Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  On the other side of the house facing the sea, a garden of English and Indian flowers sloped to a private beach that had a bungalow annexe. On every side dunes of fine white sand stretched away, planted with feathery casuarina trees; on the right the dunes led to a grove of mango and more simile trees; on the left they rose to a knoll that overlooked the demesne. On the foreshore of hard sand, the great rollers of the Coromandel Sea thundered down, giant waves that rose to eight, even ten feet, before they crashed sending a wash far up the sand. Further out, by day, the sea was a deep sapphire blue.

  The hotel beach was forbidden to fishermen or their boats; indeed, the sea there was netted to a distance of five hundred yards not only against fishermen but sharks; every night Thambi, the lifeguard, and his assistants, Moses and Somu, unfolded a high strong-meshed fence across the private beach padlocking it so that the beach was cut off from the sea. ‘Unless there is bathing by moonlight,’ said Thambi.

  ‘Please,’ Auntie Sanni would say seriously to each guest, ‘please remember it is dangerous to go out alone to bathe. With the force and power of those waves, you must take a guard.’

  Women bathers usually had to have a man each side to hold them and bring them up through the wave to ride gloriously back on its crest of surf. Thambi would let no one go into it without wearing one of the fishermen’s pointed wicker helmets bound firmly under the chin; the helmet’s peak would pierce the waves that otherwise might stun. ‘Ours is not a gentle sea,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘and please,’ she said again to her guests, ‘no one must swim unless Thambi is on the beach.’

  Patna Hall looked tall from the beach, the blue of its stucco ornamented with decorations of scrolls and flowers like daisies, oddly inconsequential. The flat roof was bounded by its balustraded parapet, which had a wide ledge on which young adventurous guests liked to sit. At night the house lights shone far across the sea; a small glow came, too, from the gatehouse where Thambi and his wife Shyama lived. Thambi was another of Auntie Sanni’s right hands, hotel guard as well as beach lifeguard; it was Shyama who was supposed to open and shut the gates but as they were always open she had nothing to do except to cook a little, dry chillies in the sun and wash her hair. ‘Lazy little slut,’ said Kuku. ‘Thambi ought to beat her.’

  ‘I thought you were a feminist.’

  ‘I am but I don’t like to see her.’

  ‘I do,’ said Auntie Sanni with a vision of the scarlet of the chillies and the blue-black hair.

  Overlooking garden and sea, verandahs ran the full length of the house above a basement of cellars and fuel stores that was half buried in sand. The lower verandah was the sitting place for the whole hotel, with cane chairs and tables, cane stools and old-fashioned steamer chairs with extended boards each side on which feet could comfortably be put up. There was a bar at one end; at the other, Auntie Sanni’s swing couch had bright chintz covers and cushions; before lunch – which she called tiffin – and before dinner she liked to sit there and reign.

  Inside, behind the verandah the rooms were high, floored with dark red stone which Samuel saw was polished; every morning a posse of village women came in to sit on the floor moving slowly forward on their bottoms as they pushed bottles, their ends wrapped in a waxed cloth until the stone shone. The upper air was stirred by punkahs – electric flat-bladed fans; when the sea breeze was strong they stirred by themselves. If the wind was too high, sand blew in over the floors to Samuel’s grief.

  There was a billiard room; though few house guests played billiards, gentlemen, chiefly Indian, came in from Ghandara to play and have drinks – there was a bar in the billiard room as well. The verandah was reserved for resident guests.

  The drawing room, away from the sea, was immense, a double room; the stone floor here was green. It was so little used that the electric fans overhead creaked when they were switched on. ‘So much empty space,’ mourned Kuku.

  ‘Which is always useful,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘and makes for peace and health, two things that are uncommon in this country which is why people come.’

  Hannah reigned over the bedrooms with, under her, not women servants but men, bearers or houseboys in brass-buttoned white tunics, white trousers, black caps, while Samuel was king of the dining room behind the verandah.

  Samuel was regal, white-whiskered, white-bearded, his clothes immaculately white and starched, his turban huge with, round it, a red and gold band on which, in brass, was Auntie Sanni’s family crest – ‘My grandfather’s crest.’ The waiters wore modest imitations – woe betide any of them who had a spot or smudge on their tunics or trousers.

  The food was delectable, the service unhurried; neither Auntie Sanni nor Samuel had heard of unions and, though luncheon was served at one, dinner at eight, the dining room kept no hours. The food was brought in from the cookhouse outside; in the magical way of Indian servants it was kept hot by the old-fashioned use of packing cases lined with zinc in which were gridded shelves with a brazier burning red below.

  From the first day she came there had been battles between Kuku and Samuel. ‘Always objecting. Never do as she is asked. Why not?’ demanded Samuel.

  ‘I suppose an orphan girl without money has to fight,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Poor little Kuku. She hasn’t learned that the best way to fight is by not fighting. Also, we are getting old, Samuel, perhaps we need fresh blood,’ and, seeing disbelief in his eyes, ‘but I think Kuku will soon go on to something else, she won’t be satisfied here. Besides St Perpetua’s asked me to take her. Kuku needs a chance.’

  ‘I think we are full up,’ said Auntie Sanni in her office this Saturday morning.

  ‘Full up! My God!’ Kuku had brought the ledger from the reception desk in the hall. ‘I don’t know where to put them all.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Auntie Sanni opened the big register. There were, of course, permanencies, in chief Colonel McIndoe, Auntie Sanni’s husband, though no one called her Mrs McIndoe. They had a suite on the first floor overlooking the sea. There was Kuku’s small room on the floor above. ‘The first room I have ever had of my own,’ she had exclaimed in delight when she came. Samuel and Hannah had their own neat house, kept apart from the other servants’ quarters by a hedge of poinsettias. ‘Let me see,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  ‘Sir John and Lady Fisher?’ Kuku peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Number one,’ said Hannah immediately.

  ‘They are our oldest, dearest guests.’ Auntie Sanni’s voice dropped into a singsong which, like most Eurasians, she did not recognise as part Indian though it made Kuku wince – Kuku had tried to acquire an American accent. ‘Sir John says they can only stay a week this time. You will put flowers in their room and fruit and order a taxi to meet the connection from Delhi.

  ‘Professor Aaron and his ladies . . .’

  ‘Eighteen of them,’ added Hannah.

  ‘One tourist professor, eighteen tourist ladies!’ Kuku giggled but Hannah looked at her severely. ‘This is Patna Hall,’ said the look. ‘We don’t take tourists.’

  Auntie Sanni explained, ‘It is a cultural group. The International Association of Art, Technology and Culture. Professor Aaron brings a group every year, sometimes for archaeology, sometimes it is botany. Sometimes there are men but all are highly qualified. Last year the group was French, this year they are American.’

  ‘Americans are the worst tourists,’ said Kuku.

  ‘You say that because you have heard it.’ For once Auntie Sanni was wrathful. ‘What do you know about it? The British can be every bit as bad, also the Germans and you will not call these ladies tourists, do you hear? Some of them themselves are professors.’

  ‘Old?’ asked Kuku without interest.

  ‘Usually middle-aged. Young people haven’t the time or money – the tours are very expensive.’

  ‘They come from all over,’ said Hannah. ‘They will bring books, notebooks, maps, binoculars, magnifying glasses, cameras, what all.’

  ‘This time it is archaeology. They will vis
it the new diggings at Ghorāghat, also the cave paintings in our own hills but, especially, the great Dawn Temple at Ghorāghat, the temple of Usas, the Dawn goddess.’ Auntie Sanni, who had never seen the Dawn Temple, still said it reverently, then, ‘A single for Professor Aaron,’ she said returning to the ledger. ‘Nine doubles for the ladies, they will not mind sharing. They are usually not fussy,’ she told Kuku.

  ‘Mr R. Menzies,’ Kuku read out. ‘He does not say when he is arriving.’

  ‘Well, then, we cannot meet him. Give him a first floor back and, later tonight, Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan will be here.’

  ‘What again?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hannah at once grew heated. ‘Isn’t Dr Coomaraswamy the leader of our campaign? Isn’t Mr Srinivasan his aide? Isn’t this the week of the election? The campaign starts tomorrow. Of course they are all coming back.’

  ‘Except Krishnan Bhanj, your candidate,’ said Kuku.

  That slowed Hannah. ‘I do not know why,’ she said, ‘so often he has stayed here since he was a little boy, he and his parents, very good high-up people. He was here last month. Why not now?’

  ‘No one knows but Krishnan,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘and we can be sure he knows why.’

  ‘God almighty Krishnan!’ mocked Kuku. ‘He’s not going to win you know. It said so on the radio. Padmina Retty has held the seat for so long. Mrs Retty, Mother to the People of Konak.’

  ‘Much good has it done them.’ Hannah was fierce.

  ‘Krishnan Bhanj is an upstart. They all say so.’

  ‘Hardly an upstart,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Krishnan has been in politics since the day he was born, but in any case, I could not have had Mrs Retty here with Dr Coomaraswamy. He booked first. Also, with him’, Auntie Sanni told them, ‘will be at least ten, maybe twenty young electioneering assistants.’

  ‘My God!’ but Auntie Sanni was unperturbed. ‘They will be out on the campaign all day and they can sleep in Paradise.’

  Paradise was a line of cell-like rooms on Patna Hall’s roof. Once upon a time European or American chauffeurs were put there, now and again ladies’ maids. ‘When we had people from the embassies,’ said Auntie Sanni and, of the men, ‘They are young. They can sleep three or four to a room. Buy charpoys,’ she ordered Kuku.

  ‘Mrs Manning?’ asked Kuku.

  There was a pause, then, ‘She stays where she is,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  ‘Taking up two rooms when we are so full and she hasn’t paid for a month!’

  ‘I think she cannot pay at present,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  ‘Manning Memsahib is not like a memsahib,’ said Hannah. ‘She washes her own things in the bathroom to save the vanna’s bill.’

  That seemed sense to Kuku. ‘We were encouraged to do that at St Perpetua’s.’

  ‘You are you,’ Hannah’s look said plainly.

  ‘Mrs Manning still orders whisky, your whisky . . .’ Kuku came out against Mrs Manning. ‘Olga,’ she mocked. ‘I thought only Russians were called Olga and showing off with the piano.’ If Kuku had admitted to what had hurt and rankled in her with Mrs Manning it was that Olga Manning had called her ‘housekeeper’.

  ‘The housekeeper is Hannah. I am hotel manager.’

  ‘Indeed!’ The hazel eyes had looked at her amused. ‘How long have you been that?’ and, ‘Six weeks,’ Kuku had had to say and now, ‘Where is Mr Manning, I should like to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Kuku, we do not pry into our guests’ affairs.’

  ‘Perhaps better if we did and they are not guests, they are clients and supposed,’ Kuku said defiantly, ‘supposed to pay.’

  Auntie Sanni did not choose to answer that. Instead, ‘Mr and Mrs Browne,’ she read out. ‘They will not arrive until Sunday afternoon. Lady Malcolm recommended them. The girl is freshly out from England. They are, I believe, on honeymoon.’

  ‘Aie!’ said Hannah. ‘They should have had the bridal suite.’

  ‘Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan have booked the bridal suite long ago for the whole of the campaign.’

  ‘What a bridal pair!’ Kuku giggled again.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Browne can have the second half of the bungalow,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘So close to the beach and away from other guests, they should be happy there.’

  That made Kuku brood again over Mrs Manning in the bungalow’s other half, the half that had a sitting room.

  ‘Miss Sanni,’ she said, ‘you will never make a profit.’

  ‘Profit?’ asked Auntie Sanni, as if to say what could she do with a profit. ‘Patna Hall pays its way very nicely,’ her singsong went on. ‘Colonel McIndoe and I, Samuel and Hannah and Thambi have all that we want.’

  Kuku’s exasperation broke. ‘You should put up one of those hotel notices on your gates, “Do Not Disturb”.’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  Professor Aaron and the cultural ladies, as Hannah called them, were the first to arrive, in time for luncheon; eighteen ladies. ‘They can match with the young men in Paradise.’ Kuku giggled again.

  The big red-bearded Professor kissed Auntie Sanni, bowed to Hannah and introduced the group, which was led by Mrs van den Mar from Michigan – not with the waved blue-grey hair, Kuku had automatically expected. Mrs van den Mar wore hers in a plait round her head and, for all her elegance – ‘I think she is rich,’ whispered Kuku – was plump, comfortable, ‘and I think comforting,’ Auntie Sanni would have said. ‘A good leader.’ She introduced the most distinguished archaeologist of them all, Professor Ellen Webster, thin, earnest, brown hair cut in a fringe, spectacles. ‘She is a senior professor in the Department of Archaeology at Yale University. She will give us our lectures,’ said Professor Aaron. ‘And who’, he asked, ‘is this charming young person?’

  ‘Miss Kuku Vikram, who has come to help me,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  ‘You don’t need any help,’ the Professor said gallantly.

  As Hannah had predicted they had much paraphernalia: satchels, shoulder bags full of notebooks, shooting sticks, camp stools, binoculars, cameras, dark glasses. To Kuku they seemed, too, all dressed alike; each carried a light raincoat; they wore cotton short-sleeved shirts, skirts or trousers in neutral colours, one or two in blue denim; some had eyeshades, others cotton-brimmed hats and all were eager, happy, intent. Impressed in spite of herself, Kuku murmured to Hannah, ‘They must be very cultured.’

  Mrs van den Mar’s first eager question to Auntie Sanni, though, was anything but cultural. ‘We’re looking forward to your famous mulligatawny soup Professor Aaron has told us so much about. We hope it will be for lunch.’

  ‘The soup of the day is vichyssoise,’ Kuku said with pride.

  Their faces fell. ‘I can have vichyssoise in Michigan,’ said Mrs van den Mar.

  ‘I told you so,’ Samuel hissed at Kuku, his moustaches bristling with fury. ‘Do you think, after so many years butler at Patna Hall, I do not know what sahibs like to eat? You . . .’ If Samuel had known the word ‘chit’ he would have used it, all he could say was ‘upstart’.

  ‘We shall have mulligatawny tomorrow,’ and Auntie Sanni softened the blow further, ‘Today we have our equally famous prawn curry, prawns fresh from the sea. Now, may Miss Kuku and Hannah show you to your rooms?’

  Half an hour later, the ladies gathered on the verandah where Kuku served at the bar. ‘Coffee, tea and soft drinks only,’ Auntie Sanni had laid down. ‘Indian young ladies do not serve hard drinks or wine,’ but to Samuel’s anger Kuku often transgressed, usurping what belonged to Ganga, the wine waiter. Now she served the cultural ladies with a favourite suggested by Professor Aaron, ‘Gin and ginger beer, taken long, with plenty of ice,’ but, ‘Do you know how to make mint julep?’ one of them asked Kuku. ‘So refreshing!’ Kuku, to her chagrin, had to ask Samuel. Some had iced tea. ‘That’s a very beautiful sari,’ another said to Kuku, seduced by the colour. Samuel sniffed.

  ‘Well, have you settled in?’ Professor Aaron went from one to another
.

  ‘Indeed,’ said a gentle Mrs Glover. ‘We are charmed, Professor, truly charmed. We never expected anything like this.’

  ‘I certainly did not expect anything like this,’ an indignant voice came as a stout lady stumped on to the verandah. ‘Have you seen the bathrooms?’

  ‘They are primitive,’ Mrs Glover had to admit.

  ‘Primitive! Never did I think that to take a bath I should have to sit on a stool and pour water over me with a pitcher.’ Mrs Schlumberger was the group grumbler. Now she looked up sharply. Kuku had not been able to restrain a giggle.

  ‘Isn’t it good to do as the people here do?’ pleaded Mrs Glover.

  ‘And it’s far more hygienic than lying in a bath using the same water over and over again,’ that was Dr Julia Lovat. ‘The Indians say that we Westerners with our baths are like buffaloes wallowing in their own dirty water.’

  ‘Julia! How can you?’

  ‘All the same, I shall miss my shower.’ Miss Pritt, the only unmarried one and handsome, tried to placate.

  ‘We’ll miss far more than that.’ Mrs Schlumberger was not to be appeased. ‘That sweet little manager agrees with me. Says the lady refuses to modernise.’

  ‘Oh, come! There is air-conditioning . . .’

  ‘No telephone in the rooms . . . no room-service . . . I wouldn’t have come if I had known.’

  ‘We can always arrange to send you back,’ Mrs van den Mar said sweetly. ‘Ah, lunch! I expect you’ll feel better after lunch.’

  Two large round tables had been set up for them in the dining room, Professor Aaron hosting one, Mrs van den Mar the other. ‘For lectures they will use the drawing room,’ Auntie Sanni had said, ‘so open it properly,’ she told Kuku. ‘Put flowers.’