Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  When opened the drawing room looked well with its Persian carpets – ‘Kerman,’ said Auntie Sanni – on the dark green floor. Potted palms stood in polished brass pots, also on the floor; chairs and sofas were covered in a sweet pea chintz. Around the fireplace, which had an enormous grate, a fire seat made a circle; the mantel above held Victorian china and over it was a painting, a portrait of Auntie Sanni as a child with the same short chestnut curls; other paintings of the indigo plantations hung on the walls. There was an upright piano with pleated silk above the keyboard and brass candlesticks; antique as it was, Mrs Manning liked to play it in the evenings, even when the room was shrouded.

  ‘Well, she can’t do that while the conference is on,’ said Kuku with satisfaction. Then an idea struck her. ‘Couldn’t she play something catchy for us during dinner? We could move the piano into the dining room. I will ask her.’

  ‘You will not.’ Auntie Sanni came down on Kuku like the juggernaut at the Dawn Temple which came out on festival days to carry the Goddess and could crush mere humans under its wheels. ‘In our dining room people can still enjoy their food in quiet.’ All the same, Auntie Sanni was uneasy about Mrs Manning’s playing in the evenings. ‘It sounds so lonely,’ she had said more than once to Hannah.

  ‘It is lonely,’ said Hannah.

  ‘You have not changed one i-o-ta.’ Auntie Sanni greeted Sir John and Lady Fisher.

  ‘Nor you.’ Lady Fisher kissed Auntie Sanni. ‘You never change.’

  Sir John, on the verge of his sixties – ‘I retire next year’ – was, in Auntie Sanni’s canny diagnosis, all that was elegant and excellent: still slim, upright, his voice was quiet and firm; his sun-tanned skin, after years in the tropics, contrasted oddly with his silvered hair, while Lady Fisher had kept a complexion that looked as if it had never felt a rough wind. ‘I don’t suppose it has,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  In any case Lady Fisher preferred not to go on the beach or bathe or lie in the sun. ‘Then why does she come?’ asked Kuku.

  ‘To be with Sir John,’ with which Lady Fisher and Sir John would have completely agreed.

  ‘Have you never heard’, asked Auntie Sanni, ‘that men need rest? The more successful they are, the more in the public eye, the more they need it. There was never a more restful and calm person than Lady Fisher or one who listens more,’ but now, ‘I am sorry,’ she told the Fishers as she led them from the hall to the verandah, ‘sorry that the election should have come at this time. The house is so full, I am afraid you will have little peace.’

  ‘I don’t think it will disturb us,’ said Sir John, while, ‘Dear Aunt Sanni,’ said Lady Fisher – she and Sir John gave her the dignity of ‘Aunt’ – ‘with you there is always peace.’

  ‘They have been coming here for fifteen years,’ Auntie Sanni told Kuku. ‘I am proud to say they are our friends, Colonel McIndoe’s and mine.’

  ‘A tinpot little election, how could it disturb them?’ Kuku asked on the verandah that evening and was overheard by Dr Coomaraswamy.

  ‘Tinpot!’ He was indignant. ‘An election that concerns at least a quarter of a million people?’

  ‘Perhaps a million people,’ put in Mr Srinivasan.

  ‘There are too many people.’

  Kuku seemed able to flirt even with the ends of her sari; Dr Coomaraswamy’s brown eyes, already so prominent that they looked like a fish’s or seemed, as a snail’s, to have come out on stalks following Kuku’s every movement. ‘Yes, too many,’ Mr Srinivasan was saying. ‘If we have a million, soon there will be two million. Not long and there will be four. For-tun-ately one of the most important things in our Root and Flower Party’s programme is restriction, the making popular of the use of condoms— ’

  ‘Srinivasan! Not in front of Lady Fisher and Miss Kuku,’ cried Dr Coomaraswamy.

  ‘I think, dear Doctor, both Kuku and I have heard of birth control,’ said Lady Fisher.

  Dr Coomaraswamy knew that he was elderly, as his wife Uma was always telling him; elderly and unlovely, he thought. He was bald, over-stout, obviously well to do, well dressed – his suits were made for him in London. He flashed gold, gold-rimmed spectacles, gold pocket watch on a gold watch chain that stretched tightly across his stomach, the diamond in his little golden finger ring. By contrast, Mr Srinivasan was a little man, thin and light as an insect, always anxious, dressed in an ill-fitting European suit and what seemed to be over-large shoes, meticulously polished.

  With them had come a cohort of young men. ‘No young women?’ Auntie Sanni had asked in surprise.

  ‘They are staying at Ghandara in our headquarters. Females’, said Dr Coomaraswamy, ‘do not mind discomfort so much – they are more dedicated, I think. Besides Krishnan has a special mission for them. At the moment he will not tell me what but they are to go among the women which is good – the women’s vote is important to us.’

  ‘Of utmost importance,’ said Mr Srinivasan.

  The young men were in national dress, ‘For this week,’ said Dr Coomaraswamy. ‘And for our young women, I myself have provided for them saris in green and white edged with yellow, our Party colours. They are to go in sandals, marigolds in their hair. Padmina Retty’s women go in trousers! We shall be traditional which, strangely, is nowadays more modern.’

  Charming as the young men were, they threatened to overrun Patna Hall until they found Paradise. ‘They will be out at Ghandara or in the country most of the day,’ soothed Auntie Sanni. Besides providing charpoys and cotton quilts she had ordered braziers to be lit on the roof and she told Samuel, ‘Send two of the waiters, Mustafa and Ahmed, up with pots and pans so they can cook.’

  ‘Kebabs are not on the menu,’ Kuku objected.

  ‘They are now,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  Mr Menzies came late that evening in a small red car, appearing out of the dark. ‘From where?’ asked Kuku, trying to be friendly, at the reception desk. He did not answer.

  It was the first time she had seen, in actual flesh, a gentleman wearing a hair ribbon, his hair tied back in a bow. Sometimes men wore them on television – ‘Oh, why, why, won’t Auntie Sanni allow television?’ had been Kuku’s moan – but those men were young; if Mr Menzies had known it he was, for Kuku, too old to be of any interest. She did not either like his over-pink complexion, yellow-pink, like the little crabs on the beach when they are cooked. Kuku could not suppress a giggle, though Auntie Sanni had impressed, ‘Best manners only while you are at reception.’ Still less did she like the way his eyes – again, as if from the beach, they reminded her of small grey pebbles – looked her over and at once dismissed her. She did not know that Mr Menzies was not interested in girls unless they were in society which would have made them, for him, likely fodder.

  He gave a London club as an address. ‘Savage Club?’ Kuku could not believe it but, ‘He must be respectable to have a club,’ she said afterwards to Auntie Sanni. ‘Club’ to Kuku meant exclusiveness.

  ‘For how long will you be staying?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll see. Don’t bother to come up,’ he said. ‘The boy can show me.’ The ‘boy’, one of the bearers, picked up his briefcase, typewriter and suitcase.

  ‘I’m afraid there is not a garage for your car.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s only borrowed.’

  ‘Most clients not coming by car,’ Kuku explained.

  At that he smiled. ‘Ah! But, then, I am not most clients.’

  Sunday

  Kuku was never to forget her first sight of the Brownes or, rather, Mr Browne: she hardly noticed the girl.

  They arrived in the peace of Sunday’s late afternoon when everyone and everything seemed quiet before the stir of dinner; it was as if the little dust of the new guests had settled. ‘It always does at Patna Hall,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  Dr Coomaraswamy, Mr Srinivasan and the cohorts had removed themselves to the Party Headquarters at Ghandara – they had their own hired coach. Mr Menzies had followed them not long after. ‘He must be somethin
g connected with politics,’ Kuku had guessed. The cultural ladies and Professor Aaron had set aside Sunday for resting after their long journey and stayed in their rooms. Sir John and Lady Fisher were on the verandah, she stitching, he reading; they might never have been away. Mrs Manning was walking along the beach. All was quiet when the Shantipur taxi drew up.

  ‘Browne with an e,’ the young man instructed as he signed the register at the desk but Kuku hardly heard: she was gazing at his height, his fairness that was to her dazzlingly fair.

  The young wife seemed no match for her husband – she was so slight, her over-large spectacles making her look like a schoolgirl – but she too was fair, grey-eyed with mouse-pale brown hair that fell to her shoulders and hid her face as it swung forward like a soft bell. Both, though, had what Kuku called English complexions. ‘Apple blossom,’ murmured Kuku in despair.

  Kuku was dark-skinned and had been schooled to think that, above all, fairness was desirable, all beauty had to be fair. The marriage advertisements in the newspapers showed that clearly: ‘Educated England, returned young barrister seeks fair girl’. Sometimes it was the other way on: ‘Highly educated, executive-positioned, fair Brahmin young lady wishes to contact eligible young gentleman in similar employment’, or more naïve and old-fashioned: ‘Wanted: young man, preferably in Government Service for fair good-looking girl. Knows music and knitting’. There did not seem much hope for the Kukus of this world.

  He signed the register ‘Blaise St John Browne’. ‘Blaise! What an uncommon name!’ Kuku dared to say. He looked at her with such surprise that she saw she had transgressed and flushed. The girl saw it too and stepped forward. ‘You don’t have to sign,’ he told her. ‘You come under me.’

  Auntie Sanni, who had appeared in the doorway, caught the look she gave him; caught too, a sight of a small firm chin, when the hair swung back, as she firmly signed her name, ‘Mary Browne’.

  There was more to it than that. ‘When my husband was born,’ the girl told Kuku, ‘his parents could not decide on a name uncommon enough for him, so they compromised with Blaise.’

  ‘Mary!’ He had turned crimson. ‘For God’s sake . . .’

  But the clear voice went on. ‘When I was born the nurses asked my father what I should be called – it had to be the nurses, unfortunately my mother had died. He said the first name that came into his head, “Mary.” You can’t wonder,’ the girl would not stop, ‘we were in Rome, you see, and Rome is full of Marys though there they say “Maria”.’

  ‘Mary, Reception isn’t even remotely interested—’

  ‘Oh, but I am, I am,’ cried Kuku.

  ‘All those churches: Santa Maria degli Angeli, Santa Maria dell’ Assunta, Santa Maria Maggiore, Santa Maria Rotondo . . .’

  Now what, wondered Auntie Sanni, could have provoked all that?

  Mary could have told her: it was the journey from Madras. It had enchanted her, especially after three weeks spent in Ootacamund, ‘Which might have been England,’ she had said disappointed. ‘It even has a vicar.’

  ‘My dear child, most Indian towns of any size have an Anglican vicar,’ Blaise had told her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I . . . just didn’t expect it.’ Mary knew she sounded naïve.

  From Madras the train had gone through forests where sun filtered between tall trees and creepers; villages, golden-thatched, the houses often on stilts, appeared and disappeared. Mary saw elephants, the first elephants she had seen working. ‘Bumble, look. Do look’ – she had always heard Blaise called Bumble – ‘Look,’ but he was reading the Madras Times.

  The elephants pulled logs; the small brown men round them gesticulated as they fastened chains or goaded the huge animals, swaying in their strength to strip trees with their trunks or push against them with their foreheads. In the groves she saw flowers growing along the tree branches in festoons. ‘Bumble, could those possibly be wild orchids? Come and look.’

  Indulgently he had come but carrying his paper. ‘I wouldn’t know an orchid from a daisy.’

  ‘You must do.’

  ‘I know those big purple ornate things you buy in florists.’

  ‘These are wild,’ but he had gone back to his reading.

  On ponds or village tanks, water lilies floated. Often monkeys, small and brown, swung away from the train among the trees. When the railway left the forests to run along the shore, nets seemingly as fine as gossamer were spread on the white sand and there were boats. Mary had sat entranced by the colour and sun but she did not ask Blaise to look again.

  Now, at reception, Auntie Sanni thought it time to intervene and sailed into the hall. ‘Good evening. Welcome to . . .’ but ‘What’s this?’ Mr Browne was saying to Kuku ‘Share a bungalow? An out bungalow! I booked for the main hotel.’

  In agitation Kuku began hastily to turn the pages as if she were looking for another room but Auntie Sanni went on as if Blaise Browne had not spoken. ‘Welcome to Patna Hall. I am Mrs McIndoe, the proprietor. The main hotel is full but, quite apart from that, we always put our younger guests in the bungalow if we can.’ She made it sound like a favour. ‘They like to be on the beach and so do away with formalities.’

  ‘Yes, Blaise, it would be much nicer.’ The girl’s tone was conciliating, almost coaxing; obviously she did not want a scene.

  ‘I booked—’

  ‘I am sure you will find the bungalow most suitable.’ Auntie Sanni put an end to the argument. ‘Miss Kuku will take you there.’

  ‘How handsome he is!’ Kuku whispered to Auntie Sanni as the Brownes collected coats and hand luggage. Thambi picked up suitcases, tennis racquets, a big bag of golf clubs. ‘So big and blond, like a young god. Is it Apollo?’

  ‘Apollo?’ Auntie Sanni looked sharply at Kuku.

  Kuku took them down a small path that wound through what seemed a large garden; a path of white sand that glimmered in India’s sudden dusk and was edged with shells and lit by old-fashioned lamp-posts. The sound of the sea grew louder as they came nearer. The bungalow was almost on the beach, only separated by a narrow strip of garden from the foreshore; the roof was of palm thatch. The verandah rails shone white in the lamplight. Wicker chairs and a table stood on the floor of polished red stone. The bedroom had little but a wide bed, ‘An almirah,’ said Kuku opening the cupboard door to show hanging space and shelves, a chest of drawers with a looking glass and two chairs. Durries were on the floor.

  To Mary it all gave a feeling of lightness and freedom but she could tell Blaise was not pleased, less pleased when he saw the bathroom, a dark little room, divided by a low kerb behind which was a single tap. ‘Only cold water,’ Kuku had to say in shame. Tall gharras were filled each morning from it, ‘So that the water stays cool,’ Auntie Sanni would have explained. Beside the gharras was a stool and an outsize zinc mug ‘For pouring water over yourself,’ but ‘An Indian bathroom!’ Blaise was as dismayed as Mrs Schlumberger.

  ‘Our waterman will bring plenty of hot water’, Kuku hurried to say, ‘if you telephone.’

  ‘At least we have a telephone,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Only a line to the house, I’m afraid,’ Kuku apologised, but Mary could not think why they needed a telephone or hot water. ‘We can bathe in the sea.’

  ‘And there is a bar.’ Kuku could show that in its small refrigerated cupboard with pride. ‘You can help yourselves. There is ice but anything you want I shall bring.’

  Blaise, who had not really looked at Kuku, said, ‘Atcha’ as when dismissing a servant. Kuku, hurt, flushed darker, gathered up her sari and went. ‘She hasn’t even given us a key.’

  ‘Why do we need a key?’ asked Mary. ‘It’s all wide open.’ Though the bungalow had heavy full-length wooden shutters to close against a storm, they were left folded back and the doorways had only half-doors set midway; made of light wood and woven palm, they swung slightly in the breeze. Now Mary pushed through them on to the verandah and stood there looking.

  From the moment they had driven up to Patn
a Hall she had known she loved it; it seemed to breathe a new air. In those three weeks at Ootacamund the time had dragged so they had seemed like three years. They had stayed at the club and only met the club people, retired English or else westernised Indians; Blaise had played golf; Mary walked round with him. In the evening there was bridge; she had sat beside him until, desperate, she had wheedled, ‘For the last week of your leave couldn’t we go somewhere Indian, in India?’

  ‘Little silly. Ooty is in India.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ but she did not say it, only coaxed, ‘Lady Malcolm says there is a hotel further north by the sea, “India unchanged,” she says.’

  Blaise frowned. ‘Lady Malcolm is the only person I have not liked here in Ootacamund.’

  Mary had looked at him startled. Lady Malcolm was the only person she had liked.

  Now, out on the verandah, she felt the sea breeze which was strong but warm. In India, night falls quickly and now, as the bungalow lights fell on the beach, she could only make out the pale crests of the rollers. Their noise surprised her; as they crashed on the sand the whole bungalow shook. Looking along the beach and the wet sand she could see small lights, lanterns or fires under a darkness of trees. She lifted her face to look up at the stars, at one in particular which shone over the sea, Hesperus, Venus, the evening star. My star, thought Mary. Behind it was the shape of a growing moon. Suddenly, an immense happiness filled her. What does anything matter? thought Mary. I’m here.

  ‘No hangers.’ Blaise was walking about, peering into the cupboard, opening drawers. ‘This really is a run-down place.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like that. I like it.’ Mary did not say ‘love’. ‘Funny,’ she said, ‘I never heard you called Blaise until Bombay. I thought you were Bumble. We were Bumble and Merry.’

  ‘I have always been Blaise.’

  ‘Yes,’ and she said sadly, ‘I suppose we’ve gone public.’

  ‘I should hope so. You’re my wife.’ Blaise came and gave her a swift hug but she sensed that he was stiff as he always was when he was embarrassed – Mary had already learned that. It seemed he did not want to remember a certain little hidden garden hut in Norway, a memory she had clung to all these days. ‘They’re much nicer before you marry them.’ Who had said that? Lady Malcolm . . . But I wanted to marry, thought Mary.