Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  “I told you.” Tessa nodded sharply toward the other women before turning to Sophie. “June Smythson thought the man a saint, but I have to say I never warmed to him. Some of these people have a bad attitude. It’s June’s fault. She was far too familiar with her staff. Especially with him. I think it gave him ideas. You know, once…” She hesitated, and lowered her voice. “Once, I saw him out where the dhobi was hanging the washing, and you know what I saw him doing?” She leaned forward into the circle of women. “He was touching her undergarments. Can you imagine that? Yes,” Tessa said, returning her attention to Sophie. “There was even talk that she was—”

  “Tessa.” Ros Appleton glared at her. “We’ll have no more of that vicious gossip, if you please, particularly as the poor woman is no longer here to defend herself.”

  “Like that business with Edwina Mountbatten,” Melanie Hinchbrook said, raising a thinly plucked eyebrow. “She was very fond of Nehru, you know. A little too fond, if you ask me. The man was quite smitten.”

  “That’s quite enough of that, Melanie,” said Ros Appleton.

  “What? It was the worst-kept secret in Delhi!” Melanie gave a small sigh of amusement.

  “But imagine the scandal if it turned out to be true,” said Lucinda. “Lady Mountbatten with a Hindoo.”

  Sophie felt as though she had swallowed a stone, the smile on her face sitting rigid, her stomach churning at the undercurrent that had entered the room so easily. “Oh, Lucinda! Do stop!” Melanie said. “And it’s hardly in the same league as June having a soft spot for her husband’s bearer, now is it?”

  “You have to get rid of him, Sophie,” Tessa said. “Pay him off if it makes you feel better. Just get him out of there. He’s a bad apple.”

  “But what about finding a replacement?” Sophie asked.

  “I’ll have a word with Vicky. Let me send him to you tomorrow morning once he’s done with Stephen. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Thank heavens for Vicky,” Lucinda said. “One has only to say the word and he’ll move heaven and earth! The maid he found for me last year is a treasure.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said. “I’ve been so looking forward to coming here.”

  “You won’t be saying that next summer when the temperature hits a hundred and ten.”

  “Those of us in the know haul out for the difficult months and leave the men to it. May and June are utterly unbearable.”

  “You’re not to feel bored for one moment,” said Rosamund. “There are a hundred things needing our attention. There won’t be a single gap in your diary by the end of the week, and you mustn’t hesitate to call upon any of us if there is anything you need.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Sophie said, heart sinking a little.

  • • •

  True to Tessa’s word, Vicky appeared at Sophie’s door on the stroke of ten the following morning. Sophie had attempted to get Lucien to do the dirty work for her, saying over supper the previous evening that it would be so much better coming from a man, but he had dismissed her concerns, saying that anything to do with the household staff was well and truly her domain. Not more than five minutes after Vicky’s arrival, the entire household staff—cook, sweeper, maid, dhobi, gardener, bearer, and driver—were gathered on the back veranda looking very nervous indeed. All with the exception of Santash, who bore an expression so severe that Sophie found herself unable to look at him. She steeled herself before addressing them all, Vicky translating as she spoke so there could be no room for misunderstanding. They would come into the study, turn by turn, where she would set out their duties and tell them what she would expect from each of them. Sophie then retired indoors and waited for Vicky to bring in the first of them.

  “Santash,” she began. “The sahib would prefer to bring his own bearer to attend him. He appreciates that you have been in service to the household under the Smythsons, but it is time for you to move on.” She picked up the envelope she had readied for him. “In here you will find a reference and severance pay. You may finish now. We’ll manage the rest of your duties.” Santash stared at her for a moment, then took the envelope without uttering a word.

  “That is all,” Vicky said, indicating the door with a sharp nod of his head. Santash glared at him with a look so vicious that it sent a shiver through Sophie’s bones. “Out,” Vicky said. Santash turned abruptly and left the house, slamming the door as he went. Sophie waited a brief minute before dropping into the seat behind the desk.

  “Thank heavens,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you that I found that rather awkward.”

  “Do not worry, memsahib,” Vicky said. “I have made enquiries and there is a very good bearer who is looking for placement in the private house. His name is John. He is a Christian, but he is a very good man with excellent references. I will try to secure him for you.” He dropped his eyes in a show of discomfort. “It may take a little money, to release him from…”

  “Of course,” Sophie said. She opened the drawer of Lucien’s desk, took out a few notes of modest denomination and gave them to Vicky, who slid them into his pocket, not even glancing in his hand. “I’m most grateful for your help, Vicky. Santash did seem awfully cross. It’s a wonder Mrs. Smythson didn’t get rid of him herself with an attitude like that.”

  Vicky looked at her for a moment, as though he were about to say something, then changed his mind.

  “Your cook is not a problem, memsahib,” he said. “He has very excellent qualifications, but he is not speaking very good English. He is keen to please the memsahib’s house. You must tell him what you expect of him and give him clear instructions that he can understand, then he will be happy. A happy cook is a good cook, memsahib. I will bring him now.”

  With Vicky gone from the room, Sophie composed herself with a few deep breaths, smoothed her dress, and stood up. Vicky came back with the cook, who slipped the cap from his head and held it nervously in his hands, eyes fixed on the floor. Vicky told him to stand up and mind himself.

  “Memsahib,” the cook mumbled.

  “Dilip,” Sophie said. “Is everything in the kitchen to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, memsahib.”

  “Good.” Sophie smiled at him.

  “Do you have a problem cooking beef?”

  “No, memsahib.”

  “Good,” Sophie said. “Mr. Grainger likes his steak bloody. Very bloody.”

  17

  Around the table, classified documents were passed around and opened. David Appleton looked up. “Now, I realize how much thought has gone into planning for this already, but the Prime Minister has accepted an invitation to visit Australia within the same tour, which means that our watch has been reduced to only four days.”

  “Four days?”

  “I’m afraid so. Four days in India, four in Pakistan, and less than two in Ceylon.”

  Jim Bevan pulled his spectacles off and let out a gasp of irritation. “Well that’s nothing short of ridiculous.”

  “Downing Street had very little choice in the matter, although you would have thought that somebody might have anticipated it earlier.”

  “Marvelous,” muttered Tony Hinchbrook.

  “Nevertheless, it is up to us to see to it that this visit feels particularly special, and there’s to be no wandering from the agenda.”

  “Four days,” Jim Bevan repeated. “It’ll be impossible to extend the tour outside of Delhi in such a short time.”

  “They’re already aware of that.” Lucien flicked through the pages. “Looks like we’ll be hosting the whole thing here, then the PM will fly straight on to Karachi.”

  “I suppose it could simplify things quite nicely,” nodded Hinchbrook. “Get in and out as quickly as possible and there’s less time for trouble.”

  “What about Lady Macmillan’s arrangements?”

  “We’ll have to wor
k out a separate program. Get the DWs to organize a couple of tea parties or something.”

  “Is there anything about the press arrangements?”

  “There’ll be three British correspondents with the party, but the home press is pretty much out of our hands.”

  “How friendly are we anticipating this trip to be?”

  “Very,” David Appleton said. “I don’t want to detect so much as a whiff of protest, particularly when there are journalists around.”

  “What about security?”

  “I don’t think we’ll have too much to worry about there. Downing Street will be making the usual arrangements and our Indian colleagues will no doubt be pulling out all the stops. Our own security will be stepped up accordingly, so do mind your movements, gentlemen. It might prove embarrassing to turn up at a lady friend’s with a bodyguard in tow.” A few smiles passed around the table. “We’ll up the security in the residential compounds too, just to keep an eye on things.” He closed his dossier. “That’s all for now. We’ll reconvene at three.”

  • • •

  Vicky held court from his corner table in Apna Stop, a small hole-in-the-wall chai shop set along Janpath, hidden behind the chaotic stalls of the noisy bazaar that lined the commercial end of the street, selling everything from cotton sheets to baskets of raw spices and paan. It was rare that he ever put his hand in his pocket to pay for his own Coca-Cola, for everybody knew that he was a powerful man who could be persuaded to use his influence to magic a reliable job out of nowhere. He had placed scores of people, and come Sunday, there would always be a steady trickle of hopefuls stopping by at his table, faces filled with despair or gratitude, depending on his favors. Vicky took pleasure in their attention, reveling in the respect that they showered upon him, the clamor to pay for his food.

  On Sundays, Vicky was no longer a servant. He was a businessman, commanding a certain high regard from those he passed on the street on his way to Apna Stop where he would spend most of the day, talking business with the regulars, taking his time whenever he noticed someone hovering nearby, hoping for an audience with the man who was said to control all the jobs in one of the residential enclaves in the diplomatic district. Sometimes Vicky would make up his mind before the applicant had stepped one foot beyond the door. Too ugly. Bad teeth. Dirty clothes. Too old. In the early days, he had soon found himself unable to manage the deluge. Word had spread and he would arrive to be greeted by a queue. It had quickly become a serious headache, not just for Vicky, but for the poor besieged café owner, so Vicky had paid a man to get rid of the hordes of no-hopers who showed no sign of being able to make the initial down payment. He wasn’t a charity. He was putting his own reputation on the line every time he agreed to take on an applicant. They would need reliable, cast-iron written references in order to be considered for any of the private households, and if they didn’t have the required documentation, then that would of course cost a lot more. If they were successful in their application, which he could by no means guarantee, they would then be bound to show their gratitude by way of a small commission paid to him out of their wage packet. He would not ask for much, just a very reasonable thirty per cent, and only for the first year, after which he would make a small reduction in his fee. He was not like those greedy, exploitative sorts who tricked workers into making agreements that they had no hope of ever repaying.

  “It’s a little cold today.” The café owner wiped Vicky’s table over and replaced the tin ashtray with a clean one. “Winter is creeping around the corner.”

  “It is October,” Vicky said, as though the man were stupid.

  “How is business?”

  “I cannot complain,” Vicky replied loftily.

  “My cousin has a son who needs a good job,” the café owner mentioned casually, rubbing at an imaginary mark on the table’s cracked surface.

  “Then why don’t you give him a job here?” Vicky said.

  “He wants to be a driver.”

  “And where did he learn to drive a car?”

  “Anyone can drive a car,” the café owner said.

  “And anyone can make your makai na bharta.” Vicky stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The café owner nodded a little, letting out a small huff of exasperation.

  “He’s a useless fellow. His mother thinks he’s some sort of guru, always lazing around and thinking he’s better than everyone else.” Vicky dropped the spent match in the ashtray and appeared not to be listening. “And they expect me to make a man out of him? To pull a job for him out of thin air because they are too afraid to tell him the way it is?” He flicked his cloth in disgust. “You and I are successful, hard-working men, but you cannot teach that to these young people. Their heads are full of rubbish.” He tutted to himself and went off to serve his customers.

  “Mr. Vivekanand?” Vicky startled slightly at the sight of the figure who had appeared silently before him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to the man seated on the single chair outside the café door, the one he paid to stop people coming in and bothering him. The man outside raised an eyebrow at Vicky and offered him a small gesture of innocence. Vicky looked back at the stranger.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I understand that you are looking for security guards for one of the residential enclaves near Connaught Place.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The guard on the gate told me.”

  Vicky looked the man over. Tall and lean, strongly set, with broad shoulders and a fearless expression; a man like that would have no need of a broker to find work. Perhaps he was a migrant, Vicky thought. Delhi was full of them, able-bodied, eager men who had drifted in from the rural areas looking to make their fortunes in the city. He was probably penniless, yet his clothes were clean and well-pressed, his face freshly shaven, hair combed and oiled. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Ramakrishnan. Jagaan Ramakrishnan.”

  “Well, Jagaan Ramakrishnan, you heard wrong, and I don’t see people without an appointment. Can’t you see that I am busy?” Vicky looked away with an air of boredom. The man stood his ground. “Hey!” Vicky snapped his fingers at the café owner. “Bring me a Coke, and make sure that it’s cold.” The café owner brought the drink to the table, opening it in front of his customer. Vicky put the bottle to his lips, took a long swallow, then looked back at the stranger. “Are you still standing there?”

  “I want a job at the enclave, as a night guard.”

  “Oh do you now?” Vicky smiled his amusement. “And what makes you think that I have any interest in what you want?”

  “I know what you are interested in,” said the man. He tossed a thick envelope on to the table. Vicky’s eyes sliced toward it for a split second. His smile began to waver, feeling stiff under the stranger’s cool glare.

  “You seem very full of yourself,” Vicky said. “Particularly for a man in need of a job.”

  “I want to be posted at the second guardhouse, the one on the corner between the two—”

  “I know where the second guardhouse is,” Vicky snapped, setting down the Coke bottle in agitation. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Check the envelope.”

  Vicky slid it from the table and into his lap, opening it and thumbing through the money, his face reddening. Whoever this man was, he was clearly a fool for the taking. “Have you done this kind of work before?”

  “I have done all kinds of work before,” he said.

  “And where are your references?”

  Jagaan reached into his pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper.

  “I see,” Vicky said, looking them over carefully, pretending to examine each one in detail, camouflaging his poor literacy. “And how long have you been in Delhi?”

  “A while.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” Vicky said. He judged that it would be a fair g
uess, the man’s distinctive eyes a reliable indicator for those descended from the far northern tracts. The man gave him no answer. “Still, I suppose you look like you can handle yourself.” He pushed the envelope inside his shirt. “I’ll see what I can do.

  • • •

  Almost two thousand miles Jagaan had traveled, from Amritsar in the north to Ootacamund in the far south, crossing six states, passing through cities and towns and villages in a succession of crowded trains and cramped, overloaded buses, sleeping on the move, breaking his journey in the bigger stations where he could wash properly and clean his clothes and eat a hot meal. He tried to recall the moment when he had found the doctor’s house, the sign on the gate, Iona carved into the softwood, the way he had gone straight to the door and knocked on it without hesitating. He had gone to fulfill one purpose, to announce himself to Dr. Schofield, to tell him who he was and why he was there. The newspaper announcement had said that she had been married in London, the notice placed by Dr. G. J. M. Schofield of Iona, Ootacamund, and it was Dr. Schofield Jagaan had come to see, knowing that he had nothing to lose.

  A middle-aged woman had come to the door, plump and distracted with a duster in her hand, and had looked him up and down with an air of superiority. When he asked if this was the house of Dr. Schofield, the woman had demanded to know who he was and what business he had being there. Jagaan had said that he had come to speak to Dr. Schofield on the matter of his daughter’s wedding. It was the first time he had said her name aloud for as long as he could remember, and it had echoed right through him, but the woman must have misheard or misunderstood, because she had given him a bemused frown and said that Miss Sophie didn’t live here. She was Mrs. Lucien Grainger now, and she lived in New Delhi, in a very expensive house. Her husband was a diplomat, practically an ambassador, Mrs. Nayar had said proudly, as though it were her own daughter she was boasting of. She had kept on talking, oblivious to his shock while he stood there, his whole world upended at the mention of her name and the news that she was here in India.