1977 (20 page)

to Mr Bhoolabhoy without quite turning it away from Father Sebastian. Mr Ambedkar had

not noticed the improvement in the churchyard. If he had he hadn’t mentioned it.

“It is a boy called Joseph,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said. “He works as a
mali
at the hotel. In his

spare time he comes here.”

“I should like to meet him. May I see inside?”

The Reverend Stephen guided him out of the vestry and into the body of the church and

shut the door. Mr Bhoolabhoy, Miss Williams and Mr Thomas remained. For a while none

of them spoke.

Then Susy said, “
Father
Sebastian.”

“Anglo, it must be,” Mr Bhoolabhoy murmured, “not Roman. He is South Indian. Anglo-

Catholics very strong there nowadays.”

“I was born chapel,” Susy declared, pushing her coffee cup away. “At least that’s what Ma

said Dad was. Sergeant Taffy Williams, Welch Regiment. Attached Pankot Rifles 1928-1930.

Small arms instructor, killed North-West Frontier, 1934. I don’t remember him. But I

remember chapel. That old corrugated iron roof place we used to go to on West Hill every

Sunday regular as clockwork. We never came here. Ma said it was because Dad was chapel

and wouldn’t have liked us to. But chapel was nothing to do with it. Ma was brought up C of

E. Chapel was where we went because most people like us went there. If we’d come here

we’d have had to sit at the back because Ma wouldn’t have liked to embarrass the English

ladies whose hair she did. Even to have sat at the back would have embarrassed her. She

might have come if I’d looked like Lucille but I didn’t and I don’t but I’ll be damned if I’m

going to go on playing the piano for a minister who wants to be called Father and is as black

as two hats, especially in a Church Ma wouldn’t bring me to.”

“Susy, love,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said, putting an arm round her. “You’re talking nonsense.

And he’s only a visitor.”

“No he’s not. I’m sure he’s not. I hear things. I hear things in the Seraglio room at the

Shiraz just as I used to hear things in my own salon before I was run out of business by the

bloody Punjabis.”

“Watch your language in church,” Mr Thomas said.

“What things do you hear, Susy?”

“That any day now Mr Ambedkar will be promoted and that he will probably end up as

Bishop of Calcutta.”

“You are telling me that Hindu and Parsee and Moslem ladies gossip about such things

while having their hair done? Be honest now. It is purely your own imagination.”

“What if it is? Anyway, I bet I’m right. I bet Father Sebastian isn’t just any old visitor.”

The vestry door opened and Mr Ambedkar looked in.

“Francis, may I have a word?”

Calling him Francis was new. Having shut the door behind them the Reverend Stephen

murmured, “I should explain about Father Sebastian while he is outside looking again at the

churchyard. Who pays this boy Joseph?”

“Sometimes I used to give him a few paise out of my own pocket. But now he is employed

at the hotel he is all right. It is a labour of love for him. He is a Christian boy.”

“Good. Good. Father Sebastian is very impressed with the way we have kept things up

inside and outside. I had prepared him to expect it of course.”

Mr Bhoolabhoy looked at his feet. A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, causing him to look

up into the Reverend Stephen Ambedkar’s rather bloodshot eyes.

“Something troubles you, Francis. O.K. O.K. I know what it is.
Father
Sebastian. What are

you thinking, that we are going over to Rome and planning already a lady-chapel?”

“No, no.”

“I too could call myself Father. It is a matter of personal choice. It does not mean Rome

necessarily.”

Mr Bhoolabhoy grinned as brilliantly as he could in the circumstances. Was Susy right?

Were they to have Father Sebastian instead of the Reverend Stephen?

The Reverend Stephen let go of his shoulder, put both hands behind his back and led the

way down the south aisle, pacing slowly. Mr Bhoolabhoy put his behind his and followed.

“It is necessary finally,” he said, “to think what life is all about.”

“Exactly,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said, suddenly having a vision of Mrs Bhoolabhoy who—at this

very moment—would be checking Management’s accounts.

“Like myself, Father Sebastian is much concerned in the ecumenical movement in India. If

we are to
advance
—” and here he glanced round as if to check that there were no lurkers

who would go back to report to Government that there was a plot afoot in the Christian

Church to go for growth in India by stepping up the conversion business— “ -if we are to

advance we can only do so together. Now, Francis, let me take you into my confidence. You,

you alone. I know I can rely on you not to gossip.”

They halted. Mr Ambedkar looked down at him.

“In two or three months I think I shall be going—Elsewhere.”

“Ah,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said. Then added, “Oh,” wondering whether the poor Reverend

Stephen was mortally ill.

“Do not misunderstand, Father Sebastian is not my successor-to-be, but he may be in the

area for quite some time and may fill in for a while if there is any difficulty about filling the

living at Ranpur. One may call him in the meanwhile a supernumerary with a roving

commission, very advantageous to us. I propose to send him up to you at Easter, in two

weeks’ time. It may well work out that you will have a visit every fortnight instead of

monthly. I think you can look forward to a happy year on that score. And perhaps, one day,

to a permanent incumbent.”

“Ah.”

“I may tell you, again in confidence, that Pankot may in the not too distant future benefit

from certain plans already afoot down in Nansera. The Nansera Valley Development

Scheme. You have heard of this?”

Mr Bhoolabhoy didn’t think he had. Only Mrs Bhoolabhoy heard of things like that. But

the airfield in Nansera had itself brought greater prosperity and—at the time it was being

built -an influx of engineers, technical experts and advisers: British, Indian, American,

Eurasian, the men, their wives and families sometimes, some of them Christian. The

Nansera Development Scheme, whatever it was, could hardly fail to do the same, and better.

The hotel would benefit. The church would benefit. A rosy prospect opened before Mr

Bhoolabhoy and some of its glow seemed to surround Mr Ambedkar like an aura.

“We shall miss you greatly, sir, when the time comes,” he said, and was rewarded by a

manly grip on his shoulder which happened to coincide with the reappearance of Father

Sebastian who looked pleased by this evidence of comradeship between priest and lay-

preacher, and joined the fraternity, placing his left hand on Mr Ambedkar’s right shoulder

and his right on Mr Bhoolabhoy’s left.

“What a beautiful church. Tell me, Francis, how quickly could you let me have photographs

of the interior and the exterior? I should like them to illustrate an article I am doing for a

magazine in Madras which finds its way all over the world.”

Father Sebastian had preached beautifully, taking as his text verses 17 and 18 and part of 19

from chapter two of Ecclesiastes: “Therefore I hated life, because the work that is wrought

under the sun
is
grievous unto me : for all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Yea, I hated all my

labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be

after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise
man
or a fool?”

Even Susy Williams looked mollified. The congregation, although at first almost visibly

shaken by the contrast between Father Sebastian’s blue-black skin and the lily-whiteness of

his laced surplice and none too happy when he sank to his knees during the creed when

reference was made to the mother of Jesus, was not just mollified but positively hooked.

The sermon was very funny. For the first time in his life Mr Bhoolabhoy heard little titters

of barely suppressed laughter from the congregation. But it was happy laughter. The

Reverend Stephen seated in the choirstall gave it both cue and countenance by smiling

broadly at Father Sebastian’s opening sally : “I have always felt, you know, that the fellow

who wrote Ecclesiastes suffered either from constipation or acute indigestion.”

Mr Bhoolabhoy was entranced. The spirit of God moved across the still waters of his soul.

And when Father Sebastian, judging the length of his first sermon perfectly, ended ten

minutes later, sketching a Popish blessing while he spoke the words, Now God the Father,

God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, Mr Bhoolabhoy’s hand moved as if mesmerized

across his breast.

An immense peace settled in him. Mr Ambedkar came forward and said, “I asked Father

Sebastian what last hymn we should sing and after consultation with Miss Williams he chose

Hymn Number 391 in Hymns Ancient and Modern.”

The congregation, already alerted to this rousing old favourite by the number on the board,

rose happily. Mr Bhoolabhoy, clutching the collection bag, rose too. Mr Ambedkar had

never liked
Onward, Christian Soldiers
. He had once described it as vulgar. He looked happy

enough about it today though. And no one was happier than Susy whose favourite hymn it

was, the one she had always played best of all, either on the organ or the piano. The opening

chords crashed out. She had not lost her touch in spite of having been discouraged from

playing it at services, although today she tended to ignore the
p
and the
cr
and the
f
and play

everything
ff
, but this suited the mood of the congregation too, to the advantage of the

collection bag that got heavier and heavier and crisper and crisper and was taking longer to

pass from hand to hand than usual, so that Mr Bhoolabhoy had scarcely finished going the

rounds by the time Susy reached the penultimate verse:

(ff)
Crowns and thrones may perish

Kingdoms rise and wane,

But the church of Jesus

Constant will remain;

Gates of Hell can never

’Gainst the Church prevail;

We have Christ’s own promise,

And that cannot fail.

(ff)
Onward, Christian soldiers,

Marching as to war,

With the Cross of Jesus,

Going on before.

The two ministers had arrived that morning by train but were returning to Ranpur the same

evening by air; so there was to be no evensong. It had been such an exciting happy day that

Mr Bhoolabhoy thought this just as well. Another service would have been an anticlimax.

Parting from the Reverend Stephen after morning service Father Sebastian had spent the

rest of the day in Mr Bhoolabhoy’s company. They had lunch with Mr Thomas and tea at

Susy’s. At six they went to Smith’s where Father Sebastian accepted a drink; two in fact (tall

whisky-sodas; Mr Bhoolabhoy stuck to gin and tonics). To drink these they sat on the

verandah of the hut that had once been the airline office. Mr Bhoolabhoy was glad that

Father Sebastian showed no curiosity about the inside of the hotel. Lila would still be doing

the accounts and the new minister had a penetrating voice. Perhaps Mr Ambedkar had

warned Father Sebastian that Mrs Bhoolabhoy was not someone it was necessarily rewarding

to go out of one’s way to meet.

At seven o’clock they walked round to the Shiraz where Father Sebastian and Mr

Ambedkar were to catch the Indian Airlines bus. Both bus and Mr Ambedkar were waiting.

“Don’t forget the photographs, Francis,” Father Sebastian said as he climbed aboard. Mr

Bhoolabhoy said he would start making the necessary arrangements first thing in the

morning and post the results to him before the end of the week. When the ‘bus had gone he

walked down the road to the place where the spire of St John’s could be seen in silhouette

against the evening sky. Then, content, he went slowly home.

Reaching there he again settled on the verandah of the hut. There was a light in Lila’s room

and in the lounge, but no other sign of life. Next year, or perhaps before this present one

was out, the place might again be as it was in its heyday. They would have to decorate and

get new furniture, restore the former air of quiet distinction and homely comfort. Not every

visitor cared for the flamboyance of places like the Shiraz.

When it had turned 7.30 he went over to the hotel, switched on the verandah light,

plumped up the cushions in the lounge. In his cubicle he checked the register which Lila

must have finished with because it was back in place. No one had booked in. There were no

dining-room bookings either, which wasn’t to say no one would turn up, so he went into the

dining-room to inspect the tables. As usual places were laid only sketchily. He collected