” she added. The “perhaps” would be a necessary let-out clause if she was not happy with his workmanship. On impulse, Liz asked him if he knew anyone in the village who might be interested and capable of helping renovate a house. She had two attempts before he completely understood. Konkani was his first language he told her. “You must find Ashok,” he finally concluded. “Ashok with the bad leg.”
Thanking him and following his directions, she wandered down the hard-baked track, noticing covertly curious glances coming her way. She turned right, following the directions she had been given. The track was narrower now and uneven. Large ditches were now on either side and she surmised were probably the only route for the monsoon rains. She felt a slight fear. No one knew she was here. Was she going the right way? Was she even doing the right thing? It would be so much easier to hire a firm of renovators. But, something stopped her doing that, perhaps the thought that she would be at the mercy of their foibles, delays and price increases.
About to retrace her steps she saw a young man step out of a narrow doorway. He took a step towards her and she noticed he limped very heavily. “Are you Ashok?” His smile lit up his face. His dark curly hair – his slight build. Liz judged he was only just over five feet in height which made her feel less daunted and it became clear he spoke English quite well. “Ashok,” Liz said putting out her hand. “I think you may be able to help me.” He indicated the narrow door he had stepped from.
“Please come into my home, lady.” Just for a moment Liz hesitated, then, her heart pounding, she followed him. It was a few moments before her eyes adjusted to the gloom
. Ashok was not alone. A beautiful young woman sat on the floor in a corner, suckling a baby at her breast. A little girl sat by her side, who hid her face against her mother’s body when she saw Liz looking her way.
The mud hut, for that is what it was, was about seven feet by ten and as Liz stood there wondering what next, Ashok spread a rug on the floor and indicated she should sit. Her eyes were now totally adjusted to the gloom when it suddenly went even darker. The doorway was crammed with curious villagers wanting to know what this tall pale visitor wanted.
Ashok waved his hand. “Go away,” he said in English. They melted away and Liz felt more comfortable. She began to talk about the house, how she wanted to live there. How much work needed to be done. “The tailor,” she explained, “told me you might be able to help me.” Ashok was silent for a few moments. Finally, when he spoke, he spoke slowly, carefully.
Afterwards, long afterwards, she realised he spoke as he did because he could not believe that someone was offering him work. So often because he was a cripple – that’s what they called him – he was turned away because able-bodied men could do the work faster.
“I can do anything and everything, and because the people in my village need work they will do as I tell them. We have carpenters, builders – some who are good with gardens. Because we are a poor village and there is little work nearby we go from being poor to being poorer.”
“I will pay you a fair wage.” Liz countered, wondering if she was being totally stupid. Steve would have gone to Panaji, found a large company and given them the contract. Yet Liz felt, she had a gut feeling she was doing the right thing, not just for her – but for the house and for the people in this small community.
Ashok knew the house. “Sometimes we may sleep there if we do many hours?” he asked.
The Portuguese House Page 2
