by Moni Mohsin
Now, as she entered the dining room behind Fazal, her eyes darted about, taking in the apple-green drapes, the polished dining table littered with papers and the thin-legged console table with a silver bowl piled high with fruit. There was a strange blue and white painting above the fireplace. It looked either like a woman lying on her side with a bird in her hand or a sailing ship tossing on the sea, Sister Clementine wasn’t quite sure which.
The delicious aroma of coffee hung in the air. That rich, intense scent was unmistakable. Coffee was one of the things Sister Clementine had missed most, even more than her sisters, when she first arrived in Sabzbagh. She had been shocked to discover that a small bottle of instant coffee in Lahore cost thirty-five rupees – far more than the kitchen budget at the convent would allow. And so, Sister Clementine had resigned herself to Yellow Label Lipton Tea like everyone else.
But today that tantalizing scent brought back a vivid memory. She was home in Kerala, waking in the morning to the drum of raindrops on the tin roof. Banana leaves moved languidly on the smoothest of breezes outside. Her mother hummed a song under her breath as she poured out the dark steaming liquid into enamel mugs. In Kerala, coffee had been the everyday scent of morning, as common as dew on grass, but here, elusive and expensive, it was the perfume of wealth, of privilege.
‘Sister Clementine, I’m speaking to you. Sister?’
Sister Clementine blinked. She dragged her mind back to the present.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Azeem.’
‘What can I do for you, Sister?’ Fareeda did not invite her to sit down. ‘Could you hurry? I’m very busy today.’
Sister Clementine’s mind went blank. It had seemed so simple when she’d thought about it at home. Fareeda would welcome her warmly, take her to the sitting room, ply her with tea, perhaps even lunch. They would chat amiably while the servants hovered around, pressing cold drinks and delicate little sweets on her. Having graciously accepted a couple of sweets, she would indicate to Fareeda with a little look that she needed to speak to her alone. Without a moment’s hesitation, Fareeda would dismiss the servants with a single clap of her hands. Only when the door clicked shut behind the last servant would she gently tell Fareeda about Rani.
At first, Fareeda would be speechless. Embarrassed, dismayed, she would hang her head. But Sister Clementine would pat her on the knee, tell her that we were all fallible and advise her to get the girl married. Her eyes shining with gratitude, Fareeda would thank her profusely for showing her the way.
But she, Clementine, would brush aside her gratitude and rise to leave. Fareeda would insist that there was no question of her walking. The driver would run her home in the car. Fareeda would walk down the front steps with her and hand her into the car, leaning down to give her one last grateful smile from the open window.
But now that she was here, Sister Clementine didn’t know quite how to start. Fareeda looked so cool, so unapproachable, across the table with that big silver fruit-bowl behind her. She wished Bua had come in with her. Bua had assured her that all would be well. All she had to do was to tell her. But how?
Even Laila’s presence would be welcome now. She had been so sweet to her just now in the garden. Asking her why she’d come and what she was going to tell her mother. Quizzing her ever so politely. So concerned, she’d been, so interested. Laila had even offered to bring her in and sit with her while she talked to Fareeda, but Bua had pulled Laila down with a glare. Fareeda, Bua had said, would be most annoyed if Laila accompanied her inside and would send her straight out again. Clementine wished Bua had allowed the girl to come in with her. She looked around desperately to find some way into the conversation she had planned at the convent. Sister Clementine’s gaze alighted on Mr Jacob.
‘Hello, Babu Jacob,’ she trilled. Momentary relief at spotting a possible ally lent her voice added enthusiasm. ‘How are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Er, good morning, Sister. I’m very fine, thank you kindly, very fine,’ Mr Jacob mumbled. Like most people on the farm, he was well aware of Fareeda’s hostility towards the nuns. Unwilling to annoy either woman, he kept his eyes on his files.
Sister Clementine sensed his discomfort, and it added to her own. She realized that she could not expect any help from him. She should have waited till Mother Superior got back from Abbotabad. She would have known what to say. But what if it was too late by then? What if the girl did something foolish, or, worse, did nothing at all and was found out? Then everyone would blame her. Besides, the girl was almost part of the Azeem family. They had to be told. But how to tell without annoying Fareeda? She seemed in a bad mood already.
‘Sister, you’d better hurry up and tell me what you want. I’m very busy today,’ Fareeda said again, looking pointedly at the papers scattered on the table.
‘It’s not that I’m wanting something from you, exactly.’ Sister Clementine gripped the back of a dining chair for support. ‘At least not for myself. It’s just that, I am wanting to tell you something.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Umm, about girls and things.’
‘Sister, you’re not making sense.’
Sister Clementine glowered at Mr Jacob’s bent head. Pretending as if he didn’t even know her name. Why couldn’t he help her? Everyone knew he could talk to the Azeems about whatever he wanted. Look at him now, sitting there as if he was about to tuck into a dish of fish and rice. He’d probably been offered coffee as well. Well, he could forget about his daughters coming to the convent and wanting to learn the piano. Ever.
Fareeda misinterpreted Sister Clementine’s frown.
‘Mr Jacob, would you leave us for a while? But do come back in ten minutes sharp. I want to finish this work.’
Mr Jacob scraped back his chair and departed with unfeigned relief.
‘Sister Clementine, you have ten minutes.’
Sister Clementine pulled out a chair and sank into it. She knew she hadn’t been invited to sit, but if she had to break the news about Rani, she was going to do it sitting down.
‘Please give me one second, only.’ She dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, on which a little red ‘C’ was embroidered in one corner. The nun mopped her brow and then began folding the handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares, until it could be compressed no further. Sister Clementine replaced the hanky in her sleeve and said a silent ‘Hail Mary’ before embarking on her task.
‘Mrs Azeem, I know you are always trying to help people,’ she began. ‘Finding them jobs, putting them in schools, getting them out of jail and into hospitals and whatnot. We are like you, only. With helping people, I mean.’
‘If you say so.’
‘But sometimes we are not being able to help.’
‘I’m glad you acknowledge your limitations, Sister.’
‘Oh? Yes, yes. We are all humans, no? Making mistakes and all.’ Sister Clementine looked appealingly at Fareeda.
‘If you’re telling me that you’ve made another fatal mistake …’ Fareeda let the sentence dangle, unfinished.
‘No, no, no one’s died. Not yet.’ Sister Clementine was alarmed at the turn the conversation had taken. The last thing she wanted to do was to remind Fareeda about the seamstress. Mother Superior would be furious. Goodness, what had she let herself in for?
‘What do you mean, “not yet”? I forbid you to touch another woman from Sabzbagh.’ Fareeda’s voice was harsh.
‘No, no, no. You are not understanding,’ Sister Clementine moaned, burying her face in her hands. ‘We are not touching young girls.’ Her voice was muffled by her hands. ‘I’m only saying that when they come to us, we are sending them away. But still I’m worrying, what’s to become of them?’
‘You just leave them alone. Whoever needs help can come to me. I’m like an umbrella over the women of this village. They all know that I protect and support and help. They don’t need you when they have me. Now, please leave. I’m very busy and you’ve already made me waste enough time.’
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br /> Sister Clementine nodded. Slowly, she rose from her chair. Her shoulders sagged, and her feet felt heavy as she trudged towards the door. She felt old, deflated, dismissed. The nun paused at the pantry door and turned around.
‘Can I ask you a question, Mrs Azeem?’
‘If you must.’
‘Is that a woman or a ship?’ Sister Clementine nodded at the painting above the mantelpiece.
‘A woman.’
‘Ah. Well, goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye, Sister.’
Laila brought her face close to the window and blew on the glass. The small cloud of condensation that appeared was an almost perfect circle. With her forefinger, she wrote a capital ‘T’ in its middle and then another ‘T’. She looped the two letters together. The Terrific Two. Best friends, detectives and adventurers. For ever and ever and ever after. She studied the letters, pleased by the flamboyance of their loops. They looked assured, grown-up, like Sara’s joined-up writing. Would she lose her special place in Rani’s affections once Sara arrived? Rani had promised her she wouldn’t, but that was before Laila had let her down. Laila rubbed out what was left of the evaporating circle and slouched back to her mother’s desk.
Everything was in perfect order on it. The silver-framed photograph of herself and Sara was in line with the desk calendar. Fareeda’s gold fountain pen and three Deer pencils, their tips sharpened to a point, stood bolt upright in a polished silver beaker. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the desk’s surface.
Laila stared at her arithmetic exercise book. Fareeda had given her some division sums to solve. They didn’t look difficult, but Laila was too distracted by the letter and the events of the day before to pay attention. She wished she had been able to sit in on the meeting between Sister Clementine and her mother. Laila had guessed the nun’s call was connected to Rani’s visit to the church. It had to be. Why else would she come? The pointed glances she had intercepted between Bua and Sister Clementine on the lawn had confirmed her suspicion. No, this was by no means a casual call.
Laila had tried her best to discover the purpose of the nun’s visit. Sister Clementine, Laila felt, would have divulged something, had her ayah not been present. But under Bua’s watchful eye, the nun had clammed up. ‘So good you are to ask, but I’m here for nothing special,’ she’d repeated. When her offer to accompany Sister Clementine indoors had been declined, Laila had even considered the possibility of creeping up to the dining-room window to eavesdrop. But she could tell from the determined set of Bua’s jaw that she was not going to let Laila anywhere near the dining room. Frustrated, Laila had given up. But yesterday’s frustration had given way to today’s unease.
What would she tell Rani? That she had failed in her very first test as her partner? Worse, she had failed as a detective. George would have found some way of giving Bua the slip. Rani would have every right to be cross with her. Because of her incompetence, the mystery might slip from their fingers. And when Sara returned to Sabzbagh, she would saunter straight back into her old place at the centre of Rani’s heart.
Laila was gazing moodily out of the window when Fareeda returned.
‘Finished?’ she asked.
‘Er, no, not yet.’ Laila covered her book with her arms.
‘Hurry up, then.’ Fareeda sat down opposite Laila and removed a sheet of writing paper from a drawer in the desk. ‘I’ll write a letter while you finish those sums.’
‘Who are you writing to?’ Laila peered across the desk.
‘Dr Hameed in Lahore. I’m sending him two patients. Please do your sums.’
Laila looked down at her book. A minute later, she peeked furtively at her mother’s head bent over the paper. She watched Fareeda’s blue and gold fountain pen flow across the page and considered how best to tackle Sister Clementine’s visit without arousing her suspicions.
‘Ammi …’
‘Hmm?’ Fareeda did not look up.
‘You know yesterday?’ Laila toyed with her pencil.
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, yesterday, when Sister Clementine came, I asked her if she would like me to take her in to see you. You remember you said we should always be polite to guests? Well, I was.’
‘Good.’ Fareeda looked up and smiled.
‘But she said, no, she’d go in alone.’
Fareeda had turned her attention back to the letter. Laila waited for her to take the bait, but when she didn’t, Laila took a deep breath and ploughed on.
‘It wasn’t nice of her to refuse me, was it? I wonder why she did that?’
‘Oh, I suppose she wanted to see me alone,’ Fareeda said absently, tilting her head to one side to ascertain that the lines of her handwriting were straight.
‘What about?’ Laila tried to keep her tone as casual as possible.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Fareeda picked up the page and slowly wafted it about to dry the ink. ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of what she said.’
‘Oh? She didn’t say why she’d come?’ Sister Clementine couldn’t have left without saying why she had come. Or could she?
Fareeda’s lips moved silently as she scanned the letter, checking it for errors. Curbing her impatience, Laila rephrased her question as an exclamation.
‘How odd!’
Fareeda looked up. ‘What’s odd?’
‘That Sister Clementine should come and go without saying anything to you.’
‘I suppose she did say something, but it was so garbled I couldn’t understand a thing.’ Fareeda reached into the drawer for an envelope.
‘She didn’t mention anyone’s name, did she?’ Laila held her breath.
Fareeda put the envelope on the desk and locked eyes with Laila.
‘Why are you so interested in Sister Clementine’s visit?’ she probed.
‘No reason.’ Laila dropped her gaze.
‘Has Bua put you up to this? Because if she has, I’ll have to have a word with her. If she wants to know chapter and verse of Sister Clementine’s visit, she can ask me herself. I won’t have you meddling in the affairs of grown-ups. And nor are you to act as a snoop for anyone. Is that clear?’
Fareeda was always on guard for any signs of unhealthy precocity in her daughters. She feared that, here in Sabzbagh, with mostly servants for company, they might be drawn into the affairs of adults. Laila retreated in alarm.
‘Oh, no. I was just wondering, that’s all. Because she doesn’t come here that often. Sister Clementine, I mean,’ she babbled. ‘That’s why. I mean that’s why I wondered why she’d come. Nothing to do with Bua. Promise.’
Anxious to allay her mother’s doubts, Laila cast about frantically for a credible story. ‘I was just, er, just wondering about Christmas. Whether she’d come to talk to you about Christmas. And whether she’d come to ask us to go and see the church done up with stars and streamers and things on Christmas Day.’
To Laila’s intense relief, the story seemed to work, for Fareeda shrugged and went back to the letter. With a thumping heart, she watched Fareeda fold the letter into a precise rectangle and slide it into the waiting envelope. She licked and sealed it. Laila marvelled at how she could do that without ever messing up her pink lipstick. Fareeda picked up her fountain pen once again and wrote the address on the envelope in her strong, upright hand. Laila liked Fareeda’s handwriting. It was bold, elegant and yet legible. She sometimes had difficulty reading other people’s joined-up writing, but never her mother’s. She wished she could also read her mind with equal facility.
Fareeda replaced the pen in the silver cup and folded her arms across her middle.
‘I don’t see why you can’t go to the church for Christmas. I suppose you could even take the nuns a cake or something.’ The offer was by way of apology for her earlier harshness.
‘Could I, could I really?’ Laila jumped up.
‘Well, you can’t go empty-handed at Christmas. Now, show me your work.’
Laila didn’t mind being chided for not finishing her s
ums. She was going to church at Christmas. But, more importantly, much more importantly, she hadn’t let Rani down or, for that matter, the Terrific Two. Sara would have to take a back seat.
Later that day, two visitors dropped in. The first was Sardar Begum, who ambled in unannounced, and the second was Rani, tagging behind her shyly, carrying Sardar Begum’s shawl and handbag over her arm. Sardar Begum rarely visited Sabzbagh. She was inhibited by two considerations, one born of pride, the other propriety. In her hide-bound book of rules, it was the duty of the young to call upon the elderly. It would be unseemly for her to go chasing after company – particularly her own family’s. And, second, though she always referred to it as ‘Tariq’s residence’, she thought of Sabzbagh as Fareeda’s home. As such, she did not wish to impose on her daughter-in-law’s hospitality too often.
Of course, she broke her own rules whenever the situation warranted. During Laila’s illness, she had been a frequent visitor, dropping in every other day with some talisman or the other to ensure her granddaughter’s speedy recovery – ten-rupee notes wrapped in scraps of brocade to be distributed among the poor, a glass of milk blessed with health-giving prayers, a turquoise brought from the shrine of a saint in Iran. On the rare occasion when loneliness got the better of her, she came with an excuse – a small matter to be discussed with Tariq urgently, or a present for the family needing immediate delivery – and stressed as soon as she arrived her need to be off to attend to the myriad tasks which awaited her.
Fareeda bore up stoically to Sardar Begum’s rare visits. While keenly aware of the older woman’s fierce resistance to their marriage, she knew that, since then, Sardar Begum had become her staunch defender to the world. Any criticism of her ‘memsahib daughter-in-law’ from Tariq’s aunts was met with a crushing retort: ‘She’s worth ten, ten of you.’ But Fareeda often wondered whether she defended her out of a sense of duty rather than any genuine affection.
