An awkward silence fell over the table, and Mrs. Waterton sharply called out “Koi-hai?” Another boy hurried in and took away our plates. “The dessert,” she said, and from a long table against the wall the khitmutgar brought a lacquered tray of bowls of creamy brown. “I had custel brun—I’m sorry, caramel custard—prepared in your honor,” she said. “You must have missed your pudding while on board. It’s what I always miss when forced to sail home or back again. My pudding.”
Faith and I attempted to swallow as much of the sweet, rich custard as we could. Mr. Waterton had waved his hand at the dessert, obviously not as fond of pudding as his wife. Now the server poured Mr. Waterton a cup of tea, and, I noticed, also put in sugar and stirred it for him. I wondered if he would hold the cup to Mr. Waterton’s lips, but Mr. Waterton did appear capable of this on his own.
I FELL INTO A DEEP and dreamless sleep almost immediately upon placing my head on the pillow and letting my body sink into the thick mattress that first night. When I opened my eyes to shafts of brilliant sunshine slicing through the window screens I was momentarily disoriented and sat up in alarm, but the woman in white—whom Mrs. Waterton had told me would be my ayah—appeared out of nowhere, pulling back the netting and handing me a glass of something milky and sweet that was very refreshing. I realized, after she had helped me with my dress and hair, that I was rested and excited to discover what the day would hold.
Faith looked better than she had the day before, although the shadows around her eyes were still dark when we met in the dining room. We were greeted by yet another groaning table. I was still full from the night before, and nibbled on a sweet bun and ate a plaintain, much to Mrs. Waterton’s disappointment. And, as promised, Faith and I met Mrs. Liston—and I immediately liked her. I guessed her age to be between Faith’s and mine. She had dark blond hair in thin ringlets and wide green eyes. She laughed with her mouth open. Unfortunately, her face had been badly marked by the vestiges of a long-ago bout with smallpox, but she appeared unaffected in all ways. She had been born in India, gone home for schooling as a small child, and then returned three years ago to live once again with her parents. She had seen her mother only three times in the twelve years she’d lived in England, and her father not at all, which was, she said, only natural.
“Natural?” I’d asked. “To see your mother three times in all those years?”
“You’re too new to know the ways of the English in India, Miss Smallpiece,” Mrs. Waterton interrupted. “As it happens, my own four children are living with relatives in Cambridge, having a proper education. I accompanied my youngest two years ago, when he turned five. I do try my best to get to England every third year, but the duration and unpredictability of the voyage are, of course, quite restricting.”
Inwardly I wondered at the backbone of these women, that they conceded to this rigid rule of parting with their young children. It was, I was to understand later, only one of the sacrifices—although perhaps the greatest—that the British women in India suffered in order to support their husbands.
“Once you start to socialize, you’ll notice there are no older English children here. Mothers in India must face an inevitable separation,” Mrs. Liston said. “Children aren’t allowed to stay here beyond the age of five or six—they must be sent home for proper schooling. So the mother must decide if she will accompany her child or stay with her husband. Most choose the latter. I lived with an aunt and uncle and three male cousins all those years—and I’m afraid my parents were rather shocked at how I turned out when I finally returned. I wasn’t what they had hoped for, I’m afraid.” But she laughed as she spoke the last sentence, and her genuine laughter tempered the rather strange comment.
I smiled, glancing at Mrs. Waterton, but she wore a rather guarded expression, and was paying great attention to her rumble-tumble, as she called it. Scrambled eggs. Already I had noticed the obvious household jargon.
“Anyway, Mr. Liston and I have only been married for two months. He’s gone ahead to prepare our home in Lucknow, which is in the northeast, where he’s been appointed a district officer. And since Father retired from the East India civil service a month ago and he and Mother sailed for England, well, the Watertons have been generous enough to have me stay with them until Mr. Liston returns for me.”
“How did you meet your husband?” Faith asked. I was pleased to see she had regained some of the color in her cheeks and she had done her hair in a most charming way. Her rust-colored frock brought out the creaminess of her skin.
“Oh, we met through friends, shortly after I arrived, but there wasn’t much romance at first.”
Mrs. Waterton cleared her throat, but Mrs. Liston didn’t appear to notice.
“No, we were good friends for quite a while. We often went riding—chaperoned, of course,” she added, which I felt was for Mrs. Waterton’s benefit, “out into the country. We rode through miles of mustard fields or beans with wonderful scents. We’d pass peacocks strutting about, and ride into villages where the dogs would rush out, barking round the horses’ legs. The villagers were ever so polite and friendly, offering us refreshments, offering us a seat. He’s full of surprises, is my Mr. Liston, and while we were courting he introduced me to all manner of interesting and unexpected adventures, from visiting shrines in the countryside to pig sticking. I’d always known I didn’t enjoy many of the pastimes most young ladies enjoy—maybe it was my upbringing in the country with my cousins—and never fully expected to marry. Oh, come now, Mrs. Waterton,” she said, at the woman’s shocked intake of breath. “Don’t look so gloomy. You know it to be true.” She smiled back at me. “I play no instrument, my singing causes the birds to fly from the trees, and dancing with me is like lurching about with a drunken goose.”
I had to laugh with her.
“Cards have always remained a mystery to me,” she went on, “and I find musical evenings and flower arranging and spending hours poring over the goods displayed by the box wallahs so tedious.” She faced Mrs. Waterton again. “Now, please, Mrs. Waterton, humor me. Agree that it isn’t the end of the world that I have been unable to master the expected accomplishments.”
“Of course it’s not, dear,” Mrs. Waterton murmured, but it was obvious she disapproved of Mrs. Liston’s choices, and of her unabashed disclosure of these choices.
“And what of you girls? Are you quite prepared for the social activities which are absolutely endless during the cool season?” Mrs. Liston asked us, putting a large forkful of fried plaintain into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed with a gusto that I knew Mrs. Waterton disapproved of, and yet I found her enthusiasm quite pleasurable.
“I most certainly am,” Faith said, daintily cutting her sausage into tiny bites. “After the positively wretched months on that ship I am quite prepared to enjoy myself. I’m sorry to have to admit, Mrs. Liston, that I’m one of those young ladies who do enjoy dancing and cards and all the other pleasurable aspects of an active social life.” Her voice, no longer weary as it had been the evening before, now had an almost haughty air, which surprised me. I assumed she would like Mrs. Liston. In fact, the other woman’s straightforward speech and confidence reminded me of the Faith I had known in Liverpool. I realized then just how much Faith had changed during the voyage, but I knew that once she was rested properly she would regain her excitement of life and make me laugh with her outrageous statements and confidences. I made a pretense of spooning a strange-looking orange jam onto my bun, watching Faith from under my eyelashes.
“I do intend to enjoy myself,” Faith repeated.
“As you will, my dear,” Mrs. Waterton said, smiling again. “As you will.”
I witnessed, that first day, that Mrs. Waterton spoke sharply to her servants and constantly grumbled about them. She didn’t call them by name, instead calling them by the name of the job they performed. And yet she did seem to carry almost an underlying sense of affection for them—and they treated her with the utmost respect. In very short order I began to
understand the hierarchy of these servants.
The household was run by the khansana, or head bearer. It quickly appeared to me that he kept a stern eye on all the other servants. Then there was the khitmutgar, the imposing figure waiting on us at the table. There were a number of servers under him. Next came the cook—the biwarchi, or, as Mrs. Waterton referred to him, the bobajee. He had an assortment of helpers, which Mrs. Waterton simply called the bobajee’s boys. Then there was the chuprassi, or messenger, in his fine red sash, whose job it was to stand at the door all day to open it to admit anyone who entered, and to accept all chits, or calling cards, that were delivered. There was the dhobi, in charge of washing and ironing the clothing and linen, the bheesti to carry water, the mali to look after the gardens, and the night watchman, the chowkidar. Mrs. Waterton shared a durzi, or tailor, with two other households. There was a huge cleaning staff, each with a specific job. The boy who carried the dishes from the dining room was not the boy who washed the dishes. Another polished the silver. The boy who swept the house was not the same boy who swept out the verandah. The boy who dusted could not touch the dishes, and so on. The youngest servants were the host of punkah pullers and the very small boys who forever hovered behind our chairs, waving horsetail whisks over our heads to discourage insects from alighting on us. The only female servants I saw were the ayahs—each woman in the house had a personal ayah to help her with bathing and dressing and brushing and styling her hair.
There appeared to be a litiny of rigid rules, which were overwhelming at first. Over and over I asked someone passing me in the hall, or on the verandah, or in the dining room, for something, only to be met with a blank look. At first I assumed it was because they couldn’t understand the few simple commands I learned, but then later realized I had simply asked the wrong person. As the majority of servants—apart from the khitmutgar and chuprassi—dressed in simple white dhotis, shirts, and turbans, their feet bare, I found it difficult to distinguish them. But within a few days I began to recognize faces, and height, and distinctive manners of walking.
By the end of our third day in Calcutta it occurred to me that there was nothing for any of us to do. Mr. Waterton—and it would seem, every Englishman who wasn’t in the army—was a civil servant for the East India Company. Mr. Waterton was a director of land records; he left after breakfast, returned for lunch, went back to work until dinner. The household ran itself—or rather, was run by the imposing khansana. From what I witnessed, Mrs. Waterton’s role was primarily to meet with her bobajee each morning and discuss the meals of the day. After this, she might inspect the rooms to see if they had been cleaned to her standards. There were the flowers—armloads of blossoms cut and laid in an enormous pile by the mali, with vases filled with water at the ready—that she might arrange. Sometimes she consulted with the durzi over what she wanted sewn up or repaired. Some days a box wallah came to the back door and spread out his wares, ranging from ribbons and cooking pans to fabric and teapots. Mrs. Waterton would pick what she wanted and hand the required rupees to one of the serving staff, who would in return hand it to the box wallah. She would write out any chits to communicate with or reply to chits left by neighbors. This was done between breakfast and lunch.
There was a large lunch, a nap, and then perhaps afternoon callers, followed by dinner out by invitation, or, if it was dinner in, a visit to the Calcutta Club or to a social event.
“MRS. WATERTON,” I SAID, finding the woman at a small table in the drawing room, studying a book that had illustrations of cakes, “would it be possible to go for a walk?” It was our third day in Calcutta; as Mrs. Waterton had predicted, I felt refreshed. I had continued to sleep well and was now anxious to see some of Calcutta outside the front door. Faith was reading in her room, but had agreed that she would go for a stroll with me if there were a chaperone.
“Certainly, dear. Just follow the path through the garden along the flowers. It is lovely to walk in the garden.” She didn’t look up from the book.
“No,” I said. “I meant a walk outside the garden.”
She looked up now, her finger on the page. “A walk? Where would you walk?”
“I—I don’t know. I wondered if Faith and I—if we were accompanied by Mrs. Liston, of course, or by yourself—might go for a walk.”
“Do you mean on the road?” Her face showed consternation. “Oh, no, my dear. It just isn’t done. A lady doesn’t walk about the streets of Calcutta. This is not London, or Cheltenham. One simply doesn’t walk about,” she repeated.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Well, one wouldn’t, would one? It’s quite all right. You’ll learn how things are done here very shortly.” She bent her head over her recipe again.
I stood there. “Would it be possible to go for a ride, then?”
Now she closed the book. Gently, but with a definite purpose. “A ride? At this time of day?”
I glanced at the swinging pendulum of the mantel clock, swallowing. Was I showing complete ignorance? I should have conferred with Faith first. “Oh. It’s just gone two. I didn’t realize . . .”
“Well, it’s not unheard of, I suppose. But I shall have to have the chuprassi summon a palanquin. Where did you wish to go?”
I looked down at the carpet. “I don’t know, Mrs. Waterton. But I would so like to see some of the city.”
Mrs. Waterton’s lips formed a thin line. “There’s very little of interest to see. There is a possibility of a drive to the Maidan after dinner, to take the cool evening air. I suppose, if you are quite insistent, that we could arrange to do that now, but I hadn’t planned for an outing today. I feel I have quite a bit to do with planning for meals right now, as there are more of us in the house than I’m used to. And I have a number of calling cards to answer.”
It was obvious by her tone and the steel in her voice—as well as her reference to having extra guests, through her own goodwill—that I should not be asking for anything as frivolous as a ride out. “I understand, Mrs. Waterton, of course. Please. Forgive my uncalled-for request.” I backed out of the room. “I’ll have a lovely stroll in the garden.”
She opened her book again. “Yes. That’s best, my dear. That’s best.”
It appeared that I must wait a while longer to find out about the country I had come to. Mrs. Waterton seemed content to shut out the whole Indian world and concentrate on the one she knew.
WE BEGAN TO SET UP our social calls on the fourth day. A number of calling cards that had been delivered were brought in by the chuprassi, and Mrs. Waterton and Faith and I read them over together. There were invitations for dances and dinner parties and evenings of cards. Mrs. Waterton went through the wardrobes we had purchased before leaving England, studying our dresses and admiring the latest styles. “You have a good selection, but you shall need more. It won’t do to be seen in the same frock at too many events. We shall purchase some new material, and then have the durzi make new ones in similar styles. They’re wonderful at reproducing, down to a stitch, these Indian durzis. One must be careful, though—such is my durzi’s zealousness that if there has been a small rent, patched over, even the patch will be reproduced. Even the patch, bless him!”
I REALIZED, ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, how uncomfortable I was about the complete servitude. I looked away when I witnessed the tall chuprassi, in his fine uniform and rigid bearing, go down on his knees to dust off Mr. Waterton’s shoes with a tiny brush every time the short, officious man entered the door. I noticed the burned hand of the dhobi, and knew how the blistered welt, caused, I deduced, by a heated iron, must ache. And yet he cheerfully salaamed before he accepted still another mound of lightly soiled linen Mrs. Waterton piled in his outstretched arms. I saw my ayah crying when I came into my room unexpectedly. She was straightening the items on my dressing table, tears coursing down her face, but when she saw me she beamed as if overjoyed to see me, gesturing for me to sit on the stool. I tried to question her as to why she was crying,
pointing to her face, but she acted as if it was nothing, completely unimportant, brushing at her cheeks with a careless swipe, never losing her smile. I saw that one of the little fly-whisk boys was missing the last two toes of his right foot, and that the amputation was fairly fresh, and that he touched it gingerly when he thought no one watched him. I wondered if he was the son of any of the other servants, or if he had parents at all. I wondered about many things, but dared not mention my observances to Faith or even Mrs. Liston, as it might make them think strangely of me, that I should bother myself so with people who should not be noticed at all.
I WANTED TO INSTRUCT the durzi that all my dresses must have a neckline that covered my scar. I tried to remember my Hindi, but couldn’t find the words. Finally, alone with him in my bedroom but for the ayah, I disclosed my scar, then held a piece of fabric over it. The durzi, his face showing nothing, said, so quietly that at first I thought I hadn’t heard him, “Missy sahib would like her dresses to cover this? It is possible.”
“You speak English?” I cried, smiling, but at the look on his face and the violent shaking of his head, I clapped my hand over my own mouth as if I had done something wrong. Once more he shook his head, this time putting his finger to his lips, and I understood that I was not to let on that I knew he could speak English.
That afternoon Mrs. Waterton had left me alone with Mrs. Liston, who had asked me to call her by her Christian name, Meg, on the verandah. Well, alone as one ever is in India. The durzi sat cross-legged in one corner, stitching my new dress. He held the fabric straight between his toes, and in his turban he had stuck dozens of needles of different sizes, threaded with assorted colors, which he pulled out as needed. A bearer stood at the waiting, should we require something, and, of course, little boys waved their fly-whisks over us the whole time.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 21
