by Isla Blair
Isla
Postscript
Edie and I climbed the rickety loft ladder that led to our dusty attic. She was only three, so Julian stood beneath her holding the ladder as she clambered up, ready to catch her if she fell. We were to seek out the Beatrix Potter books my mother had kept in her attic for fifty years. We opened the black steel trunk together which still had “Blair-Hill Not Wanted on Voyage” painted on the top in white letters. Inside was my mother’s wedding veil and the pearl and lily of the valley headdress she had worn at her marriage and the lavender blue bonnet and Edwardian style dress I had worn at mine. Edie tried on the bonnet and we laughed as it fell over her eyes. We found the silver horseshoe that had been tied to our car as Julian and I sped away after our reception. And there were the books in a shoe box, little scuffed, scratched books, some scribbled on by my five year old self, and on the cover of them my mother had written “This book belongs to Isla Blair-Hill.”
Inside “Jemima Puddle Duck”, my favourite, on my favourite page – the one with foxgloves and the fox looking cunning and Jemima looking sweet and foolish – was a flat little bulge wrapped in yellowing, Bronco lavatory paper. I unpeeled the fragile tissue-y covering and there inside, was a flattened, dry, almost grey, marigold – Ayah’s farewell marigold. I imagined its pungent, tangy sweetness and Ayah’s coconut hair oil – but there was no scent at all, just a strange mouldy dustiness.
“What is it, Raderah?” asked Edie.
“It was once an orange flower, a marigold that was given to me in India by someone I loved very much.”
I unpeeled it from its fifty-seven-year-old wrapping and it crumbled between my fingers, stiff dark brown shards of petals disintegrating into powder. I rolled the remaining fragments between my fingers and settled them into the little groove of the wispy paper and then Edie and I blew it into the rafters of the attic and watched the thin veil of powder settle on the cobwebs on the eaves and on the pink insulation foam of the roof: a tiny piece of India resting here in my house in Barnes.
We carefully climbed down the ladder, Edie still in my blue bonnet. I closed the door to the loft and followed her into the golden autumn light to pick up the windfall apples and pears in my English garden.
Glossary
The spelling of these words is my own, as I have only heard them spoken.
arni – elephant
ayah – nanny
bandicoot – large rat
beedee – type of Indian cigarette.
betel nut – chewed like tobacco, producing red liquid
burra–peg – large measure of alcohol
chokra – butler
chota–peg – small measure of alcohol
chupplis – sandals, flip–flops
cumbli – blanket
cutcha – haphazard
dhobi – laundry man
dhooli – chairs carried between two poles
dhoti – man’s sarong
goosle – bath
goosle kawasti – bath time
krait – small poisonous snake
lili – bed
juldi juldi – quickly, quickly
Malayalam – Indian language, ethnic group
maradadi – over the top, glitzy
matey – kitchen help
meen – fish
nimbu–pani – lime juice and soda
peri–dori – Manager
perria pamba – big snake
perria pulli – tiger
poochi – insect
pow – tiny, mean measure of alcohol
pulli – panther
pyti – mad
salaam – greeting
sari – woman’s dress
sena–dori – Assistant Manager
shikaar – shooting, hunting
syce – stable boy
Tamil – language spoken in Kerala, ethnic group
tapal – post
tiffin – lunch
topee – pith helmet
If you enjoyed “A Tiger’s Wedding: my childhood in exile”, you might also enjoy:
“Solid Air – the Life of John Martyn”
by Chris Nickson
Publishing July 29, 2011
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