And so the weeks, chiming with light and love, sped by. They spent as much time as they could together, looked without pause into each other’s eyes, went for long walks on the narrow paths that ran through the tea, drinking deeply of the sights that littered the path on every side – the beauty of a stunted tree on a wind-scraped hillside, new rain bright on the feathers of a dove that regarded them curiously as they walked past, hand in hand, the perfect scalloped symmetry of yellow-white tea-flowers on a field of green, a runnel of water brushed by the wind . . . And with every day, their relationship grew more equal. Helen didn’t love him yet, but even as she held back, she sensed it would only be a matter of time. Kannan didn’t care; he could love enough for both of them. He told her so. She found this confidence very becoming and, as time passed, saw her earlier infatuations wither away in the blaze of this new and welcome phase in her life.
Intimacy begat intimacy. Helen at her dressing table, Kannan back from work. As they delighted in the sharing of their private spaces, they constructed an enclosed world that hadn’t existed before for either of them. She became Hen and he was Ken, and their nicknames held a special meaning to them. They invented new names for each other that disappeared in a minute or lasted for days. They laughed, they fought, they grew comfortable in their skins.
Helen enjoyed her new life and Kannan’s new self-assurance, the way in which he comported himself at the club or at the parties thrown to welcome the couple to the estates. She found Freddie delightful and even summoned up the nerve to invite him home. Supper would have been a disaster if Manickam, Kannan’s butler, hadn’t saved the day with the dishes he could never go wrong with, roast chicken and caramel cussard (as he insisted on calling it). Freddie had flirted mildly with Helen and Kannan had grown jealous until he realized that it was all right because she was his and Freddie was the interloper. Thinking about this late at night, after they had made love, he wondered if he felt so good because he was ascending in the white man’s world, where something of his was the envy of those who had hitherto existed on a superior plane. It was as if he’d begun to belong, even if it was only his friend Freddie who had given him this sense of empowerment. This would only be the first step, he promised himself. Helen and he would soon rule this world.
76
Lily’s brief excursion to Madras for Kannan’s wedding was the first time she’d left Doraipuram in over fifteen years. When she came back, she saw the colony with new eyes and was filled with despair at the general decline. She was especially shocked by the deterioration in Daniel. She realized that she’d grown used to it but now she saw with great sorrow the scanty hair, the deeply lined face and lacklustre eyes. As she left his room, her eyes filled with tears. Only a miracle, it seemed, could revitalize him.
Ten-year-old Daniel, named after his grandfather, seemed to be the answer to her prayers. Shanthi and her husband had moved recently and until they were properly settled they had entrusted their three children to Lily’s care. A few weeks after they’d arrived, Lily was mystified to hear sounds emanating from her husband’s laboratory. It had lain disused for years now, although she had kept it spick and span in the hope that Daniel would recover an interest in medicine. When she looked in, she was amazed to see the old man and his grandson standing at the workbench, deeply engrossed in something that was bubbling away over a low flame. A servant stood by ready to help.
‘Is everything all right?’ Lily asked. All three heads swivelled towards the door and her husband said enthusiastically, ‘Ah, Lily, do you know this marvellous boy?’
‘He is your oldest grandchild.’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Shanthi’s son, she named him for you. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, I do, indeed I do, umm, he’s the brightest young man I’ve seen in a long time. Lily, he has the interest, the passion, that I had at his age . . .’
You were disappointed in your son, Lily thought sadly, but the feeling was momentary, swept away by rising hope.
‘We must get the best tutors for him, Lily. His mind needs to be trained.’
Money was in short supply, as it had been for some time now, but with his usual ingenuity Ramdoss unearthed the necessary funds. The teachers began arriving at Neelam Illum. Lily’s workday expanded, for Daniel had decreed that she would need to keep an eye on the tutoring. And so it was that she would spend an hour or so dozing with her eyes open as the boy was taught. After the tutorial, she was expected to present Daniel to his grandfather. She usually left them alone, returning periodically to see if her husband had grown tired or wanted something.
One evening as she turned to go, after ushering in her grandson for his audience, Daniel surprised her by asking her to stay. His interest this evening seemed not to be focused on the boy.
‘I’m always amazed at how it’s the women that hold the Dorais together,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘We men go off and do things that we are inspired to do but we’ve been fortunate in our women. Without them we would have accomplished nothing. You’ve done wonders for this child, Lily,’ he said thoughtfully.
Somewhat taken aback, Lily protested weakly, ‘I didn’t do very much, he’s very clever.’
‘And as always you refuse to take any of the credit,’ Daniel mused softly, ‘always present, always self-effacing, always a rock. The Good Book was right: a man must leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife . . . for she will do him good and not evil all the days of her life . . . I forget how much you do for me sometimes, Lily, you must forgive me . . .’
Realizing that today was not about her grandson, she hurriedly sent the boy off to play, and sat down next to Daniel’s bed. Her husband regarded her affectionately. She had aged well. Her face was barely lined and there was still more black than white in her hair. A vagrant thought entered his head: her nose remained as delightfully tilted as when he’d first glimpsed her. Was the nose the part of the body that took the longest to grow old?
Aloud, he said: ‘You’re looking very well today.’
Lily didn’t know what to make of this; it had been years since Daniel had paid her any sort of compliment and she had lost the knack of dealing with them. What came next did nothing to lessen her confusion.
‘How’s Thirumoolar?’
Lily was unprepared for the question. She wondered what sort of answer to give Daniel. If she said Kannan was happy, Daniel might feel angry; if she said he wasn’t, he’d feel wrongly vindicated. She decided to feel her way into the conversation, and so said nothing.
‘Is he happy in his job?’ her husband asked.
‘He seems to be enjoying himself.’
‘That’s very good, Lily. The British will teach him a thing or two. Discipline, hard work, the desire to strive for perfection in everything he does . . .’
‘He’s had good things to say about the people he works with.’
‘Excellent.’ He paused a while, then said, ‘When was the last time you were on a tea estate?’
‘Oh, years and years ago, for my cousin’s wedding . . .’ she began wistfully but Daniel interrupted her. ‘I think you should visit Thirumoolar, see how he is doing. It would be a good break for you. You work so hard.’
‘But how will you manage?’
‘I’ll get by. Don’t worry. There’s Ramu and the servants, it’s not as though you’ll be gone for ever.’
A great joy filled Lily’s heart. This was the first time she had any real sense of a breakthrough. Now it could only be a matter of time before her family was together again, and she would be able to welcome her daughter-in-law to Neelam Illum. There would be more grandchildren . . . With an effort, she controlled her imagination. As she did, she felt a sudden impulse to hug her husband.
‘I’ll write to Kannan . . .’ she said.
‘You must get up there and return before the monsoons break. I’ve heard the roads become impassable during the rainy season.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
As she turned to go, Daniel calle
d out, ‘And don’t forget to take him some mango pickle, it was always his favourite.’
77
Mrs Matilda Stevenson’s Thursday afternoon teas were famous throughout the district. For a dozen years, ever since her husband was appointed Superintendent of Karadi Estate, she had presided over these monthly affairs, their prestige and mystique growing in direct proportion to her own place in society. And now that she was undisputed queen of Pulimed an engraved invitation to tea with her was a coveted prize. As time went by, Mrs Stevenson, who was acutely sensitive to nuance, became even more discriminating in her choice of invitees, and ever more fastidious in her arrangements. It was rumoured that the rarest teas to be had in India and China were served to her guests. It was common knowledge that the water that gave even the most ordinary tea its distinctive taste came from a pristine mountain spring that only Mrs Stevenson and one trusted retainer knew about. It was said that the tea service had been especially made for her by Spode, after which the pattern had been destroyed. The talk was that butter for the drop scones was churned from the milk of a cow used for no other purpose, and it was claimed that the gravel in the driveway was washed on the day of the tea, so it glittered to best effect. Mrs Stevenson, and the favoured few who constituted her inner circle, did nothing to deflect or dispel these rumours, and they grew ever more incredible. Every one of them served to further gild the occasion over which Mrs Stevenson serenely presided.
This Thursday, Mrs Stevenson and her closest friend, Mrs Wilkins, were ensconced in a small cluster of basket chairs in the western corner of the enormous front veranda, the traditional venue of the tea ever since the Stevensons had moved to Glenclare. They were discussing cannas. A great bunch of them shed cold yellow and orange fire on the lawns and their magnificence had attracted Mrs Wilkins’s passing interest.
‘Your cannas are looking fabulous this year, Matilda dear,’ Mrs Wilkins said. ‘Mine aren’t even half their size, and my gardener can’t seem to do anything with them. They’re quite ugly flowers, don’t you think?’
Mrs Stevenson nodded. ‘My chap is using a new kind of fertilizer that he pinched from Edward’s factory. Does wonders for cannas and hydrangeas.’
‘Must send my gardener over to talk to yours.’
‘Yes, yes, do, and he can take away as much fertilizer as he wants.’
There was a pause in the conversation as the butler arrived, magnificent in white turban, and trousers. He deftly whisked a damask tablecloth on to the table around which the chairs were grouped. Eggshell-thin china, silver, and neatly pressed napkins were efficiently laid out, and he disappeared as silently as he had come. The conversation faltered, then died out entirely as they waited for the tea.
It was understood by all the participants at Mrs Stevenson’s Thursday ritual that everything else was secondary to the actual partaking of the tea. No matter how stimulating or vicious the conversation, no matter how delicious the scones or the sandwiches (tomato, cucumber and, in place of water-cress – a Mrs Stevenson touch – salted tongue), everything was expected to be forgotten when tea arrived. Experienced campaigner that she was, Gloria Wilkins knew the drill. She stopped discussing cannas as the food was carried in by the servants: small mounds of sandwiches carefully cut to the prescribed thickness, golden-brown scones warm and deliciously aromatic, clotted cream and strawberry jam, butter sculpted like a yellow rose (a little vulgar this), and a rich, inviting pound cake that Mrs Wilkins knew from past experience was so delicious that its taste lingered long after the last slice had been ingested. Mrs Stevenson graciously provided the recipe to whoever asked but none of the other wives’ attempts succeeded: how could perfection be duplicated? The secret to its greatness was reputed to be Madaswamy, Mrs Stevenson’s butler, who was almost as legendary as his mistress. He had perfected the pound cake when he first came to work as a kitchen boy for Mrs Stevenson over a decade ago, and he had continued to make it ever since. But even the pound cake was expected to be done with by the time tea arrived, and so Mrs Wilkins dispatched one slice with great decorum and skill, and swiftly took another that was pressed on her by her hostess. Her experience stood her in good stead, as she had just swallowed the last morsel when Madaswamy padded on to the veranda, bearing the tea tray.
Enormous and intricately carved out of teak, it was astonishing to see how effortlessly the slightly built butler carried it, shoulder high. As he neared the two ladies, it was possible to discern a vast array of objects on the tray: three teapots, a brown one of terracotta, an exquisite Stafford porcelain one and Mrs Stevenson’s favourite, a Worcester teapot, part of the tea service she used most often. Four tea caddies, one of pewter, one of terracotta, one of tin and a fourth of heavy antique silver that no one had ever seen Mrs Stevenson open. Local gossip had it that within reposed buds of Yin Zhen, or Silver Needles, the exquisite white China tea from across the Himalayas, so rare and precious that it was plucked at dawn on only two days of the year provided the weather was right. Centuries ago, in imperial China, Yin Zhen was harvested by young virgins wearing gloves and using golden scissors. The joke was that when Mrs Stevenson was finally able to bring herself to drink her cache of Yin Zhen, she would find it had lost its flavour. Finally, a milk pitcher, sugar bowl, a saucer of finely sliced lemon, and two cups and saucers.
Madaswamy set the tray down on the table. Again from experience, and emulation (for which guest at Mrs Stevenson’s teas had not experimented with their own versions of the ceremony?), Mrs Wilkins knew that all three teapots would have been warmed to just the right temperature by placing them in bowls of hot water. She knew exactly what each teapot was used for as well – the terracotta one for the strong Glenclare teas, the porcelain one for the lighter tea from Watson, and the Worcester one for Mrs Stevenson’s favourite FTGFOP which was grown in one of the highest Darjeeling gardens. Among the world’s finest teas, it was composed entirely of the golden tips that gave it its name. A friend of Mrs Stevenson in Bengal sent her a regular supply.
Another servant had followed Madaswamy with a tray on which a single china pitcher rested. Again from experience, Gloria Wilkins knew that the water had been plucked from the stove just as it had started simmering (if it had been allowed to boil, it would have gone flat) and had been instantly transported to the veranda.
Mrs Stevenson asked, ‘Tea, my dear?’
‘Glenclare for me, Matilda,’ Mrs Wilkins said, and Mrs Stevenson gave her a brief smile and carefully spooned two teaspoons of tea from the terracotta caddy into the terracotta teapot. A minute for the tea’s aroma to be released and then the servant with the hot water was at hand and she poured the water into the teapot.
‘I think I’ll have some Darjeeling myself,’ Mrs Stevenson said, and her friend thought: At least there are some constant things in this world. Mrs Stevenson hadn’t changed that line in a decade. A third servant had materialized in the meantime bearing an identical pitcher of hot water. Mrs Stevenson filled the Worcester teapot with two teaspoons of tea, then poured the water over it, shut the lid and sat back.
The two ladies did not speak for the time it took for the tea to brew. Mrs Wilkins stared with great fascination at the Worcester teapot as if she could look within to the fine cracks ingrained through long exposure to tannin that gave the teapot its own distinctive flavour. Every connoisseur knew that you never washed out a teapot, you merely rinsed it and left it to dry in the open air or in the boiler room during the monsoon. The minutes passed and the five people on the veranda were as still as in a frieze. Then Mrs Stevenson asked, ‘Milk or lemon?’
Only two people whom Gloria Wilkins knew had asked for lemon and they hadn’t lasted long on the estates. She was permitted a drop of milk, and a single level teaspoon of sugar. Mrs Stevenson belonged to the school of tea drinkers that believed the milk should be poured into the cup before the tea is decanted. She now poured the milk, and then gently added the strong honey-coloured tea. Mrs Wilkins helped herself to sugar, and then Mrs Stevenson poured her own t
ea, the colour of evening sunlight. Nothing marred its perfection, not milk, not sugar.
The butler scooped up the tray once the ladies had taken up their saucers, and the three servants left the veranda in a stately procession. They would mysteriously reappear when Mrs Stevenson or one of her guests wanted a second cup, for the tea was freshly brewed every time. Mrs Wilkins smiled to herself when she recalled one marathon session where Madaswamy and his entourage had come and gone seventeen times. It was a well-embedded part of the Matilda Stevenson legend.
After they had sipped their tea in complete silence for a while, savouring the taste, the colour of the light, the flowers, they began chatting once more. Mrs Wilkins thought her friend looked a bit strained but it was always hard to tell with Mrs Stevenson. And she would never dare ask. If Matilda wanted to tell her what was on her mind, she would do so, in her own time.
Both ladies were in their early fifties, but there the similarity ended. Mrs Stevenson was thickish with middle age but was neither plump nor fat. She was tall, and her quite elaborate hairdo made her look even taller. But it was her face – ridged, seamed, even cross-hatched, each wrinkle earned at great cost from worry, battle or inclement weather – that lent her distinction. It was said that once you were able to interpret the patterns into which the wrinkles in Mrs Stevenson’s face arranged themselves you could tell in advance what was in store for you. Mrs Wilkins was short, plump and distinctly unthreatening. Large-lipped, with big cow-brown eyes, thirty years earlier she had been the object of many planters’ fantasies. Four children had given her a comfortable motherly air. Although neither of them would have thought of it that way, Mrs Wilkins was the ideal foil for her friend. She did whatever Mrs Stevenson wanted at the shortest possible notice, and brought great patience and unmatched listening skills as well as gossip to the relationship. In return for all these, she was granted the privilege of being Matilda Stevenson’s closest friend and had the right to call her by her Christian name, the only person in the entire district, apart from her husband, now allowed to do so.
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 37
