A Tiger's Wedding

by Isla Blair

  It wasn’t alright. At morning assembly, we came to the end of the first hymn. Suddenly my name was called.

  “Isla Blair-Hill, come out here please. We don’t like dirty girls at this school.” And with that I had to go to the laundry room with the wet sheet in my arms. Still tears did not come. They seemed to grow solid and become a hard ball of humiliation in my throat; my jaw ached with it and my heart hurt and the bubble of anger rose up as I tried hard to swallow. Unkindness caused anger to flare, further unkindness could not extinguish it – it just made it harder and colder. I felt very alone as there was no-one to take my side, no one to tell, no one to report to, “I’ll tell my Mum on you” – but my Mum was not there to speak up for me. There was no one except Fiona and she was as powerless as I was.

  In the quiet and darkness of the night, when I was feeling hollow and sad, I’d reach for my mother’s handkerchief that I kept under my pillow. It was soft linen, with a small V embroidered in white thread in one corner. It held the scent of her; it had little stiff bits that held her salty tears and, in one corner, a smudge of her lipstick. I would hold the hankie over my face, filling my nostrils with her essence, memories of her – her blonde hair, the little white fleck on her nail, the tiny mole by her eyebrow. I would put my mouth to the lipstick stain where her mouth had been on the corner of the little linen square, the pinky coral a lasting imprint of her breath. The handkerchief stayed with me, in my drawer, taken out at night to gently nudge me into slumber. She was here, she was with me, all was well.

  St Maray’s School, Dunmore Park

  But gradually, well no, not gradually at all – quite quickly, the scent became fainter, almost not there at all. Only my willing it to be there made the smallest whiff remain, but it was gone really. The hankie was crumpled, the embroidered V had gone a bit creamy coloured and, like a splodge of tea, the smudge of Indian Coral lipstick had oddly darkened into a henna-ish blur.

  So she really was gone, my mother. She was no longer with me under the pillow. I did not soak my pillow with tears of homesickness as the other girls did. My eyes remained dry, but my throat ached.

  I couldn’t remember my mother’s voice, her face was out of focus in my mind and now her smell, her very essence, was gone. This was a panicky grief, this loss. There was now nothing of her left. Just photos. She always smiled too much in photos, so she never looked like herself. Her eyes were too crinkled up so they never had that blue steady gaze that told me I was her special Saluki.

  My mother was gone and my father and Ayah, but I still had Fiona. In the morning I would see Fiona and that made me feel safe.

  SIX

  My Protector

  In our new Scottish world Fiona took the blame for me, comforted and protected me – drinking half my obligatory third of a pint of gag–making milk at break-time, even though it provoked in her the same reaction. When I was punished, she would come to find me, take my hand in hers and remind me of Ayah and Sunderaj and Mingo and sunshine and I would be transported back to a place where we both belonged.

  In India, when Fiona was nearly six she was sent to the local nursery to learn her tables and her ABC from Hannah Tewson and Mrs Souter, our friend Alice Souter’s mother and wife to the general manager, George Souter. Each morning off she would go with her sunhat and a little case filled with pencils and crayons and her lunch – sandwiches and an orange and a banana. No apples in India. I was left behind. That abandonment I felt keenly. Each day I would lay out my small case beside hers with a banana and an orange and each day Ayah would say, “No, missy. Missy Fiona go; Missy Isla too small.”

  I hated being too small. Where Fiona went, I went as well; being left behind was not any part of my comprehension. Each day this ritual persisted. Fiona’s case with orange and banana sat by the front door. Each day I put my case with my orange and banana beside it and I’d put my sunhat on top of them all as a sort of claim. Each day Fiona went alone and I’d watch as the little black car took her down the road, leaving behind a cloud of dust. Each time there was the same tight feeling in my chest and throat – the feeling with which I was to become so familiar. My chin felt all wrinkly and tight and a sort of choking feeling came upon me, as if I’d just swallowed a red gundamalley bead and it had lodged itself in my throat. Here was a little grief, a tiny bereavement. I learnt early what a suffocating pain it was. I was what? Two and a half? But the dull ache stayed with me until Fiona returned at teatime. Then we would sit together on the red earth amongst the canna lilies and she would tell me of her day and what she had learnt. Everything in the world was right, now that Fiona was beside me.

  Everyone was surprised when she suddenly became ill. She had a very high temperature and complained of pains in her legs. I think she was actually sick, I mean vomited. She was showing signs of malaria, according to “Uncle Doc”, a large ageing highlander, with a gentle bedside manner and sweeties for the children. Doc said no one had had malaria in the High Range for years – in the temperate climate, the mosquitoes did not flourish – but after blood tests, it was confirmed that yes, Fiona had it and she was very ill indeed. She would sweat and fret and moan and then, within minutes, her teeth would chatter and she would shiver with cold, unable to speak as she huddled herself into a ball. Quinine became a force-fed imperative for her, no tablets, just liquid. This bitter brew was forced between her lips and gradually, very gradually, she got better. But malaria returns.

  Much later at school in Scotland, when Fiona got sickly, I took the responsibility of telling people about it. “She’s had malaria, you know.”

  I’d get a pat on the head for this information. “Yes, dear.”

  But I would insist, “No, she really has had malaria, and sometimes it comes back.”

  This, to Scottish doctors who had hardly ever heard of the illness. They would be nonplussed by this condition and were glad to know that there was an explanation for these inexplicable and unusual symptoms. I felt grown up that I could take responsibility for Fiona’s malaise, her medication and recovery. Sometimes she would know it was coming on. She would talk about her “malaria legs”, an ache that later spread to the rest of her. It was like being able to forecast a thunder storm; her malaria legs heralded a serious bout of sweating and delirium alternating with shivers and much teeth chattering, the bed piled high with blankets and eiderdowns. The bouts lessened the older she got, but they chased her well into adulthood.

  * * * * *

  We shared a small Scottie dog, Lassie by name; she was Fiona’s dog really and, like me, she became her shadow. She came with us on walks and was always rushing into the tea and occasionally she’d come out with a small snake that she would toss into the air like a circus juggler. We were afraid she would get bitten, but she survived to scamper in front of us or pad behind Fiona along the red tiled corridors, her nailed feet tap-tapping as she went. She was a sweet creature, with her comical square face and mischievous eyes and Fiona and I could swear, on occasion, she was smiling.

  One day Lassie disappeared. We called and called for her, but we couldn’t find her anywhere. All day we called and Fiona was starting to get distraught. Day turned into late afternoon and soon it would be night. No dusky twilight, just the snap into darkness, like a light being turned off. Seeing Fiona’s distress, Matey was prevailed upon to go with one of the labourers into the fringes of the jungle carrying a hurricane lamp and a stick. It wasn’t long before he heard Lassie’s barking and found her in a wild boar trap, frightened but unhurt. He carried her back to the bungalow in a towel and placed her into the arms of a sobbingly grateful Fiona. Had Lassie stayed there, tethered, she would have been like a gift for a passing tiger or panther, a nice present of supper. She certainly would not have survived the night.

  My mother’s black cocker spaniel, Hodge, wasn’t so lucky. My mother was fifteen and her sister Ailsa was fourteen when, calling for Hodge everywhere, they came across his black spaniel ears by the river bank, which was all that was left of him. Poor Hodge
; no wonder the jungle was forbidden to us children.

  We had a cat each; Samson was Fiona’s – Mingo was mine. They were black and semi-wild with no manners at all.

  Mingo was pregnant. I watched her little black belly swell and was so excited I couldn’t stop picking her up to tell her so and say how much I was looking forward to her kittens. Mingo didn’t like it very much and occasionally struck out at me.

  “Missy Isla, no. Mingo has kittens, if they are born dead it will be Missy Isla’s fault.” Every one of Mingo’s kittens was born dead and she carried them round in her mouth and meowed a lot, making such a sad sound that I was stricken that I had been their executioner. I was the murderer of Mingo’s babies. She disappeared after that. My crime and ensuing remorse cut me to the quick. I would go round seeking her everywhere. There was no sleeping Mingo on the window ledge outside the kitchen, no Mingo sitting on the porch, tail swishing as she watched the quarrelsome crows fighting in the garden. I was inconsolable, although Sunderaj tried to console me.

  “Missy Isla, not your fault, Mingo belongs to the jungle, she is happier there. Do not be sad. We all belong somewhere. I belong here, you and Missy Fiona belong in UK and one day you will return there, as Mingo has gone back to the jungle.”

  All this was said with Sunderaj’s nodding head and white smile (made whiter by the betel nut that stained his gums red). I was bewildered. I belonged here. Home was here not that other place they called “home”, the place I’d not seen. I belonged with the canna lilies and the jackals crying at night, and the swirr of the fan above my head and the plantains for breakfast and the mangoes eaten greedily in the bath, their juice dripping down our chins and arms – plopping into the water. Here was home.

  One day I went to look for Sunderaj to tell him about some particularly large ants that were marching across the verandah carrying huge leaves and bits of bark like an army waving banners – Burnham Wood coming to Dunsinane. Fiona told me to hurry, as the ants might go before I got back, and I called for Sunderaj all the way. But Sunderaj was nowhere to be found. I called and called for him, and then Boy heard me and called me to the kitchen. “Missy Isla – Sunderaj has gone.”

  “Gone? But this is his home, he told me.”

  “No, Missy, Sunderaj has gone.”

  I ran back to tell Fiona, who was as bewildered as I was, but even more crestfallen. I liked Sunderaj a lot, but he was Fiona’s special friend. He heard her tables and listened to her read and threaded marigold garlands and made eggs and coins and matchboxes disappear and appear again. We sought an explanation from our parents who sat us down and told us that Sunderaj had become ill and had to go to his family in the plains for them to look after him. It transpired that Sunderaj had syphilis (incurable in those days) and had made the decision himself to leave my father’s employ. My father paid him a severance sum and found him a post in Trivandrum until he got too ill to fill it. So Sunderaj was gone, leaving two disconsolate little girls behind him.

  At Christmas time Fiona and I would sit in the lime tree, heavy with hard little green limes, and watch the procession of people come up the road to give my father and mother Christmas wishes and “the compliments of the season.” They would present my father with bottles of whisky and little bags of coins, my mother with cashmere scarves, fine enough to loop through a wedding ring, and gold bangles and earrings. My father, with grace and courtesy, refused all these gifts. He never, ever accepted any of them, as they were always bribes, and my father would have no truck with bribery. But he was polite, so that the present giver would not be offended. He did, however, accept small baskets of mangoes or oranges and sprays of orchids and gold tinseled garlands, but that was all – and he would always look at the bottom of the basket or box of fruit to see if there had been anything discreetly left there. Indeed, one Christmas at the bottom of a basket of oranges was a beautiful gold watch. My father at once got the chokra to run after the giver and ask him respectfully to take the watch back – he would keep the oranges, but would not accept the watch. My father stuck rigidly to this rule all his twenty-nine years in India.

  The day came when Fiona was to go to “Big School” – Presentation Convent in Kodaikanal. This meant a whole term away from me. My life became aimless. It wasn’t fun chasing dragonflies on your own, or opening your mouth when it rained and swallowing as much rainwater as you could, giggling and spluttering. It wasn’t much fun being covered in almond oil by Ayah and running around at bath time (goosle kawasti) on your own, or looking at the long shadows on the nursery walls, the dressing gown on the back of the door transformed into a scary hooded man. Fiona and I would giggle in mock fear; without her, the fear was real. The sound of the jackals calling, a chilling sound at the best of times, in the dark lonely room all on my own froze my girlish blood.

  Time passed and so miserable was I without Fiona, my parents agreed to send me to Kodai school too – just for one term. I was five years old and I was delighted to be going to “Big School”. I was proud of my uniform, even though the beret sat on my head like some huge flying saucer and everything was much too big. I felt grown up and I was going to join Fiona. It hadn’t occurred to me that it could be quite a responsibility for her to have this volatile little limpet clinging to her, a persistent little duckling strutting in her wake – and a responsibility I was. Fiona was a shy child, sensitive, and didn’t want to upset authority, break any rules or draw attention to herself in any way. Walking into a room of strangers was a trial for her, as she was convinced each eye was upon her. She had learnt already at Kodai that breaking the rules was not an option; you just did what you were told.

  Being a Catholic school, fish was served on Fridays. I hadn’t had much fish before and I didn’t like it. I hated the little bendy bones and the fishy taste displeased my palate. I told the nuns I wasn’t allowed to eat meen (fish), as it made me sick. It wasn’t true, but the lie worked and I got off the obligatory Friday menu. That seemed easy enough. I was fascinated by everything. The nuns’ wimples and how they kept them on, the little phials of Holy water at the entrance to the Church and the big ballroom; lining up for classes, washing at the long line of basins with freezing cold water, making sure to use your soap from your sponge bag with your name on it and drying yourself with your name-taped towel. I was fascinated by the rows of little desks, each with their own pot of ink in the right hand corner.

  I liked the look of the ink and the way it stained my finger and seeped its way under my nail. The taste was sweet and bitter at the same time. I thought I would try it properly and picked it up and drank it. My blue stained lips evoked squeals of horror. Fiona was summoned. Schooled in the knowledge that prayer to Jesus and the blessed Virgin cured all ills, she had all the children in my class on their knees with their rosaries out pleading with our Blessed Virgin that her stupid little sister may not be poisoned and only a few minutes away from death. Sister St John appeared and asked, “Whatever is going on here?”

  “It’s Isla Blair-Hill, Sister. She has drunk ink and she is going to die. Any minute now she will die.”

  “Stop this at once. Isla Blair-Hill, come this way with me.”

  And I followed her to the Sick Bay where I was prevailed upon to drink a glass of salty water. Within minutes I was heartily sick. Not the sick that looked like vegetable soup, but what looked like the ink from an octopus that had been turned inside out by some business-like fisherman. There were no ill effects, just my notoriety and Fiona’s shame.

  Above all, Fiona was nice. She seemed to have time for people, especially me, and showed me how to tie up my shoe laces, how to polish my brown shoes. “Polish on, rub it round and round, now the polishing off brush, brush, brush, brush until the shoes are shiny. Now wipe them all over with the cloth.”

  She became not only my sister, but a surrogate mother and protector. And protect me she did – fiercely.

  She kept things neatly and all in order, not all scrumpled and chaotic like me. Fiona let me play with her
dolls, even with the knowledge that they would be returned to her with an arm missing or an eyeball stuck inside its plastic head with the somewhat disconcerting vision of straight, bristling eyelashes protruding from the eye socket. She would sigh in a very grown up way, she would even tell me off, she would weep with frustration but she always forgave me. Fiona has remained my confidante and closest friend and, on my sixtieth birthday, she gave me a glass bowl engraved with all the significant milestones in my life. Badges, names, quotes – and she gave me too a photograph of us together, aged ten and six, standing in our new school uniform of maroon and blue about to go to St Maray’s School in Dunblane. On this photo she has written, “Even at 60 you are still 6 to your sister.”

  So here we were in Scotland, where the sun rarely shone, where instead of bright canna lilies, there was an abundance of rhododendron bushes and fir trees that looked different to the ones at the golf course in Munnar. The colours in India were bright, the women’s saris, the birds, the fruit, and the flowers; even the food was brightly coloured – turmeric and chilies, green “Ladies’ Fingers”, pineapples and mangoes. Here in Scotland, things seemed diluted or bleached out; the food: grey porridge, white pudding, grey tripe and onions, the white bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth – not like the charcoal baked chapattis, or the bread full of little seeds baked by the Boy. And it was dark most of the time. In Munnar I woke up to light that cut its way through our linen curtains, sunbeams with dust motes floating, suspended, and I would long to be up – legs out of bed, bang shoes together, put them on and call for Ayah, “Ayah, Ayah, where ARE you? I’m up.”

  And I went to bed sometimes – well usually, really – when it was still light, before the jackals started howling.