by Rumer Godden
‘I’m afraid Blaise will have a massive hangover,’ Sir John had said but, of course, sometime he’ll have to wake. What then? thought Mary. The mark of the slap was still on her cheek, and it had stung more deeply. ‘I’ll never speak to him again!’ she had vowed. Now, ‘Don’t be childish,’ said what seemed to be an older, steadier Mary. Then, ‘What am I to do?’ she asked and, as if Krishnan had answered, ‘You can try being kind.’
Two days ago, she would have been in revolt against that. Why should I be kind when Blaise . . .? But now she seemed to see, in the temple, the little flames in the bowl as Krishnan waved it, sending the light high into the dome. ‘I couldn’t send it as high as that,’ she whispered. ‘But, yes, I can try.’
Slowly, she got out of bed.
‘Hannah,’ said Auntie Sanni when, on the upper verandah, Hannah brought her morning tea. ‘I should like you to go down to the bungalow this morning and see if Manning Memsahib’s things are ready to be packed.’
‘Packed?’ Kuku looked up from where, at Auntie Sanni’s dictation, she had been writing out the day’s menus. ‘You think she won’t come back?’
‘She may not be able to,’ and Auntie Sanni went on to Hannah, ‘Do any washing that is needed and Kuku, in any case, put flowers in her room.’
‘She owes you so much money, she will probably stay away,’ said Kuku.
‘That is the one thing that may bring her back,’ said Auntie Sanni.
‘I’ll go to the bungalow,’ Kuku offered.
‘I asked Hannah,’ said Auntie Sanni.
Blaise, a long mound in the wide bed, stayed inert while Mary washed and dressed. He was breathing heavily and, He reeks! she wrinkled up her nose in disgust then, unexpectedly, Poor Blaise! She left the shutters wide open for the sea breeze to blow in, salty, cleansing, and went up the path for breakfast; again, she was ravenously hungry.
After it she lingered on Patna Hall’s verandah, trying to will herself to go down to the bungalow. If I want to swim, and I do, I must get my things. She had some sugar lumps for Slippers. He’s waiting for me but I’ll walk along the beach first, she decided, putting off the moment of going back to Blaise.
As, carrying her shoes, she walked, in and out of the ripples of the waves, the water cold on her feet, the sun warm on her neck, How I love this place, thought Mary. It isn’t only Krishnan. She lifted her face to the sun, the breeze and shut her eyes, standing to feel the sun through her eyelids but, ‘You can’t stay here all day with your eyes shut,’ she told herself. ‘You have to go back. But what can I say?’ she asked. ‘What can either of us say after that slap?’ Then, ‘Be patient. Something will come,’ and suddenly, That might be a little splinter of Auntie Sanni’s wisdom, she conceded smiling.
The fishing boats were coming in; it must have been a good morning because they had been out twice. Mary could hear the men chanting as they pulled in the heavy nets, long lines of them along the beach. As usual, the best of the catch was being taken either to the refrigerated lorry vans drawn up ready or to the drying sheds; the rest was spilled out on the sand for the fisherwomen to take, either to use or to sell in the villages. A little group was standing looking at something on the sand, something boys were racing up to see.
Mary went closer.
‘Bumble! Bumble! Wake up. Please.’
Mary was calling that from the verandah but Blaise was already awake, sitting up in bed holding his throbbing head as she came hurtling in. All Mary’s serenity was gone: half sobbing, her eyes wide with horror, she begged, ‘Blaise, don’t ever, ever even think of going swimming further along the beach away from our own. Don’t, please.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve said you would from the beginning. Remember how cross you were with Thambi and Moses but, Blaise, don’t. Don’t.’
He saw her shorts were soaked and stained red, her legs too, her arms and hands. ‘Is that blood?’
‘Yes . . . Yes.’
‘Come here,’ said Blaise. He was still wearing the shirt of the night before, his hair rumpled; he still stank but Mary came. Gently he pulled her nearer, she was shaking. He put his arm round her and took her to the bathroom.
‘Please . . . get the blood off my hands.’ Her lips were trembling.
He washed her hands over a gharra, washed her face, too, and gave her a glass of water. ‘Rinse and spit it out,’ then he brought her back to the bed. ‘What is all this about? Tell me.’
‘The catch was on the beach, the part left for the people to take, fish, flapping and slipping, starfish, crabs. There was a baby shark.’ Mary began to tremble again. ‘Not longer than three, four feet. They had turned it on its back; it was white and hard though it was a baby. When its tail flailed it knocked over a small boy. Its mouth came down almost to its middle, hideous,’ she shuddered, ‘almost a half hoop with teeth. Cruel teeth. An old woman bent down to look and touched it and it snapped . . . took . . . took off her hand.’ Blaise held Mary fast. ‘The other women made a great noise but kept back. Thambi came and clubbed it. I had to help him hold the stump in the sea until the men came and took the old woman away. Blaise, promise me you won’t swim anywhere, anywhere outside our nets.’
‘I thought you didn’t care what I did.’
‘Of course I care.’ How could I help caring about that for anyone? but this different Mary did not say that. A new thought had struck her. That night when I swam with Krishnan, there weren’t any sharks – or were there?
But Blaise was speaking urgently. ‘Mary, let’s go away. There’s a mid-day train. Let’s go now.’
‘Now?’ She pulled away from him. Sat up. ‘Before the election?’
‘Damn the election. It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘It is. It is to do with me,’ she said the words slowly. ‘I’m bound up in it,’ and, more quickly, ‘I couldn’t possibly go now.’
‘Mary, please. Since we came here everything’s been wrong.’
She looked at him in amazement. ‘For me everything’s been right.’
‘It’s this Krishnan. You’re under a spell.’ Blaise was choosing his words carefully. ‘Mary, you don’t realise it but you are. I’m not going to blame you,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Lots of girls go in at the deep end when they first meet Indians.’
‘In at the deep end?’ Mary looked at him, incredulous. ‘I’m up. Up where I have never been before.’
‘He’s using you— ’
‘That’s what’s so wonderful and I never dreamed until this morning he could need . . .’ again she did not say it as, ‘Tell me something,’ Blaise went on, ‘did you go to him or he to you?’
‘I didn’t go. I . . . came across him. In the grove our first night. The night you drove me out over Slippers. I sat by Krishnan’s fire. We talked,’ said Mary, half dreaming.
‘Was that all?’
‘That was all.’ All! It was everything.
‘Did he ask you to come back?’
‘No.’
‘Who asked you to go on the lorry?’
‘Dr Coomaraswamy.’
‘Not Krishnan?’
‘Krishnan told him to. I asked the young men to play rounders.’
‘You went to the dhashan.’
‘We all went.’
‘Did he ask you to?’
‘He never asks.’ That had been true – until this morning – and Mary had to pause.
Blaise noticed that and, at once, ‘Mary, I want a straight answer to a straight question. Tell me the truth.’
‘Krishnan doesn’t need to ask.’ It was the best evasion she could think of. ‘People come to him. They give.’
‘More fools they.’
‘Don’t be horrid.’
‘I’m not horrid. I’m worried.’ Blaise took her firmly by the shoulders and swung her round to look at him. ‘Mary, I have to ask you, have you done anything wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ She was startled. ‘Wrong?’ How could it be wrong? Then she looked a
t Blaise’s face, perplexed as it was honest and miserable. ‘You mean . . .’
‘Yes. You wouldn’t be afraid to tell me, would you?’ He was still gentle. ‘I’d rather know.’
At that moment Mary liked Blaise more than she had liked him since Bombay and, ‘If I haven’t told you everything,’ she said, ‘it’s only because you wouldn’t have understood but I know I haven’t done anything – wrong.’
‘I believe you,’ said Blaise. ‘But promise me one thing.’
‘What?’
‘That you won’t go to the grove or near any of them, unless you are asked.’
Mary thought she owed Blaise that and, ‘I won’t go unless I am asked,’ she said resolutely, at once, perversely remembering under her window at dawn the sound of the flute.
There were footsteps on the verandah. Hannah had come to look after Mrs Manning’s things.
‘Ayah,’ called Blaise. ‘Ayah.’
Hannah was not used to being called Ayah but came. ‘Will you help the little Memsahib? She has had a shock.’
‘Thambi told me.’ Hannah clicked her tongue when she saw the blood on Mary. ‘Come, Baba.’
‘If you don’t mind I’ll sleep some more,’ Blaise said when Hannah had gone. ‘Mary, I’m sorry about last night.’ He had realised his state. ‘Then I’ll have a swim, from our beach.’ He smiled at her but, It won’t do, thought Mary as, leaving him, she went up to the house. ‘I want a straight answer to a straight question. Tell me the truth.’ That rang in her ears but, ‘How can you answer when you are only just finding out?’ asked Mary. No one had told her of the Indian concept of truth, that it is like water poured into your hand but you can only catch a few drops.
Professor Aaron and the cultural ladies were leaving.
Their coach was drawn up under the portico which was crowded with luggage while they gathered in the hall; all had their raincoats, cameras, binoculars, shooting sticks, camp stools and satchels of notebooks. ‘Far more full than when we came,’ they said in satisfaction. Last snapshots were being taken of Auntie Sanni, Kuku, Samuel, Hannah, Thambi; Professor Aaron was counting heads and trying to placate Mrs Schlumberger. ‘We should have had a discount for sharing a room and you should tell Mrs McIndoe about the disgrace of the bathrooms,’ but, from the others, ‘We’ve had a wonderful, wonderful time,’ was said over and over again. ‘We never expected anything like this.’
Miss Pritt was almost in tears. Mrs van den Mar had the recipe for mulligatawny soup, Mrs Glover a collection of flowers Hannah had helped her to press. Professor Webster declared she was coming back next year, ‘If you will have me, dear Auntie Sanni.’
‘And me,’ cried Dr Lovat.
Kuku was dazzled, though at first she had been offended, by large tips. ‘No. No, nothing. I cannot take this. I cannot possibly take this.’
‘Of course you can, my dear, you deserve it.’
Mary appeared panting. In her distress over the shark she had forgotten the ladies were leaving until Hannah reminded her; she had had to run up the path.
A chorus broke out. ‘We thought you weren’t coming to say goodbye.’
‘Of course I was.’
‘I should have hated to go without seeing you.’
They gathered round her, gave her their addresses. ‘If you come to the States again be sure to let us know,’ and, ‘We’d love you to stay awhile with us.’
‘My apartment’s so small,’ Mrs Schlumberger hastened to say, ‘I can’t offer a guest room.’
‘I can offer you three,’ Mrs Glover laughed, ‘any time.’ They thanked her for last night. ‘It was real fun,’ and, ‘You’re no ordinary girl,’ they told her. ‘We didn’t know English girls could be like you,’ and Mrs van den Mar called, ‘Say goodbye for us to that lord of creation of yours.’
‘Lord of creation?’
‘More than a mite dictatorial,’ said Mrs van den Mar. ‘My dear, you shouldn’t let him.’
‘And don’t you get dictatorial,’ said Dr Lovat.
When the coach had gone, Patna Hall was extraordinarily quiet. Are the disciples all asleep? wondered Mary, Or are they away working behind the scenes as Krishnan had said? Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan had breakfasted in the bridal suite, though Mr Srinivasan had been out early to Ghandara. He had come back disturbed. ‘Hari, do you know who made all the arrangements for Padmina Retty’s aeroplane?’
‘Who? Not Surijlal?’
‘Surijlal is most loyal adherent. It was that Menzies.’
‘Mr Menzies! I thought he was on our side.’
‘I think he is playing loose and fast. Hari, I fear trouble.’
‘There can’t be trouble now,’ said Dr Coomaraswamy.
Mary did not want to go back to the bungalow and Blaise. Anyway, he’s sleeping it off. Then, Shall I swim? But a shudder came. I’d rather swim with him. Sleep in the sun? She had had little sleep yet was filled with a curious energy. What can I do?
‘Mary.’
‘It is strange,’ Auntie Sanni had said to Colonel McIndoe. ‘This girl I have never set eyes on before, nor she on me, seems to feel much as I do about Patna Hall,’ and did not all the servants call her Missy, Miss Baba? While Christabel, the pet mynah bird, had begun to call ‘Mary’ in Auntie Sanni’s voice.
Colonel McIndoe had patted Auntie Sanni’s hand.
Now Auntie Sanni, wearing a huge white apron and drying her hands on a towel came to call Mary. Thursday is the day’, said Auntie Sanni, ‘when we make what Hannah calls “dainties” – desserts and sweets for the week. These cannot be trusted to Alfredo. Always I make them myself.’
‘Yourself! Only Hannah, me, two boys and a washer-up woman to wait on her,’ Kuku was to say in an aside to Mary.
‘Also, today, we are crystallising cherries. They have been flown in from Kulu in the north where it is almost the cherry season. These are early. I thought you might like to come and help. Would you?’
‘Would I!’ If a life belt had been thrown to Mary in a choppy sea she could not have caught it more thankfully.
It was, Mary saw at once, a ritual, ‘Every Thursday,’ as Auntie Sanni had told her. The confectionery pantry, as it was known at Patna Hall, was separate from the kitchen, in fact in the courtyard annexe, next to the linen room, store rooms and near Auntie Sanni’s office. The same flowers were there but no cats, goat or kids were allowed; no birds could fly in; doors and windows were screened with fine mesh.
The room had a tiled floor and walls that could be washed; counters were fitted with surfaces of wood that could be scrubbed and on them were slabs of marble of different sizes. Shelves of copper saucepans, moulds – ‘Best French ones,’ said Auntie Sanni – were in easy reach, all sparklingly clean and polished with ashes, ‘Our washer-up women earn their pay.’ The calor gas cooker was large, the refrigerator larger, a vast old-fashioned one run on kerosene; its whirring filled the room punctuated by the cooing of Auntie Sanni’s doves outside, the only birds bold enough to come near. Monkeys had thieved some handfuls of cherries as they had been carried in but Hannah had scolded them back into the trees.
The cherries from Kulu, in finely woven travelling baskets, were on the floor; two boys, well scrubbed, wearing white shorts and tunics were carefully de-stalking them under Hannah’s watchful eyes. ‘To stay fresh, cherries must be picked on their stalks,’ Auntie Sanni told Mary. They were carefully de-stoned, too, the boys using small silver picks, the stones thrown into a bucket, while the cherries were put, carefully again in case they bruised, into large bowls. When enough were ready they were taken to Hannah who was stirring hot syrup, heavy with sugar and tinged with rosewater. They must not boil or they won’t stay firm,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Then, when they’re cooled they will be rolled in fine sugar.’
As Hannah worked her bangles clinked. ‘It’s not hygienic. You ought to take them off,’ Kuku told her.
‘They will not come off,’ said Hannah serenely. ‘My hands are grown too big.’
T
he crystallised cherries were not only for the week but to last the whole year. These are the second batch. Hannah is just finishing off the first – it has taken twelve days.’
‘Twelve days!’ Mary looked with awe at the racks of cherries drying, plump and tender.
‘Fresh syrup has to be boiled every day, then poured over the fruit, then they are drained. On the sixth day the fruit is simmered for three or four minutes – this helps to keep the cherries plump; they are left to soak for four more days. Then you carefully take the cherries out, put them on racks to drain, next in a cool oven to dry until they are no longer sticky to handle. Now Hannah will give them the crystallised finish.’
Kuku gave a yawn but Mary, enchanted by this minutiae, watched how skilfully Hannah dipped each cherry in a pan of boiling water, then rolled it in sugar that had been spread on clean paper.
‘Come,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘I will teach you to make rasgula, a Bengali recipe. See, we take two pints of milk, lemons, semolina . . .’
‘Semolina?’ Mary was surprised.
‘Here it is called sooji and we shall need green cardamom seeds for spice.’ The spices, dozens of them, were in a special glass-fronted cabinet.
‘They are very costly,’ said Kuku. Hot and cross, she pushed her hair back with sticky fingers. ‘We could buy these sweetmeats far more cheaply in Ghandara. There are good Bengali sweetmeat sellers there.’
‘It wouldn’t be the same.’
Of course it wouldn’t be the same, Mary felt, almost fiercely. This – this is home, what makes a home, which is why I love Patna Hall so much. She remembered what Krishnan had told her that very morning – her secret morning – of Agni who warms our homes and cooks our food and, ‘How can you say it would be the same?’ she upbraided Kuku.
‘Besides, they haven’t the good milk,’ said more practical Auntie Sanni. Her desserts were made with rich milk from the Jersey cows she had imported. Their faces look like Krishnan’s wise cows, Mary had thought. They were kept in Patna Hall’s small homestead behind the knoll where, too, was the poultry yard so that eggs were fresh every day, chickens and ducks provided plump for the table instead of the usual Indian scrawny ones. ‘Besides,’ Auntie Sanni went on, ‘bought Indian sweetmeats are too sweet for Western tastes. But don’t think we do all Indian,’ she said to Mary. ‘We have hereditary recipes, some, I think, unique. There is a velvet cream that came from my English grandmother, perhaps from her grandmother, rich cream, lemon, a little leaf gelatine, wine . . .’
