1977 (12 page)

about the table first offered and then about a gravy stain on the menu the waiter handed

him.

But he was obviously enjoying himself. The Srinivasans waved. Bobbie and Nita Ghosh

came across for a word. The Desais, arriving, stopped by and chatted long enough for Lucy

to fear that Tusker would invite them to join him at his expense. The Desais were the richest

free-loaders in Pankot. And not once, going to Europe, had they come back with one single

little thing from the modest list they usually asked Lucy to give them. Moreover, they were

the only two of Tusker’s Indian friends who had neither called nor sent flowers. Well, almost

the only two. If she put her addled little mind to it she imagined she’d be able to think of

several others who would make the same kind of fantastic excuses Mrs Desai was making

about having only “just heard” because they’d been here, there, everywhere, dashing about

the place, what with their son Bubli to see off to Dusseldorf, a conference in Delhi Mr Desai

had had to attend and now their daughter’s marriage coming off shortly in Bombay, eight

hundred guests, a killing expense.

“Can’t they just elope?” Tusker asked. Tusker said things like that to Mrs Desai. It was a

form of flirtation, although she knew he didn’t like the woman. Mrs Desai threw back her

disgustingly beautiful head and laughed, and her diminutive husband who had no

conversation that wasn’t about money actually smiled as if this was an idea he had turned

over in his computer-like mind and regretfully rejected. Their daughter was to marry a

minister’s grandson.

“What a marvellous idea,” Mrs Desai said. “Ved and Sita would adore to do just that, but

his parents are crashingly orthodox and seem to have literally hundreds of relations, apart

from all the government people who’ll expect to be invited. Thank God it’s Bombay and not

Delhi, or I suppose we’d have had to have
her
too.”

“Come,” Mr Desai said.

Tusker now sat down. In public he was punctilious about such things. As he settled again

he muttered, “With a crore of her husband’s black market money to try and get rid of, what’s

she complaining about?”

“Oh, Tusker,” she whispered, then—looking at the prices for the first time—thought, Oh

God. “I think the soup of the day, don’t you?”

“Not unless you want to kill me off for good. You’re looking at Tahble Dhoti, which is the

usual load of old rubbish from yesterday’s left-overs.”

That’s us too, Lucy thought, not quite thinking it in words but getting their resonance. She

wished he wouldn’t use his private language in public. Tahble Dhoti. People sometimes

misunderstood.

“What we’re looking at is the Allah Carti. Or the Allah Cart, after all we’re all in it up to the

neck. Say what you want, Luce and don’t look at the rupees.”

She took off her spectacles. First “old thing” and now “Luce”. A goose walked over her

grave. “I’ll have what you have, Tusker, but I’m honestly not terribly hungry and remember

what Dr Mitra said. Please be circumspect.”

Was he going to mention the
mali
? It was strange that he had refused to mention him so

far. He had not mentioned the garden once, since the night she found him crying on the loo.

Perhaps he was ashamed. She had never seen him cry before. She had half-hoped that Dr

Mitra, who had visited one day soon after the
mali
started, would say something, so that

Tusker would be forced to take note and say something himself, but Mitra was a man who

never noticed domestic arrangements and had hardly listened, probably hadn’t taken it
in
,

when she confided to him that the state of the garden was getting on Tusker’s nerves.

But I’m not going to think about all this today, she told herself. I am here, at the Shiraz,

with Tusker. She looked round the room. There were some American tourists at the far end

of the room. She guessed they were American because they were all talking to one another,

and at least two of the women had their hair done like Jackie Kennedy. Between her and the

Americans was a table-load of Japanese with their cameras slung over the backs of their

chairs. The Japanese were saying nothing but eating with oriental patience and waiting—

waiting for what? For Kohima to fall at last? For the gates of Delhi to crumble? Or for the

snow on the peaks of the distant mountains to melt under delayed radiant heat from

Hiroshima?

Just then Mrs Bhoolabhoy billowed in, in shocking pink. Wasn’t she supposed to be playing

bridge? Her companions didn’t look like bridge-players, in fact they looked to Lucy like a

gang of Mafia-type Indians. One even had a suit with gold-glitter thread woven in it. The

party went to a table far down the room, behind a latticework screen. Tusker had not seen

her. Lucy was relieved. It would have put him off his food and spoiled things for both of

them. She could not be sure whether Mrs Bhoolabhoy had seen them. And what did it

matter.

“Have you decided, Tusker, dear?” She asked.

At that moment, Lucy could have sworn, Mrs Bhoolabhoy had sat down. The five storeys

of the Shiraz seemed to lean a little farther towards the East and a tremor to pass through

the whole fabric.

To Sarah Layton

The Lodge,

Smith’s Hotel,

Pankot,

(Ranpur).

2nd March 1972.

Dear Sarah (Lucy wrote the following day),

It’s getting on for 25 years ago that we last saw one another and you’ll scarcely remember

me, although we were all in Pankot during the last war and of course it was my husband

(Tusker) and I who moved into Rose Cottage when you and your family moved down to

Commandant House.

A friend of ours, now back in England, and whom you won’t know because they were Tea

and didn’t come to Pankot until 1965, has sent me a cutting from last month’s
Times
about

your father’s death because she imagined we must all have been acquainted. I felt I must

write to say how sorry I am to learn of this, and indeed of your mother’s death earlier.

Poor Tusker has been quite ill recently, so although he is now on the mend I’ve not yet told

him for fear of distressing him, but I know he would wish to join me in offering my

sympathy to you and to Susan. He always spoke so highly of your work when you were in

the WAC (I) and worked in his department at Area Headquarters, and, as I did, he had a

great respect for Colonel Layton and indeed the whole family.

I shall not intrude on your grief by going into all the hundred and one things that come to

my mind about the Pankot you knew so well and Pankot as it is today, but should you be

interested presently it would truly delight me to correspond with you from time to time.

Tusker and I remained at Rose Cottage until early in 1949. You may remember he was

invited to stay on for a year or two on contract with the new Indian government. When he

finally retired he took a commercial job with Smith Brown & McKintosh in Bombay.

The firm sent him home on a short business trip in 1950, and naturally I went with him, but

that’s the only time I’ve been in England since first coming out over 40 years ago. It seems

so strange to me, put like that. Tusker finally retired about 10 years ago when he was sixty

and we’ve been back in Pankot for most of that time and are now literally the last of the

permanent British residents on station. Quite a lot of people pass through from time to time

though, young people from home and of course tourists, and we have a number of good

friends among the Indian officers and their wives.

Rose Cottage still stands. Colonel Menektara, who commands the depot, and his family live

there. Tusker and I dined in the mess a few weeks ago when they celebrated the end of the

war with Pakistan. The silver tray your father so kindly presented is still a prized possession,

as is the silver donated by Mrs Mabel Layton’s first husband. Colonel Menektara will be

sorry to hear of your father’s death, although of course they would never have known one

another. He was originally Punjab regiment and I think only a young Lieutenant in 1947.

We, as you see, are back at Smith’s Hotel where we were quartered throughout the war, or

rather we’re in The Lodge, the adjacent bungalow which was taken over as an annexe. There

is now a new and very smart hotel next door called the Shiraz. Unfortunately it does rather

loom over our own compound. The bazaar is much the same, although there are some

rather smart new shops. Ghulab Singhs and Jalal-ud-Dins you will remember. The New

Electric cinema has been smartened up, but is still there and I go quite often because they

show English and American pictures. We are really quite cosmopolitan and getting more

modern every day.

But there I go rambling on. Please forgive me. I’m addressing the envelope to Miss Sarah

Layton at Combe Lodge, the address in the notice, although I doubt you yourself live there

or that Miss Layton is correct. I expect you married years ago and that one or more of the

grandchildren mentioned are your own children. I do hope that you and Susan have had

happy and fulfilled lives since you both went home and put India behind you.

There is just one thing I ought to mention. I assume that Teddie may be Edward, Susan’s

boy by her first marriage to poor Captain Bingham who was killed in Imphal. Teddie must

be grown-up now, in fact nearly 30, I suppose. The point is his little ayah, Minnie, now

works for the proprietor of this hotel, a Mrs Bhoolabhoy. Little Minnie (hardly little now!)

wanted to work for me at Rose Cottage when she and her uncle Mahmoud got back to

Pankot after accompanying you all to Bombay to see you off on the boat. She loved the

bungalow and its memories, but I already had a woman servant and anyway Mahmoud

insisted on their both going to Ranpur to the household your father had kindly

recommended them to. Then of course Tusker and I went to Bombay. When we came back

we found her working at the hotel, which was then still owned by old Mr Pillai, although

managed by a new man called Bhoolabhoy. When we moved into the annexe she would

have liked to work for me entirely but of course Tusker needed a male servant and one

servant was the most we could afford and actually needed. A few years ago Mr Pillai died

and this woman bought the place and then surprised us all by marrying Mr Bhoolabhoy.

Anyway, Minnie has secure employment. Her uncle, your old bearer Mahmoud, died in his

village soon after his retirement, which was why Minnie came back to Pankot. But I imagine

your father knew this. I remember Minnie saying that Colonel Layton-Sahib had been very

kind, keeping in touch with Mahmoud and sending him money. She said neither of them had

been happy in Ranpur once the family your father recommended them to went abroad in

some diplomatic post and had to leave them behind. She spoke very disparagingly of the

new household they found work in. I can believe it because frankly servants are not often so

well treated as they used to be and those who are old enough to remember how we treated

them do seem very much to regret the change. We are fortunate in the man we have now.

Of course, Minnie was very young when she was little Edward’s ayah and seems to have

adjusted and runs to and fro for Mrs Bhoolabhoy as to the manner born. I shan’t say

anything to her about her young charge of all those years ago until I hear from you that

“Teddie” is one and the same -which I should so much like to do, Sarah, if ever you have a

moment to spare. Please forgive this absurdly long letter, which was meant to be no longer

than was necessary to convey my sympathy.

With Love,

Lucy (Smalley)

PS. I hope not but fear that the reference to the Cancer Research Fund indicates that your

father suffered from this terrible thing, as my own dear father did, whose illness too was

described as short. It was all over in a month. Tusker and I were then down in Mahwar, in

the early ‘Thirties and I could scarcely believe it when my mother wrote from home to say

he had gone. In those days of course they had none of the drugs that make this disease now

a little easier for everyone to bear, easier for those who succumb to it and for those who

simply have to watch and wait.

I have had rather a sad life, Lucy told herself, as she sealed the letter.

First the twins had gone, her elder brothers, both killed in a motor accident on the

Kingston By-Pass. Then her father. Then Mumsie, no doubt of a broken heart because the

men of the house were no longer there and Lucy had never quite counted in that male-

oriented household, and was anyway now beyond reach, in India, a place of which her