The verandah was wonderful; I found it to be the best place in the whole, grand, overdone house. Bamboo trellises, upon which grew masses of creepers yielding reddish yellow flowers that I later found out were called bignonia, screened the verandah, creating a cool, green room. On the floor were grass mats, and there were hanging baskets and flower boxes with pink geraniums, white and red achimenes, rubbery begonias, and fragile violets. Chairs and chaises provided comfortable seating; instead of the hard horsehair settees or overstuffed chairs in the parlor, the verandah had small grass chairs and bamboo couch chairs for the ladies and heavy, dark teak chairs with wide seats and tall curling backs for the men.
When I had the opportunity to be alone on the verandah for a few minutes I sometimes allowed myself the privilege of lolling, leaning back on one of the couch chairs with my arms over my head, smelling the cool green of the plants. Mrs. Waterton had warned me that at the first breath of the hot season all the plants would shrivel and die, no matter how many times a day they were watered, and that I should enjoy them while I could.
“Meg, today the durzi spoke English to me, but seemed frightened that I should let on,” I said to her, quietly, so that he wouldn’t hear.
She grimaced. “Of course. There’s really no way for them to win at all in most households—or at least with petty tyrants like Mr. Waterton. If a servant is perceived as too stupid, he’s beaten and dismissed; if he shows he is clever—and one indication could be that he has mastered the English language—he’s viewed with suspicion and, possibly, dismissed. It’s completely unfair, of course, but a game played by the people of this country in order to survive. Of course, much of the same goes on back home, but the rigidity of master and servant is more noticeable to me here. Perhaps because we, after all, are not of this country. We are of England, and yet—” She stopped, as if aware of saying too much. She stood suddenly, causing the boy with his whisk to jump out of her way, and went to one of the hanging baskets, pinching off a dying flower. “Anyway, I can’t wait to get to mofussil—that’s the countryside—and away from all this pompous nonsense and overbearing officiousness. I find it quite intolerable. It’s much, much more informal in the countryside.” She studied my face. “Do I have to fear you’ll report my mutinous thoughts?” Although the sentence was serious, I could tell by her expression that she hoped she had seen in me an ally.
“Of course not,” I told her, smiling warmly. “But I do hope you’re not leaving too soon.”
“I imagine I shall be here another two weeks.” She continued to study me, and I felt a prickle of the old fear under her scrutiny. I had long ago stopped worrying about Faith ever finding me out, or questioning my behavior in any way. Although I knew she cared about me, she didn’t seem to study me with much depth. I often felt I was a reflecting board for her feelings and thoughts; mine were not of that much interest to her. Of course, this had always worked in my favor. But with everyone else here, as it had been during my time in Everton, I was constantly on my guard, fearful of giving myself away with a sudden wrong word, a lapse in manners.
There was a canniness in Meg’s long face that worried me. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Linny Smallpiece,” she said now. “I think I would like to know where you have been, and what you have seen. You give the impression of one who knows much more than she cares to say, unlike most people, who say much about things they know little about.”
I was unable to think of a proper response. My palms were wet; I hid them in the folds of my watered silk tea gown.
“I’m sorry. Have I offended you?” Meg asked, finally. “My aunt and uncle and cousins—as well as my husband—are all used to my forthright outbursts. They not only tolerate my free thinking, but at times encourage it. And it so happens that I may forget myself in polite company.”
Polite company. Here was young Mrs. Liston, apologizing to me because she might be appearing common. It really was quite ironic, and I might have delighted in it were I not so uncomfortable.
“No, I’m not offended,” I said. “I’m just not . . . particularly at ease talking about myself.”
“Of course you aren’t. Most well-brought-up young ladies wouldn’t be. Please ignore me and my inappropriate familiarity. I do apologize.” She smiled.
“There’s no need to apologize.” I returned her smile, relaxing then and feeling a rush of gratitude for Meg Liston. By asking my forgiveness, and allowing me to grant it to her, she had endowed me with a feeling that was akin to benevolence.
Chapter Eighteen
AND SO WE BEGAN THE ROUNDS OF SOCIAL EVENTS IN EARNEST. We attended dinner after dinner, and it felt as if every hostess gave the same dinner party. We would have a drink at precisely eight o’clock in the drawing room, where Faith and I and any of the other unmarried ladies from the ship—I refused to use the phrase Fishing Fleet—were introduced to bachelors. There was polite chitchat, which I found dreadfully tedious, as I had to keep my wits about me every moment. I despaired of telling the same brief, fabricated story of my past in England night after night, of smiling politely at the same small talk, and of feigning great interest in the stories of the men. A tiresome game that I had played so many times, in so many forms. When I felt I would scream if I had to stand one moment longer, my glass sticky in my glove, we were finally summoned to the dining room by the bearer. We filed to the room in a strict order of precedence, depending on the position of the husband within the civil service. The hierarchy was very much in play here in the candlelit glitter of these fancy dinners, in much the same way as it was with the servants.
At many of the grander dinners a servant waited behind every chair; every place had its array of cutlery and a champagne glass—complete with silver cover to keep insects from falling in—and finger bowls with a sweet-smelling flower floating in them. The seating was planned with the utmost care; the most senior gentleman sat to the right of the hostess, and the most senior lady to the right of the host. The Watertons appeared fairly high up on the seating scale, while Meg—who didn’t often join us, giving a variety of excuses, which I knew were fabricated to avoid the formal fuss and tedium—had a low spot at the table. But the very lowest were Faith and I, as we had no man to lift us in rank. We ate variations of the same English food: soup, followed by fish, joints, overcooked vegetables, then puddings and savories. And it appeared to me, that first week, like the table settings and the menus, that in appearance everyone looked similar—the gentlemen in their boiled white shirts and tails, the women in their feathers and long, wrinkled gloves and dresses of surprisingly similar styles, made, I assumed, by many of the same durzis who had a limited number of patterns.
There were a few times, I will admit, when my thoughts went back to standing at a high table in a crowded, noisy chophouse, eating a greasy pie with the other girls from Paradise. How the stories had flowed easily, the laughter loud and genuine, the camaraderie honest. I knew I had experienced one sort of freedom there that nobody in these rooms had ever known.
When the meal was over there were port and Madeira poured for the gentlemen, while the ladies gathered in the drawing room with cordials or ratafia, waiting for the men to finish their drinks and join them. Then there might be music played on a piano that always sounded out of tune. And eventually the senior lady stood, and this was an indication that we could all leave. Nobody, it appeared, would dare to depart until the senior lady of the evening had made her silent declaration.
As well as the formal dinners, we attended afternoon teas and more casual evenings of cards and dance salons at the other opulent homes of the affluent areas of Garden Reach and Chowringhee and Alipur.
I found it so difficult, the endless social chatter. The voice I had used since I began my work at the Lyceum—the cultured voice with the same inflection as Shaker and as Faith—came now with little concentration. But it was the energy that I needed to act as if interested, as well as putting on a combination of appearing demure and yet cheery, that exhausted me. I wasn’t eith
er. Demure was difficult; cheerful, even more so. It’s not that I was bold or glum. I didn’t know what I was. I only know that nothing ever felt right in those overdecorated drawing rooms. I was always acting, a player on a stage. Except that the play never ended, not until I retired to my room at the Watertons’, and even then I wasn’t alone. There were always the servants—the durzi and the sweeper and the polisher and the tiny boy with his fly whisk—in and out, and the ayah and punkah wallah permanent fixtures.
DURING THIS BEGINNING of my time in India I felt as if I were waiting, waiting to actually see India. I wasn’t allowed anywhere without Mrs. Waterton and Faith, although Meg was allowed time on her own, with other married ladies such as herself. Our only expedition, apart from visits to the other homes, all similar to the Watertons’—on the long road that ran in a straight line from Government House to Chowringhee—was to the Maidan in the center of Calcutta. Of course the palanquin curtains were always firmly shut. I had peeked out the first time we went for an afternoon, and had seen, running in all directions off the good road, fetid alleys and torturous lanes, the twisting underbelly of Calcutta. I was severely reprimanded by Mrs. Waterton for my indiscretion, and from then on sat, like Faith, with my gloved hands in my lap until we arrived at the Maidan. The huge flat esplanade of greenery boasted small orange groves and pleasant graveled paths, and was bordered by an array of flowering trees. There were no Indians allowed in the Maidan except for ayahs with their small charges and those sweeping the meticulous path or picking any fallen leaves or flowers from beneath the trees. We sat on freshly painted benches and chatted in exactly the same way that ladies of society would gather and chat in a park in any part of England. Faith and I were assured that we should enjoy this weather, for it wouldn’t last much past the end of January. This brief cool season was free of the intense heat and debilitating humidity which, I was told, brought out an uncomfortable heat rash as well as hordes of flying and crawling, biting insects.
“It will be arriving all too soon,” Mrs. Waterton warned, her lips pursed. “All too soon. And then you’ll get a true taste of India.”
If I only could.
December 15, 1830
Dear Shaker,
India is an education; I am a tabula rasa, ready to be inscribed with all India has to write on me. No matter what the future, I know, with some deep animal instinct, that I am to be marked by this land.
I am amazed by the attitude and role of the English, although I have not been here long enough to have a completely informed opinion. But from what I have experienced in this first month I am feeling uncomfortable, being forced into a position of unnatural importance. Although I have been treated admirably by every white person I have met, there is an obvious underlying hostility toward the Indians. Toward them, Shaker—and it is their own land. The East India Company—casually referred to here as John Company—is like a huge and heavy master, forcing the people of India in directions they surely do not want to go. And yet it appears that perfectly ordinary British men and women, shortly upon settling here, don a voluminous imperial cloak as if it is their right—no, their duty.
I cannot imagine bearing this weight.
While Calcutta is, as they say, the “city of palaces,” I would call it a city of contrasts. Near to where Faith and I are staying, with Mr. and Mrs. Waterton on Garden Reach, is a world of squared white buildings of classical design, all thanks to the presence of this honorable John Company. But so near the fine shops and beautiful homes are rows of mud-thatched huts and the sight of a body burning on the river’s shore. Over the fragrance of jasmine hangs the stench of open drains and rotting corpses.
Shaker, you would not believe the things one sees. I made the discovery that the Watertons employ a servant who stands all day at the riverbank behind their home. He shoves corpses—some with vultures already at work—back into the river before they can pile up on the bank. The man looked frightened when I came upon him and his grisly job. The gamy scent of decaying flesh was in the air. He demonstrated that I was to cover my eyes and flee, as if he were somehow responsible for what I had seen, and would be punished. Poor man.
I wouldn’t think there is any source of medical help for the Indian people. I asked Mrs. Waterton, only the other day, why there are so many obviously sick and maimed people at every turn. Do they not have a medical service, I asked her. She laughed at me, Shaker, implying that I was a silly girl, at which I took affront, although I was careful to hide my anger from her as she is, after all, my hostess. Then she told me that these heathens have their own forms of hullabaloo that they consider healing, all noise and nonsense, she assured me. Of course, I’m sure there is more to their methods of treatment than Mrs. Waterton is aware of, but I knew it best not to suggest it. Then I asked if any of them were ever treated by the physicians and surgeons employed by the East India Company. At that she simply shook her head and said, in a very huffy manner, “Really!”
I suppose I had better watch my step.
There is a very interesting woman staying here as well. Her name is Meg Liston. I feel I am learning much from her.
You now have an address should you ever choose to correspond, Shaker.
I hope and pray that you are well.
Yours faithfully,
Linny
It was Meg who filled me with hope for my future in India, for she was full of opinions and questions. She told me she had already started writing a book on the shrines of India, as well as organized a collection of sketches she had made of local customs, both of which she planned to finish while traveling to villages in the Lucknow area. She argued openly with Mr. Waterton.
“It’s all very easy when you have no European rivals in India, Mr. Waterton,” she announced at the table one evening shortly before her husband was scheduled to arrive for her. “And after the defeat—perhaps I should say the crushing—of the Marathas in the Anglo-Maratha war just over twenty years ago, you have no Indian ones, either. The Company is responsible for ruling ever-larger parts of India, and yet you refuse to learn to communicate with her people effectively.”
Mr. Waterton’s left eye winked furiously. “We have an earnest desire to teach these heathens what the Almighty has given us. There is only anarchy without us. The good Indian is the obedient Indian, the one with complete dependence on us. We must have faith that our values will put things in order.”
“Our values? Ha!” declared Meg. I hid my smile behind my napkin. “And just what have we achieved so far?”
“Meg? May I offer you more fruit compote?” Mrs. Waterton asked, glancing at her husband, a wan smile fixed in place. “The cook has tried so hard to get it right; I’ve been working with him for the last—”
“What have we achieved?” Mr. Waterton demanded. “Achieved? Why, Mrs. Liston, look around you. Do you not believe in the hierarchy of society? Do you not believe that as British men and women we are at the top, and therefore able to do our job of controlling and bringing enlightenment?”
“Why should we think only we are at the top?” I asked.
All heads turned toward me, and I felt a moment of trepidation.
“Good for you, Linny,” Meg said. “You see—she agrees. We are the new generation. Myself, and Linny—and Faith,” she added, with only a second of hesitancy, “are confident women ready to rise to a new challenge of being part of the bigger whole.”
Faith made a sound that could have been agreement or denial. I wanted to shake her. Why didn’t we speak up? She had so many opinions—too many, I’d sometimes thought. And yet, since we’d left Liverpool it was as if she’d left something of herself behind. Could it be that she felt that old Faith had been unsuccessful in securing a proposal of marriage, and now, in what she saw as her last chance, she was determined to fit into the conventional role that might work more successfully for her? I intended to ask her.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Waterton said, now having completely lost the last vestiges of her smile. “Really, I’m afraid we mus
t move to the verandah, where it’s fresher, for our coffee. Please. We must move to the verandah.” She stood, and we all were forced to rise and follow her outside. Mr. Waterton excused himself to smoke in his billiard room, and the conversation—aggressively directed by Mrs. Waterton—regressed to talk of the weather and its effect on the flowers. “Just think, all the lovely phlox and nasturtiums will be ruined by the first blast of hot weather,” she exclaimed.
I saw that Meg’s chest was rising and falling too quickly as she sat stiffly on the edge of a grass chair, not joining in or even appearing to take note of Mrs. Waterton’s attempts at a conversation. She finally rose, excused herself, and left the verandah, heading to the garden, her back stiff. I watched the mali follow her with a light chair should she wish to sit. Meg turned and waved him away with an impatient flick of her hand. He stood there momentarily as if confused, finally setting down the chair and squatting beside it. His eyes never left Meg, as if hoping she would change her mind and need his services.
When Meg was out of earshot, Mrs. Waterton shook her head. “My. I wonder how her husband will deal with her. She is all too eager to show signs of learning. Not a desirable trait at all. Not desirable at all.”
I glanced at Faith, who was absently picking at a loose strand of rattan on the arm of her chair. Wearing a gown of pale rose batiste with matching pink satin slippers, she was lovely and languid. Her pale, long-fingered hand played listlessly with the bit of binding as if unaware of her surroundings.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 22
