‘Working up an appetite for dinner,’ Victor replied with a warm smile. ‘I walked round and round the deck till I got used to the ship’s see-sawing. Now I can enjoy my dinner.’
And so he did. The band struck up dance music: foxtrot, samba, waltzes. Three couples took the floor. Valerie hauled Victor from his chair and said, ‘Come lad, you must learn to dance or you’ll be left out of social life in England.’
Victor obeyed. He watched her steps, then his own. He moved a little clumsily at first but soon got the hang of it. ‘By the time we get to Southampton you’ll be an excellent dancer,’ Valerie assured him.
All went smoothly for the next few days. He played deck tennis, bingo, tambola and other games organized by the bursar. One evening while he was waiting for Valerie to join him at dinner, he sensed the Australian couple at the next table were talking about him.
‘Andsome nigger, ain’t ’ee,’ said the middle-aged woman.
‘Sush! You mustn’t use bad language,’ said her husband sharply. Victor’s face flushed with anger but he kept his cool.
‘I said ’andsome, dinn I?’ protested the woman. ‘Ee must be a prince or raja; the white woman with him is his governess. That I found out.’
This made Victor feel better, but he decided he would be coolly hostile towards them anyway. Oddly enough it was the same Australian couple who went out of their way to befriend Valerie and him. The woman who had called him ‘nigger’ took the lead. ‘Pardon me,’ she said coming up to their table, ‘why don’t you two join us? Don’t you get tired of talking to each other?’ So their tables were joined and the Australians ordered a bottle of French champagne to celebrate the occasion. ‘Mind you, we ’ave good wines back ’ome but these Pommies get the cheapest and the worst to serve on their boats. Mean bastards.’
Mrs Australian had Victor next to her. As her husband poured out the champagne, she lit a cigarette. Victor had never seen a woman smoke and watched her with greater curiosity than he would have preferred to betray. He was fascinated by the sight of her scarlet lips and nails. Victor’s poorly disguised interest in her amused the lady, and soon she had a hand resting on his thigh under the table, her long nails grazing his balls. Victor stiffened, but pretended nonchalance. ‘So it’s Eton you’re going to, eh?’ she asked. ‘I’ll bet you could speak better English than they; I love your British accent. Butdon’t youbecome a snob like them, stay a ’andsome darkee prince and teach them a thing or two ’ow to behave.’ Dinner arrived soon afterwards and with a gentle squeeze the lady withdrew her hand from Victor’s thigh. That night Victor dreamt of Mrs Australian, bare-breasted and smelling of over-ripe fruit. She was sitting by his bed, smoking an enormous cigarette and massaging his thighs. It was his first wet dream and he was alarmed by it. The next day, he avoided the Australian couple, but by evening they were sharing tables again. To Victor’s relief, the lady kept her hands to herself and entertained them with stories of her last sea voyage, from Australia to Japan.
By the time theStrathclyde dropped anchor at Aden they were on the best of terms. As advised by Valerie none of them went on shore. ‘There’s nothing to see—only rows of little stores run by Indians. And skinny Arab beggars who chew qat all day long to kill their appetites and get high on the weed.’ They should wait till the ship steamed into the Red Sea, she said; ‘It will be magical.’ And it was. The sea was as placid as a lake, with dolphins gambolling about the ship as it glided over the water. There were moonlit nights, drinking and dancing on the open deck. It would stay in Victor’s memory for years to come.
The Australians had booked themselves to get off at Ismailia, see the pyramids and the Sphinx and re-board the ship at Port Said. Valerie had overlooked doing that, or perhaps deliberately not chosen to do so. ‘I’d rather see those places in picture books than go with those horrid Egyptian guides. They hate us English and they fleece every tourist of his last penny,’ she told Victor by way of apology. ‘You will enjoy going through the Suez Canal and see what the British did for the ungrateful wretches.’
‘It was the French engineer De Lesseps who laid the canal, not the British,’ Victor corrected her.
‘Ah yes, but with British money,’ she retorted. ‘It is the British who keep ships moving through it. You will see the pilots who take over and steer them through the seventy-twomile narrow canal are English, not French or Egyptian. Fat lot of gratitude they get for it!’
The journey through the canal was indeed memorable. Though he did not acknowledge it to her, Victor was full of admiration for the English pilots. A long line of ships snaked their way through the canal so narrow that at times you could not see the water below unless you leaned over the railings. Victor remembered reading in one of the journals his father received from a Congress leader that thousands of Indian soldiers had been sent to secure the Suez Canal for the British against the Turks during the Great War. He thought of telling Valerie that but then changed his mind. He was quiet as they passed through a brown desert stretching endlessly on either side: a few nondescript habitations with groves of date palms, and dust everywhere. A few hours later the ship docked at Port Said. It was to stay there for eight hours for refuelling and taking on fresh provisions. Passengers were allowed to go on land but warned to be back on board an hour before sailing.
Valerie warned Victor. ‘Don’t buy anything from the peddlers. They are cheats and vagabonds. If you want anything there is a big department store, SIMON ARTZ, with fixed prices. If I were you, I should have a look at the De Lesseps statue—it’s a long walk with the sea on either side. We can have a nice cup of tea in a respectable hotel afterwards and get back in good time.’
Valerie was right: no sooner had they got down the gangway than they were surrounded by peddlers in jabellas selling dates and chocolates in beautifully packed boxes. They were joined by sellers of picture postcards with explicit portrayals of men and women copulating with each other and with dogs and horses. Victor was aghast and decided to protect his governess from the uncouth men. Before he could speak, though, Valerie had taken charge. She had clearly experienced this onslaught before and waved her hands about firmly, trying to shoo them off, first politely—‘We don’t want to buy anything, please leave us alone’—then rudely—‘Bugger off!’ Victor had never heard her use the word before.
‘You bugger off,’ retorted a postcard-seller. ‘You fat-bottomed bitch.’
‘Disgusting!’ said Valerie, her face flushed red.
‘One word more and I’ll smash your teeth in,’ shouted Victor angrily.
The postcard-seller guffawed. ‘You smash my teeth? You black Indian toady. Come, I show you both what I have,’ he said with a leer, pointing to his dick and thrusting his pelvis at them.
Valerie had had enough. She pushed past the man with surprising force, and Victor followed. At last they shook off the peddlers and proceeded on their walk on the long causeway to the De Lesseps statue. They were in no mood to talk. And instead of having tea in some restaurant, decided to return to their ship. Valerie got her own back on Egypt. Passengers who had got back before them or stayed on board were bargaining for goods hauled up in baskets from peddlers on land. ‘Don’t buy a thing,’ she went around telling everyone. ‘It will be nice dates or chocolates on the top and a layer of sawdust beneath. I’ve been here before. Take my word for it.’ Nobody bought anything and baskets full of wares were let down as they had come up. A torrent of abuse rose from the peddlers below. An Egyptian magician, the gilli-gilli man, was allowed on board. He produced broods of fluffy yellow chicks out of his fez cap. Everyone applauded; everyone gave a little bakshish. Valerie turned up her nose. ‘It’s cruelty on those poor little chicks. They’ll all be dead by tomorrow. You take it from me.’ She breathed a sigh of relief when the siren for departure was sounded and the gangplanks taken away.
‘Valerie, you don’t seem to like Egyptians,’ said Victor gently when they met for dinner.
‘But they are detestable! Didn’t you see what h
appened out there?’ He had, but he was certain some Indian men would also have behaved in that manner in similar circumstances. So did she think Indians detestable too? He put the thought out of his mind.
The Australian family had a different story to tell. They had enjoyed their visit to the pyramids and the Sphinx and were full of praise for the guides. ‘Oldest civilization in the world,’ bubbled Mrs Australian. ‘Our guides were so polite, cultured and good looking. Older the civilization, more civilized their men, if you ask me.’ Valerie pretended she had not heard her. ‘Let’s enjoy our dinner,’ she said. ‘We are now in the Mediterranean, with more cultured people inhabiting its northern shores—Greeks, Italians, French, Spaniards.’ Mrs Australian thought that funny for some reason and chortled merrily. ‘Horrid Arab men got to ’er,’ she said and winked at Victor. To his surprise, he found himself winking right back! He felt light and easy and very grown up.
It was through the Mediterranean after that, bluer than all the seas they had traversed. Then round the Cape of Gibraltar towards the English Channel. The ship glided into Southampton. They bade goodbye to the Australians and took the boat train to London.
4
* * *
Reverend Thomas Bottomley was vicar of the Anglican Church of Harrow-on-the-Hill. ‘If you were at Harrow instead of Eton it would have been easier for everyone. You could spend weekends with us in the vicarage,’ he said to Victor. ‘Eton is a good distance from us. I’ll drive you up the day you have to join.’
The vicarage was next to the church. On the other side was a small graveyard where parishioners who had passed away slept amidst ancient cypress and yew trees. The church was well removed from the main road which led to the school and came alive only on Sundays for the morning and evening service. The rest of the time it was as quiet as the adjacent cemetery. The vicarage was a small cottage with three bedrooms, a sitting-dining room and a study. Valerie and her two sisters had to share one bedroom; Victor had one to himself. He spent the first afternoon writing to his parents—to his father in English, giving an account of the voyage and how the Egyptians disliked British dominance; to his mother in Hindi, telling her of the people he had met and how nice Valerie’s family was to him. One of Valerie’s sisters accompanied him to the nearest post office from where Victor sent a telegram to his father announcing his safe arrival in England.
Victor joined the family at dinner—a special turkey dinner for Thanksgiving for Valerie’s return home. Before the meal, they lowered their heads and said grace. It was a happy family reunion. Victor was charmed by it. Valerie’s father opened a bottle of port wine; every one took a couple of glasses each. Victor joined them, sipping his wine while Reverend Bottomley recounted stories about his time as a young missionary in Africa.
The next day was a Sunday. Victor accompanied the family to the morning service. While in Delhi Valerie always went to St James’s Church in Kashmiri Gate and attended the midnight mass and Christmas Eve, but never asked Victor or any other member of the Mattoo family to come with her. For the first time Victor saw the inside of a church, heard the congregation sing and Reverend Bottomley preach sermon. None of it moved him; only added to his information about what went on inside a church.
The following day Valerie took Victor in a bus to Harrods on Knightsbridge. She bought him a camel-hair dressing gown, woollen socks, a raincoat and an umbrella. His school uniform and the top hat Etonians wore would be purchased from the school store.
The third day, Valerie and her sisters took Victor for sightseeing. They sat on the upper deck of a tourist bus which took them round London’s main tourist attractions: Buckingham Palace, Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, St Paul’s Cathedral, Tower of London, British Museum and the Tate Gallery. They had sandwiches to munch whenever hungry and had tea in Kew Gardens. It was a long, tiring day. ‘I didn’t get to see many of these places while I lived in London. Thank you, Victor. Now I can tell your family about them.’
This was the first time Valerie had mentioned her plans to return to India. ‘You’re going back again?’ asked one of her sisters in surprise. ‘We thought you’d come back for good, to get married and settle down.’
Valerie laughed. ‘I have taken three months’ leave from duty. I still have Victor’s sisters to teach and parents to look after. They are my responsibility.’
‘Don’t think Mum and Dad will like that. Have you told them?’
‘I will by and by. I’ll be living on my own mostly. Victor’s father wants him to have a small flat in central London where he can stay during his vacations. I’ll look for one around Mayfair or Marble Arch near Hyde Park or Kensington Garden. I’ll stay there till I return.’
Valerie’s sisters told their parents. They were disappointed. ‘It’s her life; she’ll do what she likes,’ said her mother. ‘If she likes being in India rather than in England, so be it.’ Reverend Bottomley made no comment. He knew his daughter well enough to suspect that it wasn’t India that had claimed her loyalty—by her own admission she hadn’t seen much of it. It had to be something else, but he preferred not to probe.
Within days Valerie had found a tiny mews apartment behind Albion Street: one-bed-sitter, kitchenette and loo-cumshower. The rent was reasonable. She signed a six-year lease in her own name. In that area owners were reluctant to let their premises to coloured people. Who their white tenants entertained or sublet their premises to was no longer their business. Valerie took Victor to see it. He fell in love with it for its snug cosiness. One electric radiator warmed the whole flat. Valerie took him around to show him where he could get his bread, butter, cheese and groceries. She took him to the Speaker’s Corner where they heard speakers extolling the greatness of God as well as Communists spewing lava against the church and British Imperialism. ‘It is a great institution, this,’ Valerie explained to Victor. ‘You let off steam on any subject you like and nobody gives a damn. It is a free country, with freedom to say what you like or dislike.’
‘We don’t see this freedom in India,’ Victor said to her and laughed. ‘You mustn’t be cheeky,’ Valerie reproved him, though she was smiling. Nothing more was said on the subject since they both disliked arguments and in any case, neither saw the other as English or Indian.
In the evening they walked down Bayswater Road to Notting Hill Gate. There were lots of painted women standing or walking along the footpaths. Even thirteen-year-old Victor could tell they were up to no good. ‘Don’t ever, ever stop to talk to any of these hussies, they are the lowest of the low,’ Valerie warned him. Victor promised that he would not.
Three days later Rev. Bottomley and Valerie accompanied Victor to deliver him into the hands of the headaster of Eton. They received a cordial welcome. ‘I am sure he will be happy here,’ assured the headmaster. ‘We will take good care of him.’ He showed them round the school and the dormitory he was to share with five other boys. They were putting their clothes and books in cupboards. The headmaster introduced Victor to them. His things were dumped on his bed. ‘I think we should leave him here to get to know his room mates,’ said the headmaster. Rev. Bottomley shook hands with Victor; Valerie kissed him on both his cheeks and turned away, overcome with emotion.
The boys who had stood to attention while the headmaster was there, relaxed. ‘So you are Victor. What kind of Indian name is that?’ asked the biggest of the five.
‘My full name is Victor Jai Bhagwan. Victor for short,’ he replied.
‘Very well, Victor-for-Short, you are going to be my fag,’ said the big boy. ‘You will press my clothes, polish my shoes and do as I tell you.’
Valerie had warned Victor about fagging and been uncharacteristically frank about it. Victor, in fact, had practised his response in several imagined scenarios even before they had left India. ‘Yes sir,’ he now replied with a bow. ‘We’ve been polishing Englishmen’s shoes in India for over a hundred years. I’ll be happy to polish yours in England.’
‘Smarty, ain’t
ee?’ sneered the big boy, then added. ‘There may be some buggery too, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all, sir; the English have got us accustomed to that practice as well. They are also getting used to being buggered by Indians,’ replied Victor.
That short dialogue put an end to Victor’s fagging. A few days later, Victor was polishing the big boy’s shoes, the big boy was polishing Victor’s. There was no attempt at buggery. They took their shower together without as much as looking at each other’s pubic hair.
Victor had no problems adjusting to life in Eton. He was among the first three or four boys in his form in every subject, including Latin. Although not familiar with slang his command over classical English was better than theirs. He did not relish outdoor life because he found the climate too cold and damp for his liking. Dutifully he took part in all the school sports without enjoying any of them. He was happier sitting in the warm library and poring over pages of newspapers and magazines.
Came December and the boys began to make plans to join their families for Christmas. The big fellow wanted Victor to spend it with his family in their country house in Suffolk. Valerie wanted him to spend it with her parents in Harrow-onthe-Hill. Victor politely turned down both invitations and asked Valerie if he could spend Christmas on his own in Albion Mews while she was with her family. ‘Christmas alone?’ she asked. ‘You are an odd creature. However, I’ll leave you some turkey and Christmas pudding. Just heat them up and open a bottle of port wine. There’ll be a nice Christmas carols programme from Kings College chapel on the BBC. You’ll enjoy that.’
Three days before Christmas Victor took the morning bus for central London. It dropped him off at Marble Arch, a five-minute walk from Albion Mews. Valerie awaited his arrival. She had done up the flat with coloured buntings, balloons and a miniature Christmas tree lit up with tiny bulbs. She had prepared hot lunch for him. They put in a call to Delhi. Victor spoke to his parents and sisters and told them he was in good shape and enjoying himself.
Burial at Sea Page 3
