Her favorite time of day was telling them stories when they were tucked in bed. They had an agreement—if they told her a story about India then she told them two stories about Ireland. They never complained and very cleverly managed to seduce her with never-ending questions about Ireland’s countryside and people. They were so curious. Gillian adored that about them. Even more, she adored their gorgeous droopy eyes begging for her attention. She never did figure out how to tell them no.
Shashi and Samir were particularly creative when they were at their weekend home in Wentworth Estate. There, the deal was two stories of India and one of Ireland.
Gillian had Sundays free, but she preferred to stay and stroll the gardens, reading big, fat books by the pond. Oh, the whole of Virginia Water was such a pretty place. She couldn’t imagine what her father was going on about—economic slump. What slump? She’d never seen so many large homes. If she squeezed her eyes shut then opened them quickly, she could almost see a far-off version of herself actually living in a place like this, pram, husband and all. Not in an estate though. No, she’d prefer one of the small carriage houses on one of the old properties. Of course, the county of Surrey would just have to wait. Her to-do list was being checked off rather nicely, thank you very much. Case in point, not a single item had anything to do with marriage.
In the meantime, she enjoyed her weekends in Wentworth Estate. The gardens were full of flowers—they even had a hammock. When the sun wasn’t being lazy, sometimes Gillian and the children would fall fast asleep, swinging gently under the trees. This was when they’d dream through sunny hours until the pattering of rain tickled their noses. It nearly always came—the rain. Sometimes she liked it. Sometimes she loathed it.
“Gillian?” Shashi peeped. Looking down at the child cradled in her arms, she was as sweet as lemon drizzle cake. How does anyone grow such thick eyelashes at that age?
“Yes, darling?”
“Do you want to be married one day?”
“Well, I suppose that would be nice. But only if Mr. Right comes along.”
“How will you know him when you see him?”
“Hmm, good question.” Gillian paused for effect. “Well, I guess he’ll need to have a good pair of hands.”
“Why?”
“So he can build me a house.”
“What kind of house would you like? One like ours?” Gillian glanced over her shoulder at the monstrous residence behind her, scowling just a little.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“It’s far too big.”
“Our house in India is much bigger. This big!” Shashi said stretching her arms out wide.
“Yes, I’d imagined as much. But I’m afraid both are too big for me. I’d like one the size of a mushroom.”
Shashi giggled, “Mushrooms are too small to live in.”
“Not for me. Wherever I turn, I want to see my family, and when they’re little rascals like you and your brother, I’ll sweep them into my arms, scoot out the door and run as fast as I can through the flowery meadow to the edge of the knoll—stopping short of course! We’ll all drop to the ground then roll down in tumbles, and when we reach the bottom, we’ll gaze at fluffy clouds, finding animals until our breath returns.”
Shashi smiled then tucked in a little closer. Hammocks were wonderful things.
School had begun for the children now. Of course, the rich sent their children to all the best schools. But it did free up a portion of Gillian’s day, so she was grateful. Gillian liked to visit with Beaty as often as possible, for she knew she must have been lonely in that big townhouse of hers, and with her reduced hours at Barclays’ to boot. Sometimes she thought it might do her good if she insisted on bunking up with her, but Gillian knew she’d never hear the end of it if she resigned from her job. That was something one didn’t do in these slumpy times.
The children were in different schools of course, with Samir enrolled in a particularly strict one for boys. Gillian thought they were too hard on such young children, always disciplining the way they did. Samir learned very quickly that fidgeting in his seat wouldn’t do, not one little iota. Trouble was, the poor thing needed to go to the loo constantly. It was bad enough at home where he had the freedom to go to the toilet whenever he wished, always biting his lip the way he did until the very last second. She could imagine him in lessons burrowing a hole in his bottom lip, quivering and gyrating while he sat on his hands, too afraid to raise one of them in order to ask for permission to leave.
Father Denney, the school’s headmaster, saw it firsthand without a doubt when he had visited the Reception class for an impromptu read. Samir described every detail of his horrific experience to her through floods of tears. It broke her heart. Gillian had a right mind to flatten that wretched man. Beaty would have said two Hail Mary’s after that thought… but not her, no way! Honestly, how could he be so blind? Wasn’t it obvious when a child needed to go to the loo? The beastly creature probably became a priest because no woman would have him!
All the headmaster apparently saw from the corner of those woggly eyes of his—yes woggly, there was no adequate word for them so she might as well make up her own—was this little Indian prince, a real honest to goodness rajkumar, trying to balance himself on his heel, which had been tucked underneath his bottom in the hope of holding it in. Of course rajkumar was a word she never would have known before she met the little muffet. How sweet of him to teach her a little Hindi. You know, she could now count to ten and say “How do you do?” and “Thank you very much.” Beaty was quite impressed and had told her that she should become a translator and start her own organization fostering a positive social arena around the world instead of becoming a writer. Gillian had no idea what her sister was blabbering on about. On the other hand, Gillian had noticed her ears twitching whenever she’d learn how to say something new.
Well, when the headmaster had asked Samir what he was doing, of course the boy was instantly flustered and started to make up all sorts of stories. Father Denney took no nonsense whatsoever and very coolly asked the class to “carry on.” Everyone knew what that meant. According to Samir, the headmaster curled his index finger precisely three times right in front of his “big fat nose.” Samir followed him at once with twenty-six horrified little eyes staring at him. He told Gillian he could see them from the back of his head, every last one of them ogling from the rows and rows of desks. There would have been twenty-eight, but Sebastian Waters was absent that day on the suspicion of head lice.
The long corridor had stretched from the time Samir arrived at school that morning, the Reception class at one end and the headmaster’s office at the other. Nearly half of the year had come and gone now, and still, he remembered that walk being the worst part of all, with Father Denney’s key chain clanging from his fists as he marched in front of him, his long shadow magically appearing. Behind the priest followed a little prince with a stream running down his leg. Samir hardly remembered the sting of the ruler—just that walk. Gillian had noticed Samir never drank now before bedtime, and she’d seen his morning juice discreetly fed to the English ivy sprawling over the center of the breakfast table. She didn’t blame him a bit!
Although Shashi’s school wasn’t run by Jesuit priests like her brother’s, it was run by a slew of nuns who could stare down the Pope himself. Even so, Shashi’s spangled eyes melted their hearts straight away. Fortunately, both children were in day school, though there were plenty more who boarded. Gillian felt sorry for them really, hardly seeing their families. Although that would have been heavenly from time to time when she was in school. Her only escape had been the meadow at the back of the garden. And even then she’d still manage to get stalked by little parasites claiming to be her siblings—and always at the climax of a good book!
Both Shashi and Samir were able to come home for lunch except for Fridays when Benediction took precedence. There were many pupils of other faiths who were exempt from Catholic pract
ices, but the maharaja liked them to attend mass and felt it built character to know first hand about the world around them, despite everything being in Latin. Gillian liked their father. She didn’t think of him at all like royalty. Besides, she was sure he thought of her as more than just as a nanny—not in the way a filthy mind might think. Even Beaty had warned her about “ill-considered notions,” always appearing cross-eyed whenever she’d meet the maharaja, sniffing him out like a bloodhound. True, Gillian didn’t know him, not really. It was only that he and his wife, the maharani, treated her quite like part of the family. They made her feel a part of something, patching up the tiny gap that was always saved for homesickness.
Just last weekend at their Wentworth home, Gillian was included in a lovely celebration to honor their tenth wedding anniversary. She was the only one in attendance who was not Indian, so she was instantly chuffed. It wasn’t at all like one might imagine—not the least bit stuffy.
There were two men sitting on the floor, one that resembled a pouty, overstuffed doll, his skin like porcelain. Gillian had an urge to tap it and see if it felt like one of her dolls. This man was in charge of the two very tall candelabras. The other was as hairy as they come—not the candelabra but the man. They must have used some kind of paraffin for the fire since there were no candles. Gillian didn’t dare ask questions. The maharaja and his wife were standing above one of the candelabras, waving a small flaming chalice. The maharaja’s dress was a very plain white, but his wife wore her usual breathtaking colors and fabrics, both wearing a boa of tightly knit flowers.
All of the guests, sixteen if you counted the tiny woman who just stared, not moving a single muscle, proceeded to whoosh their hands over the flames then touch their foreheads. Gillian hadn’t a clue what she should do. She sat there, gobsmacked by it all. They were playing with flames for ages it seemed, even swirling a plate of flames above the maharaja’s head. Good God, she thought he’d catch fire! Wouldn’t it have been marvelous if Beaty could have been there? She’d have been bewildered with their fixation of foreheads. The guests kept touching and wiping the maharaja’s and his poor wife’s brows as though they hadn’t cleaned properly. If anyone tried to do that to an Englishman, he’d swat them like a fly, Gillian thought.
There was more food than Gillian had ever seen in one room—each plate wafting with a dizzy aroma that could knock out even the air around it. The whole evening was playing with her senses: the music, the dancing, the colors, the flavors that made her eyes water. She couldn’t help but forget about the world outside. For those few hours, she felt like a newborn pixie discovering her magical world for the first time.
The smell of incense from that evening lingered even now in her mind. Sometimes she liked to hold a piece of the children’s clothing to her nose when they had returned from an event. It took her to a far away place. Beaty thought it was ghastly and liked Gillian to wash up twice when she dropped by. Beaty was harmless of course—just didn’t understand their ways.
The children had taught Gillian so much about their culture, and here they were far from their homeland. She couldn’t have been more impressed with them really, settling in so well to a strange country with mostly their nanny for comfort. They’d given the sun yet another reason to smile each day, and when it was cloudy, Gillian took its place. As pokey as her room might be, the door was always open for them.
Tonight the children were tucked away in their dreams rather early. It took them no time at all after sneaking down for something sweet before bedtime. Since she was in cahoots with them, they’d made a promise to settle down quickly and kept to it.
In the corner of Gillian’s room stood a long oval mirror tilted on its feet. As she appraised her clothing, a simple blue day dress with cap sleeves and a cardigan over top, she thought the garb of today was sadly becoming more and more drab. She saw it around London every day. The slightly more daring shades of violet and orange from the twenties were becoming rather queer in this decade, she thought, muted somehow as though they’d been soaked in tar then scrubbed on a rusty washboard a hundred times too many. She loved a bit of color and wouldn’t let the difficult times take it from her life. The way some people looked at her—honestly, it was as though they thought she was insulting the era. They couldn’t fool her. She knew what went on after dusk. That was when backless gowns and adornment on sleeves and ruffles stepped from their cars. No one wanted to be dreary, not really!
Gillian slipped her cardigan off her shoulders then unbuttoned her dress, letting it drop to the floor. Her new pink knickers to the waist felt gorgeous against her skin, and her bra made her bust look like something from the cinema. She smiled, lightly gazing at her figure, but her hair was a right mess. When she whisked across the room searching for her brush, her grandma came to mind. “A girl’s hair is her crowning glory, so brush it well.” Another smile. Gillian missed her. A deep sigh took her to the towering window where the night sky was calling.
Gillian unlatched the hardware then opened the windows wide, letting in as much of the cool, damp air as possible. It was freezing against her bare skin. It felt glorious. Little shivers danced on her skin as she looked upward through the smoky clouds. There was hardly a sound; though the house was so large it wrapped around its own courtyard, not a soul could be found at this late hour.
The stars somewhere behind those clouds begged her for more attention. Gillian wondered what her future held and if she’d be standing here at this window a year from now. Two? No. She couldn’t imagine so. Either way, the chill took her breath. Perhaps there was a man out there, somewhere near or far, looking up at the same stars at this very moment and wondering about her, a girl… no a woman… he had yet to meet. A man she had yet to meet. She threw her head back running her fingers from her chin to the hollow of her long neck. She stopped there, daring herself to caress her breasts and feel them against the cold night air. Gillian slipped the strap of her bra off her shoulder, almost feeling him touch her instead. She knew he was there, perhaps an ocean or two between them, yet she felt him just a breath away.
The window was left slightly ajar as a faint glow from the sky peeked at her bed. She slipped between her sheets feeling beautiful and smiled at the thought of him.
Nearly a year into Gillian’s employment now, and Mr. Hardy had called for a meeting. It was hard to get past the lines across his forehead. They made him look like a walnut. Mr. Hardy informed her that the maharaja and his family would be returning to India indefinitely, but they wanted Gillian’s services to continue. Thrilled wouldn’t begin to describe her excitement at being offered such an opportunity. She had always wanted to see the world, and she and the children had grown so close.
A telegram the following day read:
ORIG LONGFORD IRELAND
GILLIAN MCALLISTER C/O BEATRICE MCALLISTER 33B AUBREY CLOSE LONDON =
NO DAUGHTER OF MINE SHALL MOVE TO INDIA = OVER MY DEAD BODY = MR. SAMUEL SEAMUS MCALLISTER +
A second wire arrived:
ORIG LONGFORD IRELAND
GILLIAN MCALLISTER C/O BEATRICE MCALLISTER 33B AUBREY CLOSE LONDON =
ENGLANDS ECONOMY IS SUFFERING BADLY = IT IS BEST YOU COME HOME AT ONCE = YOUR FATHER +
Wire number three:
I WONT GO TO INDIA BUT I REFUSE TO COME HOME = PLEASE UNDERSTAND DADDY = YOUR DAUGHTER GILLIAN +
She could see him scowling through the airways now, his lips vibrating under that shaggy moustache of his, curled at the sides as though a ferret had fallen asleep under his nostrils, “Disobedient little imp!”
Wire number four:
Fine I have arranged for you to travel to Canada FOR THE SUMMER since you are your mothers daughter obstinate = Your Auntie Joyce and Uncle Herbert there have agreed to take you in for the time being = THE QUESTION REMAINS WHAT TO DO WITH YOU THEN = PERHAPS A CONVENT IN TIBET = Dont be alarmed I am not disowning you yet = Your greatest admirer Daddy +
Gillian spent the next several days trying to imagine why on earth Daddy wo
uld want her to go to Canada of all places. She needed to let the idea soak in. Honestly, she was furious with the man. India sounded so exotic—all those spices! Canada sounded, well… wild. She felt a tingling in her nose, hard to tell if it was pollen or excitement.
At long last, an answer… she hoped.
What a lot of waggle this telegram business was. Everyone she’d ever known had been put off by them—nothing more than unwelcome news stitched into the paper most times. Here she’d been sitting restlessly, waiting for the darned thing while her father was enjoying every moment of her turmoil. He knew she had tiny champagne corks for toes. She wanted to know—why Canada!
Wire number five:
DEAREST GILLIAN = HAVE I LET YOU STEW LONG ENOUGH = WHY CANADA YOU ASK = BECAUSE YOU CANNOT TAME A WILD BOAR +
Wire number six:
DEAREST FATHER = ARE YOU CALLING ME A PIG +
Wire number seven:
IF THE HOOF FITS MY DEAR +
Wire number eight:
I DEMAND A BETTER REASON FOR LEAVING CHEERY LONDON +
At double long last she received a proper letter in the post from Ireland, just days before she should leave for a country that both excited her and terrified her. Gillian held it in her hand with a potpourri of emotions, wondering what Daddy might say. She slipped her nail in the envelope, tearing gingerly along the edge. She slid out the paper—just one piece—then unfolded it. To her surprise, Daddy had written only a few lines after his salutation.
1st of May 1932
My one and only (that’s not to dismiss my seven others of course),
Cheery is it now? I hardly think so in these times. You want a good reason? Perhaps this will soak in better.
Obstinate = adventurous = fascinating = you
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 3