by Paul Scott
“My Love,” he whispered, “My Love, my Lila. He is dead, he is dead.” He closed his mouth on hers before she could protest and got his hands round her neck, shaping them for strangulation or adoration. He pressed his body on her with all his strength to keep her pinioned. But she was the stronger. He felt himself being lifted and heaved. He fell on the floor with a thud. She sat up.
“Who is dead?”
He told her. He described it.
“Where is the letter?” she demanded, leaning over and breathing into his face.
“In his hand.”
She reached down and grabbed his shirt. “Get it!”
“Get it?”
“The letter, you fool. If he is dead there is no need of the letter.”
Her moustache was pricked by sweat. A drop fell off, trickled down her chin and on to the transparent material that covered her breasts but did not disguise the structure and colour of the nipples. “Indeed I am lost,” he thought. “She will make me do it. I am not a Christian at all. I am a Hindu and she is my goddess. Every orgasm is an offering to her, and every erection a manifestation in me of Shiva-lingam.” He shut his eyes so that he could not see his idol. He tried to conjure a different image. It would not come.
“Lila, I cannot rob the dead.”
There was a great disturbance. She was getting off the bed. Her massive thigh pushed him sideways. “Fool!” she shouted. She made for the door.
“Lila! Come back. Do not do it.”
But she had gone. He staggered up and followed her, then paused, struck by something like a revelation. She was frightened! And that meant that she was a fool too. She was in a panic. She had lost her grip on reality. At least three other people knew the letter had been sent. Minnie who had taken it, Ibrahim who had received it, Mr Pandey who was waiting for a copy of it. And the letter was only a notice to quit. It had killed Tusker but who could be blamed for that?
Running after her he began to exult. “Now I’ve got something to hold over you!” he said. “Scared were you? I’ll say. Got the wind up did you? Now who’s the fool, my love, my Lila, my life?”
. . .
Rising from his second inspection of the body of the patient he had just called in to say good morning to, Dr Mitra saw Mrs Bhoolabhoy flabbing towards him, and her little husband trotting in her wake.
“Doctor Mitra, thank goodness,” she cried at him from some distance. Reaching him she stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion. “My husband found him a moment ago and panicked. He said he thought he was dead but perhaps he is only fainted and in need of help.”
“I’m afraid he is dead.”
“Oh! Oh!” She doubled her fists and thumped her bosom as if about to beat it. Her husband stood behind her, wringing his hands, staring at Tusker’s now empty hand.
“I’m afraid he was due for it,” Mitra said. “But he knew that, I think.” He stood up. The letter was in his pocket.
Mrs Bhoolabhoy rounded on her husband and this time did beat her breast. “It is the shock of the letter!” she moaned. “You should have brought it personally. You should have told him days ago. You who were his friend! You should have broken things more gently. Oh! I blame myself, I blame myself. It is no good leaving things to you.”
She bowed her head and waddled away, one hand clasped to her brow.
“Well, now Mr Bhoolabhoy. Would you help me get him into the house? There seems to be no one in. When we’ve done that I’ll ring the hospital. Do you know where Mrs Smalley is? We ought to get a message to her if we can.”
“It is not true!” Mr Bhoolabhoy suddenly cried.
Deliberately misunderstanding, Dr Mitra glanced down at the late Colonel Smalley and said, “I’m afraid it is. Come, Mr Bhoolabhol. Give me a hand. We can’t leave him here.”
. . .
“There we are, Mrs Smalley. A cup of coffee and some magazines. The dryer’s not too hot, is it?”
“It’s fine Susy. I’m so glad you can come this evening. I’m afraid it will be rather pot-luck.”
“Oh, pot-luck, good-luck, my mother always said. I’m really looking forward to it. Father Sebastian is too.”
Lucy shut her eyes, the better to enjoy the caressing warmth of the drying-helmet. I should not be ungenerous in my thoughts (she told herself) but of course in the end this is what it comes to: that one is into the Indian-Christian scene and into the Eurasian scene. Perhaps it will make a change.
She drank her coffee and noted in the mirror that the first of the smart young assistants had arrived, which meant it was gone half-past nine. She looked down at the magazines on her knee. Toole stared up at her in his Steve McQueen persona. Paris-Match: a paper left by a tourist, presumably. She flipped through the pages, trying to read the captions. She had never had any gift for languages. Her first French school book had been called Le Livre Bleu. She could remember the first sentence. “On m’appelle Jet.” My name is Jet. Or Blackie. Black cat. Lucky cat. The French mistress at the Girls’ High School was a Miss Hoad. Known as Miss Toad, or Froggie. Nobody had liked her until she was ill. Mysteriously ill. A hysterectomy, probably. Then all the girls sent flowers to the cottage hospital. Her own box full had been culled from the vicarage garden. Syringa. Cabbage roses, white and crimson and sweet smelling. A spike of delphinium. Lupin. A peony. June–July flowers. Rita Chalmers’s parents had ordered a bunch from the florist. Everything Rita Chalmers did was elegant. She had married a man whose parents had a Rolls. Lucy wondered whether Rita had been happy. She had not thought of Rita Chalmers for years, nor of Miss Hoad, nor of the box of flowers. She remembered how superstitious her mother was of dreams about flowers. “If I dream of flowers,” Mumsie had said, “I inevitably have news afterwards of a death.”
She turned back to the front cover and met Mr McQueen’s not-looking eyes. Toole. Toole. Are you still alive, Toole? If not, were you happy? Did you make a good life? Did either of you ever regret, if you found one another? All I remember about you really is the back of your neck. It seems that my love, my life, has never had its face to me and that I have always been following behind, or so dazzled by sunlight that I could not see the face when it once turned to me. Did you see the green bag, Tusker? Did it glitter in the sunshine that dazzled me? How will you remember me? What is your image of me? Does it amount to anything at all? You say I have been a good woman to you. But what does that mean? What does Luce mean? Is it an endearment? Or just shorthand? I’m sorry. I mustn’t ask silly questions any more. The years of asking questions are over. You have written me a love letter and I kept it under my pillow all night long.
All night long.
. . .
“Mrs Smalley?”
She woke. “Oh, am I done already?” The drying-helmet was off her head. The first roller was being taken out. Sleepily she felt the hank of freed hair with her finger tips. “Are you sure, Susy? It still feels just a trifle too damp. I don’t want to catch cold.”
“You won’t catch cold, Mrs Smalley. You’ve had a stronger rinse than usual. It’s best not to overheat. It’s a smashing colour.”
That wasn’t Susy’s voice. She focused on to the images in the mirror. It was Susy who was taking the rollers out but it was Sashi, the young male stylist, who had spoken. He was standing behind the chair. When Susy moved away to put the rollers to one side Lucy could see, at the far end of the salon, two or three of the smart young lady assistants. They were watching. How strange.
“I’ll comb Mrs Smalley out, Susy love,” Sashi said. “Bring another nice cup of coffee, there’s a dear.” Susy went. In the mirror Lucy saw that when she got to the group of girls she hesitated and one of them spoke to her and then seemed to help her out of the salon. The young man was combing deftly. Very deftly. Beautifully, in fact. As he combed he did clever things with his fingers and talked to her all the time. He had scarcely taken any notice of her before.
“Is Susy unwell?” she asked.
“Susy? No, Susy’s fine. What beautiful hair,
Mrs Smalley. We must do something different with it one day.”
“Thank you. I think I’m too old to change, though.”
And I could not afford to change. I can only afford Susy. At cut rates. Before the Seraglio Room’s busy day begins. Susy, bless her, does not have this superior young man’s undoubted talent and touch. Which is making me strangely uneasy.
“There, Mrs Smalley. Will it do?” He held up a mirror for her to get a closer view.
“It will do very well if it will hold. Yes, very well. You do have a gift.”
He handed her a perfumed towel. “Please. Just while I spray.”
“Oh, I see.” She held it lightly against her face to protect her eyes.
She heard the short bursts of the aerosol; smelt the heavy scent, felt the frosty little zephyr-breaths on her head. And then his fingers again, making some kind of final adjustment. She gave him the towel back and looked at her image.
She was an old woman. An old woman with immaculately dressed hair the colour of very pale violets and a blanched face whose every line and crack showed very clearly in the blaze of the salon’s working lights. Old Mrs Smalley. Not Little Lucy Little. Old Mrs Smalley’s eyes had no depth to them. The stronger colour of the hair did nothing for them. Her neck was scrawny. The handsome young Indian was gazing down at his handiwork as if seeing nothing but that. As handiwork it was good. Better than good. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“Thank you,” she said. “It was kind of you to look after me. Now I must be off because I know you’re very busy people, which is why I come early. Perhaps Susy will let me have my bill.”
She had her bag on her knee and opened it with her veined misshapen fingers. In it was the letter from Tusker which she had meant to read again under the dryer.
“Oh any time will do for the bill, Mrs Smalley,” he said, busying himself at the bowl, rinsing, wiping, setting things to rights for the next customer. Susy arrived, carrying a cup of coffee. She put it down and the young man left. In the mirror she saw him chivvying the girls away, out of the salon, so that in a moment she and Susy were left alone.
Chapter Sixteen
AS THE DAYLIGHT began to go so too did her capacity to cope with people, with their charitable instincts. The Lodge had been under a kind of siege. From somewhere she had found the nervous energy to deal with it. Hour after hour people had turned up. The telephone had rung. Someone had answered. It rang again. Again someone answered. The table in the living-room became covered by chits delivered by hand by servants which Ibrahim brought in.
He had had so many friends, really.
The Menektaras came. The Srinivasans. Dr Mitra had been there at the beginning but had now come back with Mrs Mitra. Susy and Father Sebastian were in the kitchen making coffee and tea. Mr Thomas handed it round. People said they would not stay but she said, “Oh yes, please stay.” Some bunches of flowers arrived. She looked at the cards but never quite took in the names and knew that anyway the flowers would have to go elsewhere to be ready for tomorrow. The club secretary came, with the little old Parsee widow who ran the Library.
“Oh,” Lucy told her. “I’m afraid we still have Mr Maybrick’s book. Long overdue. I’ll see it gets back to you.”
“Come back with us, Lucy,” Coocoo Menektara said, as the daylight faded and people began to leave. “Spend the night. As many nights as you wish.”
“Thank you, Coocoo, but really I’m quite all right, and I’d rather be here, if you understand.”
Coocoo kissed her and said, “Ring if you change your mind. We’ll come and collect you.”
The Srinivasans said, “Come back with us.”
The Singhs (how nice they were) said, “Put up with us for a bit.”
The Mitras were the last to go. No, not quite the last. Father Sebastian and Susy and Ibrahim were still busy in the kitchen.
Dr Mitra said, “Will you be all right? You’re welcome to stay with us.”
“I’d prefer to be here. Really I’m quite all right.”
“I’ve left just one pill on your bed-side table. Take it. Get some sleep. Susy says she’ll stay with you if you want her.”
“I’ll be all right. Ibrahim will look after me. When Tusker was ill that time, he slept in the living-room. Poor Ibrahim. He looks so tired. He’s been on his feet all day.”
. . .
“There is just one thing that troubles me, Father Sebastian.” She was alone with him in the living-room. She had switched a fire on because she felt rather cold. Ibraham had gone to get some logs to build a proper one. Susy was still in the kitchen, washing up. Father Sebastian had brought her a bowl of hot soup and a glass of Golconda brandy. “Tusker had this strange kind of passion for place. I mean he was happy here. After tomorrow, could the ashes be kept for a while, not here, I mean in the crematorium chapel and then when it could be arranged buried in the churchyard? He mentioned a south-west corner.”
He nodded but said nothing.
And later a little stone, she thought. With just one word on it. She smiled. Tusker. What a funny name.
“Drink your brandy, please Mrs Smalley.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Yes, I shall stay until Wednesday.”
“What is tomorrow?”
“Tuesday.”
Tuesday. There was something she had to do on Tuesday. She drank her brandy. “I think I’ll go to bed now, Father Sebastian. It’s so good of you to have given so much of your time. And you, Susy.” Susy was by her side. Susy followed her into the bedroom, and helped switch on the lights in there and in the bathroom.
Lucy sat on the edge of Tusker’s bed because her own already had the mosquito net down.
“It was the letter, of course,” Lucy told Susy as Susy bustled to and fro doing things. “It was the letter that killed him. It must have been a great shock. Dr Mitra wouldn’t let me see him. He wasn’t going to let me see the letter either, but I knew I had to see that.”
“Don’t worry about the letter,” Susy said. “So long as I have a roof over my own head, Mrs Smalley, you always have a home with me.” She paused, stood, looked down at Lucy. “People like us must stick together,” she said.
After a moment Lucy put out her hand but Susy had already moved away, busying herself again.
“Would you like me to stay?” Susy asked.
“Thank you all the same. Perhaps you’d ask Ibrahim if he wouldn’t mind staying in the house, as he did when Tusker was ill. I’ll feel safe then. I think I’ll go to bed now, I’m very cold and tired.”
“Don’t forget your medication. I’ll bring you a cup of cocoa when you’re in bed.”
She undressed in the bathroom. She left the light on in the bathroom. She got into bed. Susy brought the cocoa.
“Minnie is here too, Mrs Smalley. They have made a fire and will be next door if you want either of them. Shall I turn off the lights?”
“Only the overhead. I’ll turn my own off when I’m ready to sleep. Please leave Tusker’s on.”
. . .
When she felt the sleeping pill beginning to work she clicked off the lamp and lay on her side away from Tusker’s light and shut her eyes. Now my own, my love, she thought. Now my own. Now.
And slept.
Woke, shivering. Her watch showed 3.30. She should not have gone to bed so early. The pill had worked, but worn off. She got out of bed, put on her gown and slippers and was shattered by recollection, Tusker’s empty bed. Going past it to the living-room she switched his lamp off. The living-room was unlit except by the light coming from the bedroom. She trod gently. Curled up near the almost dead fire were two shapes in blankets. Minnie and Ibrahim, one on each side of the fireplace. Going gently past them she caught her breath because there was a third shape, huddled with its back to the wall.
Joseph.
The three of them.
No, she told herself. It is very moving, but I mustn’t cry. If I cry I may not be able to stop and that will never do, will it?
There is such a lot to think about and attend to. She stood in the dark kitchen until her eyes were used to it and she could make out the shape of the brandy bottle and a glass, probably a dirty one, but that didn’t matter. She moved cautiously back through the living-room with bottle and glass, anxious not to disturb the sleeping watch.
Back in the bedroom she poured a stiff measure of brandy. To drink it she sat on Tusker’s cold bed and stared through the net of her own to the lamp on the other side of it, and then remembered what it was that she had to do tomorrow as well as go to Tusker’s funeral. She gulped some of the brandy. She had to ring Mr Turner in Ranpur and put him off. Or, rather, she would have to ask someone reliable like Dr Mitra to ring and tell Mr Turner what had happened. He would be disappointed, but he would understand. He would write to her from Calcutta, probably. When she replied she would suggest that they kept in touch because he would be in India for some time yet, and there might well be a chance of meeting later, when she had recovered from the shock.
The shock. She gulped more brandy. It was very strong. She went into the bathroom to run some cold tap-water into it. She ran too much. Now it was too weak. She went back to the bottle and topped the drink up and then back into the bathroom because she suddenly felt sick, and her bowels were stirring. She stood by the basin, waiting to be sick. She was unable to be sick, but her bowels were still moving, so she went over to the thrones and sat on hers, with the brandy glass on the floor, within reach. She heard herself moaning quietly and at once stifled the sound with her hand over her mouth. She did not want to wake the servants. She had forgotten to put a towel over the shutters. Not that it mattered. If Ibrahim heard a sound he would not come bursting in once he had seen her empty bed. He would send Minnie in to call out and ask if she was all right.
