by Rumer Godden
‘In the recipe it should be raisin wine. We have to use Golconda,’ Kuku was spiteful, ‘and the cream can curdle as you put it in.’
‘Only if you are impatient,’ said Auntie Sanni.
‘Costs a fortune but that doesn’t matter,’ said Kuku, but Auntie Sanni only said, ‘Put on this apron, Mary, and I’ll show you.’
The time went more quickly than Mary could have believed, they were so busy. Samuel brought cold cucumber soup – ‘Delicious,’ she said – rolls and butter, fruit.
Later, ‘Why don’t you take this into the dining room,’ Auntie Sanni said of the latest confection, ‘and let them taste what you have made?’
Only Sir John, Lady Fisher and Blaise were in the dining room, sitting together. Blaise had swum then sluiced himself in the bathroom, put on fresh clothes but his face was pinker than usual. His eyes look as if they had been boiled, thought Mary, which was not kind, I must have cooking on the brain, but how can you help what leaps into your mind?
‘This is Mrs Beeton’s “Pretty Orange Pudding”,’ she said putting the dish down in front of them. ‘Auntie Sanni has one of the earliest editions of the cookbook, eighteen sixty-one. It says, “Take six oranges”, though we took sixty to make ten puddings, for dinner tonight. Mrs Beeton calls it, “A pretty dish of oranges, exceedingly ornamental”, and isn’t it? I made it.’
She was wearing one of Auntie Sanni’s capacious aprons, wrapped and kilted around her; her cheeks were flushed, her hair dark with sweat; her spectacles were askew – ‘It’s too hot for contact lenses,’ she had said – she had a dab of powdered sugar on her nose but to Sir John she looked almost pretty; the grey of her eyes lit almost to blue. ‘Thank you, hussy,’ he said.
‘It is a pretty pudding,’ said Lady Fisher.
‘Mary seems to have been adopted as the child of the house,’ said Lady Fisher.
‘She isn’t a child. She happens to be a married woman.’ Blaise was stiff again. ‘Something Mrs McIndoe chooses to forget.’
‘Auntie Sanni?’
‘I prefer to call her Mrs McIndoe. I’m afraid I don’t share your high opinion of her.’
‘It’s not only high,’ said Lady Fisher, ‘it’s loving. We’ve been coming here for years, haven’t we, John, and we know how wise she is.’
‘I don’t subscribe to that either. In any case, I am taking Mary away tomorrow, a day early.’
‘Will she go?’ asked Lady Fisher, which Blaise ignored.
‘When she is through with this nonsensical cooking, I’ll tell her and she has promised me not to go near this Krishnan creature again.’
They looked at him, both incredulous. ‘Mary promised that?’
‘I’m glad to say she did.’
‘I’m not glad,’ said Lady Fisher and, ‘Blaise,’ began Sir John, ‘Mary is having an experience— ’
‘Which I don’t choose to let her have— ’
‘You have just said she isn’t a child. Don’t you see,’ Lady Fisher pleaded, ‘how Mary longs to be part of something, to be needed, be of help . . .?’
‘She can help me. That’s what she married me for, didn’t she?’ He got up, leaving the pudding. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get some more sleep. I still have a bit of a head and, of course, I apologise about last night.’
When he had gone, ‘Insufferable young dolt,’ said Sir John, but Lady Fisher only said, ‘Poor silly boy.’
The confectionery was over by two o’clock. Hot, sticky all over even to her hair, but happy, Mary ran down the path to the bungalow and came quietly into the bedroom, thinking Blaise might be asleep. He was not; looking considerably ruffled, he was writing a letter.
‘Who is that to?’
‘Mrs McIndoe.’
‘Auntie Sanni. Why?’
Instead of answering he looked at her. ‘God, you look a mess. You’d better go and wash.’
‘Not before you’ve told me why you are writing to Auntie Sanni.’
‘To tell her we are leaving tomorrow.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’ Blaise held up a hand. ‘Please, I don’t want a fuss. Besides, what is there to stay for? You’ve promised to have no more to do with the election.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
But Blaise had risen. ‘I’m taking this up to the house now.’
How dared he? Left in the bedroom Mary felt choked. Without asking or consulting! She walked up and down in helpless anger, then, I’ll go for a swim. It was either that or tears.
Thambi came to help her. Somu too but Thambi, as if he sensed something was more than wrong, took Mary himself, Somu swimming alongside, but there was none of the exhilaration and joy of riding in on the waves. Afterwards they brought a beach umbrella as Mary spread her towel and lay down; only then could she give way.
No tears came though, only indignation. Without even consulting. I can’t go now, not before the election, yet how can I stay? Blaise has all our money. She could not be sure where Rory was. Peru – or it could be Washington or London.
Then, suddenly, I know, thought Mary, I’ll go to Auntie Sanni. She’ll find a way. I’ll talk to her tonight after she has seen Alfredo.
It was a comfortable thought; the anger ebbed. Mary gave a great yawn and was soon asleep.
When Mary had gone to sleep, the sun had been hot on her legs so that she had been careful to keep her head in the shade of the umbrella. When she woke she was chill.
As she sat up, rubbing her eyes, she saw that the men had left; the foreshore was empty and the sun was going down, its rays sending a path almost to her feet. She could still feel the battering of the waves on her body; they still crashed down but beyond their white crests the sea was calm, deep blue. Then the sun went behind the horizon, the gold lingered and was gone. The heat haze from the water rose in a mist over the waves; by contrast, a chill little wind blew over the sand.
It was twilight, the Indian short twilight, ‘cow-dust time’ Krishnan had called it, and Mary remembered what she had seen from the train, cattle being driven home, dust rising from their hoofs, patient cows, lumbering oxen and buffaloes while smoke rose from the cooking fires among the huts of the villages. As she looked now at the bungalow, lights were up on the verandah: Thambi must have switched them on as he went to his gatehouse, as he had the lanterns along the path.
Why is twilight always a melancholy time? wondered Mary. She listened, there was no sound of a drum. Along the beach no small lamps burned before the shrines. Paradise was dark, everything was in abeyance though probably the disciples were in Ghandara or in other countless voting places getting ready for tomorrow. Probably Krishnan too. That’s why the grove is dark and the thought dawned poignantly, I shan’t see Krishnan again and, in desolation, I suppose I must – must go in and dress, have some dinner – though she wanted neither. She got up and picked up her towel. Thambi or Moses would put down the umbrella when they drew out the fencing along the foreshore. As, reluctantly, she walked towards the bungalow, more lights came on in the other half and she saw Thambi putting down luggage, Hannah drawing the curtains. Olga Manning was there.
‘You have come back,’ Mary said in the doorway and before she could stop herself, ‘Auntie Sanni and Hannah thought you mightn’t.’
‘There was nowhere else to go.’
At once Mary’s own unhappiness dwindled into an ordinary everyday trouble, this was tragic. Olga’s usually erect figure was bowed. Still in her travelling clothes she was making no effort to unpack or change but sat at the room’s solitary table looking out at the darkening sea. Under the electric light her skin looked bruised; her hair had come undone, its coil was tumbling down her back; her hands were dirty.
‘Olga, is there anything I can do?’
‘Please, Mary, I can’t talk to you now.’ The deep voice was a hoarse whisper.
Mary went next door. Blaise was in the bathroom. Fresh whisky had been put in their bar. She measured a large one, added more, took the tumbler round the
partition and put it quietly on the table.
‘Bless you.’
‘Would you like . . .’ Mary ventured, ‘like me to get Samuel to send your dinner down here?’
‘My dinner!’ Olga laughed. ‘I don’t think I can say “my dinner” any longer but I suppose one must eat while one can,’ and seeing Mary’s concern, ‘No, Mary darling. I shall change and come up as usual.’
For dinner the dining room was full. Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan were eating less hurriedly than usual. ‘I have only two speeches to write,’ Dr Coomaraswamy had said and Mr Srinivasan, ‘A success speech and a loss speech – just in case.’ ‘Victory! Victory!’ Dr Coomaraswamy had let himself write but, ‘Victory is not yet,’ said cautious Mr Srinivasan.
Auntie Sanni and the Colonel and Mr Menzies were at their accustomed tables. Olga Manning had appeared, groomed, clean, changed, to Mary’s relief and had gone unobtrusively to hers, only nodding to Auntie Sanni; Blaise and Mary were dining with the Fishers, ‘As it’s our last night.’ Mary did not contradict him. At least it means I needn’t talk to him.
The diners were augmented by a dinner party of men. ‘From Ghandara,’ Sir John told them. ‘Here for some kind of conference.’ It seemed to be a festive meeting; there was laughter, even cheers as Kuku, in the beautiful violet-coloured silk sari Lady Fisher had given her, flitted round them. Dr Coomaraswamy kept his eye on his plate as the banter filled the room.
Suddenly it ceased. ‘This is All India Radio. Here is the news.’ There was absolute attention. ‘I expect there’ll be something about their meeting,’ whispered Blaise as the news began but first was the election.
‘In Konak, expectancy is tense on this day before voting as interest mounts in the struggle between the long-established Mrs Padmina Retty and Krishnan Bhanj’s new Root and Flower Party. In spite of Mrs Retty’s helicopter, all yesterday it was Krishnan Bhanj who drew the crowds. In fact today he has had to hide himself to avoid the charge of illegally campaigning. “He campaigns in spite of himself,” said Dr Coomaraswamy, leader of this brilliant concept. Here are a few words from Dr Coomaraswamy himself . . .’
As his words boomed out, Dr Coomaraswamy kept his head bowed while the whole room listened. Samuel had interrupted the serving; he and the waiters stood respectfully still. Only Kuku moved and flaunted. When the voice finished everybody clapped.
The news, though, was not finished: ‘Today in Calcutta, Mr Justice Rajan sentenced the Englishman, Colin Armstrong, to twelve years’ imprisonment. Mr Armstrong was convicted of fraud, smuggling and trafficking in drugs.’
At an imperative nod from Colonel McIndoe, Samuel switched off the radio. At the same moment Mr Menzies got up and crossed the dining room to Olga Manning’s table. ‘Good evening, Mrs Armstrong,’ he said.
A gasp went from table to table. The whole dinner party had turned to look. Mary sprang up but Blaise pulled her down as Auntie Sanni rose to her massive height. Her dress billowing, she, too, crossed the room. ‘Mr Menzies,’ she said, ‘you will leave my hotel, now.’
‘Of course you knew he was Ajax?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ Blaise blushed.
‘No? I should have thought those recordings, those articles were unmistakable.’
‘Auntie Sanni knew from the beginning,’ Lady Fisher had pleasure in saying.
‘Then why didn’t she turn him out before?’
‘He was being very useful,’ said Sir John, ‘bolstering our election. Auntie Sanni, remember, is a dear friend of the Bhanj family and Menzies could hardly have been more helpful but tonight . . . Swine!’ said Sir John.
‘After all this distress and unpleasantness,’ Blaise said a little later, ‘what I feel like is a game of bridge.’
‘Sensible idea,’ Sir John stopped walking up and down. ‘But we haven’t a four.’
‘Mary,’ said Blaise, ‘it’s time you learnt to play.’
‘You know I hate cards.’ She was seething with – she sensed unreasonable – anger and indignation. ‘If you’re uncomfortable about anything, play cards!’
‘There is nothing we can do for Mrs Manning,’ Sir John told her gently, ‘She has gone with Auntie Sanni so she’s in good hands.’
That was part of the dismay. There would be no chance now of talking to Auntie Sanni. So I’m trapped, thought Mary, trapped.
‘McIndoe might play,’ Sir John was saying. ‘He sometimes does. I’ll ask him.’
The Colonel got up, willingly Mary thought. I expect he, too, wants to put this out of his mind. Kuku brought the card table, fresh packs of cards, score pads and stood by while they sat down, her eyes fixed on Blaise as Lady Fisher dealt.
Mary had thought of asking Sir John to intercede with Blaise; now she remembered vividly how once Lady Fisher had – gently, it was true – remonstrated with her when she, Mary, had gone to the bazaar instead of the Dawn Temple, ‘As Blaise so wanted you to do,’ and she had retorted, ‘I’ve been doing what Blaise wanted for three whole weeks. Can’t I have anything for myself?’
No sympathy, instead, ‘Diplomats have to keep a certain position,’ Lady Fisher had not said ‘prestige’. ‘Their wives, in a way, have to be diplomats too, even if it means tremendous self-sacrifice. I did it, your mother did it, so why not you?’
It would be no use talking to either Fisher – and a surge of frustration filled Mary, made worse when, ‘Mary,’ said Lady Fisher, ‘come and talk to us when one of us is dummy.’ ‘Good God, no!’ Mary wanted to scream but succeeded in only shaking her head. She stood up and put on Blaise’s jacket. ‘I think I’ll go to bed. I’m chilly and tired.’ Yes, go to bed, put her head under the sheet and shut out everything, everyone and never care about anything ever again.
As she stood up on the path, the shadowed garden seemed dark and empty, the lanterns on the path dim. Only the lights on Patna Hall’s verandah were bright, shining down on the four heads bent over the green table. Bridge! thought Mary furiously.
A waft of sweetness came to her. Who was it who had once told her that flowers can send you a message? The scent was queen of the night, with its small scented flowers. Carnations? Roses? I know what I can do, thought Mary. I’ll pick a bunch of flowers to put in Olga’s room, with some more whisky. That will show her at least someone cares about her. In the pocket of Blaise’s jacket was a small mother-of-pearl-handled penknife; she took it out. Cutting stems along the borders was soothing, laying one flower against another, sniffing the fragrance; the storm in her mind began to lull, and, though she could not exactly remember the words, she began to hum that Hindi lullaby . . .
‘A cradle of . . .
A cord of silk . . .
Come, little moonbird . . .’
When she had cut enough she went, softly singing, down the path. ‘All right, Slippers,’ she called, ‘I’m coming.’ She had his sugar and carrots in her handkerchief.
He whickered back.
‘Tsst.’
A small boy stepped out of the shadows. Mary knew him; he was one of the boys she had made garlands with. True, he had tormented the squirrel but he was smaller than the others and had attached himself to her, hanging all day yesterday around the lorry. Now he held out a paper to her, thin Indian paper folded. She recognised Krishnan’s writing and her heart began to beat quickly as she took the paper to the nearest lantern to read.
‘Mary, can you come and help me? I am alone.’
‘Krishnan Sahib. Where is Krishnan Sahib?’
The boy pointed along the beach.
He’s here! In the grove! A surge of happiness rose in Mary but she looked towards the verandah.
‘Kachiyundu,’ she said to the boy as Krishnan had said at the temple to Birdie, ‘kachiyundu. Wait,’ and gestured that she would give him money.
Forsaking Slippers she ran to the bungalow, left his sugar on the chest of drawers, quickly arranged the flowers in a vase, carried them and a glass of whisky to Olga’s room then wrote on the back of the paper ‘For B
laise. You see I have been asked!’ In the pocket of his jacket she found some change and, taking a rupee, she hung the jacket on the back of a chair – she was no longer chill. Tingling with warmth, she ran back to the boy. ‘Take this,’ she gave him the paper, ‘take,’ she pointed to the lit verandah. ‘For Sahib.’ She held up the rupee.
The boy’s eyes gleamed as he saw it. He nodded, took the rupee and the note and set off up the path. Mary watched him then, ‘Stay,’ she said to the disappointed Slippers, ‘I can’t stop now,’ and ran to the beach.
She did not see a bigger boy, wearing a yellow shirt, leap out of the bushes and jump on the smaller one, screwing the rupee out of his hand and beating him until he fled.
For a moment the boy in the yellow shirt scrutinised the note, crumpled it and let it drop as he set off after Mary.
The note lay on the side of the path.
Mary did not have to go as far as the grove. From a distance, across the stretch of moonlit sand, she saw what first seemed to be a dark rock in the froth and whiteness of the waves’ edges. It can’t be a rock, she thought, this beach doesn’t have rocks. Then, as she came nearer, she could see a figure standing on it, a dark-skinned figure wearing only a loincloth. As she looked, something like a thick snake came up – A sea monster, thought Mary for a horrified moment, or no, a hose, as a spray of water was sent up into the air then fell, deluging the figure. ‘Ayyo!’ came a furious voice. ‘Mŏsāgadu! Pishācha mu! Bad girl! Devil!’
It was Krishnan. He saw Mary and came to meet her, streaming with water, his hair in wet streaks.
‘I thought you were hidden at Ghandara, or are you your double?’
‘In a way, yes. Sharma is there. But come, we are wasting time.’
As he spoke the rock stood up – an elephant, Birdie.
