The House of Blue Mangoes (51 page)

The room was made to hold forty people comfortably and Mrs Stevenson, whose taste was impeccable, had decorated and redecorated until it was perfect. A grand piano, dark as night, stood in a corner; dotted around the room were two or three intimate clusters of sofas, their rich carnelian fabric (the room was done in tones of russet) lent depth by the lamps that stood adjacent to them. A chandelier blazed above an oval coffee table on which an enormous arrangement of roses and iris stood. Mrs Stevenson had spent hours that afternoon supervising the huge floral confection and it was a triumph, the perfect counterpoint to the waterfall of brightness from the chandelier. The rest of the room was softly illuminated by the roaring fire in the grate, which spliced its light with that of small lamps on exquisitely carved and polished occasional tables. Mrs Stevenson sat on one of the long sofas that faced the door, Belinda Fraser on one side and Freddie Hamilton on the other. As the Dorais and her husband entered the room she broke off talking to Belinda and looked at them impassively. Not a muscle twitched, not a smile.

‘Well, here they are, dear. Your guests of honour. Isn’t the young lady looking terrific?’ Kannan wondered fleetingly whether that was a note of unease he heard in his host’s voice. As if from far, far away, he watched his wife being received by Mrs Stevenson: the one imperious, calm, even cold, the other lighting up the room with her beauty and freshness. A moment, two, and then Helen said, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ and everything in the room imperceptibly flattened. Kannan devoutly wished he had overcome his fear of a skirmish and at least been able to tell Helen the ‘Pleased to Meet You’ story which had acquired legendary status in the district. The previous summer, a young English nurse, up from Vellore to spend the summer on a neighbouring estate with friends, had run into Mrs Stevenson at the Pulimed Club. She had greeted the other upon being introduced with a bright ‘Pleased to meet you’ and had been instantly cut dead. If you were an Englishwoman of the Right Sort you simply did not say ‘Pleased to meet you’. Or ‘Cheerio’.

Freddie Hamilton, who had told Kannan the story in the course of a long, drunken evening at his place, had ranted on for several hours about how boring it was that tiny incidents were blown out of all proportion by the dragons who ruled Pulimed society. The story had shaken Kannan. Who knew what gaffes he was committing? After he had passed the test set by Mrs Stevenson’s party, he had been rather lax about observing and mimicking the English; following the evening at Freddie’s he’d renewed his assault on Englishness, determined to possess it. He began to pump his friend discreetly on all manner of things, observing him and other pukka Englishmen at work and at play, copying their gestures and perfecting them at home, learning a word a day from the
Oxford English Dictionary
(a tip he had learned from Freddie, who had confessed that he had done it all through his first six months on the estates in a bid to improve his memory as well as his vocabulary, before he had given it up as a bad joke) . . . Kannan’s period of study and self-improvement had been temporarily suspended when Helen joined him but now, as he recalled it, he knew exactly what was to happen next. Helen was about to experience the implacable way in which the English put down someone not quite in their class.

‘How do you do?’ said Mrs Stevenson icily. ‘Belinda and I were just talking about the way standards are falling everywhere. But times change, and we must cope as best we can.’ She was being less rude than she could have been, still mindful of the fact that she needed to placate her husband. Fortunately for Helen, the snub didn’t register.

Major Stevenson stepped in smoothly. ‘What can I get you to drink, my dear?’

Another hurdle, another fall. ‘Why, a rum would be fine.’

The disdainful look Mrs Stevenson had perfected slid into her eyes.

‘Yes, of course, a rum . . .’

Unable to contain himself any longer, Kannan said, ‘That’ll be for me, sir. Helen will have a sherry.’ Helen turned to him, and with a great effort he summoned up a smile.

‘A good choice,’ Mrs Stevenson said pointedly. Then she gestured for Helen to sit. Kannan would have preferred to sit next to his wife but the Major steered him to another cluster of armchairs, to which Freddie Hamilton had moved. The sounds of vehicles straining up the hill came to their ears and Major Stevenson excused himself and went to meet his other guests.

‘So, how did the first formal encounter between our Mistress of Pulimed and young Helen go?’ Freddie asked quietly.

‘Oh, well. She seems to like Helen,’ Kannan said.

‘Really now, that’s unusual. Maybe the Dragon Lady is getting soft.’

Major Stevenson came back with the new arrivals. Patrick Gordon and his wife Agnes, Geoffrey and Susan Porter of Empress Estate who came accompanied by their Assistant, a shy young Scotsman called MacFarlan with whom Kannan had exchanged little more than polite comments about the weather. Gordon’s Assistant, Driscoll, was down with a fever. Mrs Stevenson had decided her party for the Dorais would be limited to the managers of the Pulimed Tea Company and their wives.

As Major Stevenson bustled about getting everyone their drinks, and the new guests settled into their sofas, Kannan watched his wife out of the corner of his eye. He would have done anything to help her, but there was nothing he could do. He grimaced as he took a sip of his drink. He hated rum, but the thought that he was doing it for Helen cheered him up. Just a little, for his wife looked miserable, the effervescence with which she had greeted Mrs Stevenson long gone. She was hunched over in her chair as if Mrs Stevenson was about to attack her. And even though her hostess’s onslaught was muted, Helen was soon on the defensive.

‘I’ve seen you dancing at the club, my dear. Those Anglo-Indian institutes must have been quite a good training ground. Never been to one myself, but my husband says they were popular with the British Other Ranks.’

Gordon snickered and Belinda looked contemplative. ‘But I’m sure the ones you frequented were all right.’

Anywhere else, Helen would have fought back, but here she felt alone, unsure, on the point of breaking down. Mrs Stevenson knew exactly where she had her victim, and she eased up, just the tiniest bit. It wouldn’t do to have Helen weeping. But she wasn’t just showing a beautiful young pretender her place, she was also battling something she but dimly sensed, a feeling that everything she held dear was about to be swept away. It was bad enough that fools like her husband thought Indians could be their equals, but to think that she had to entertain a mixed blood, whom even Indians discriminated against, in her own sitting room . . . Mrs Stevenson had hated the idea of Englishmen consorting with native women when she had encountered the occasional light-eyed urchin in the Pulimed markets in her early days in the district. Thankfully, the waves of young Englishwomen arriving on Indian shores had braked the rate at which miscegenation took place. Suddenly, she felt very tired. She looked across at the knot of people surrounding her husband. If only that darkie was replaced by handsome, blue-eyed Joe Wilson. Every time she thought of him, she fervently hoped that the war would end soon, and he would return to enliven life on the estates.

Helen excused herself to go to the bathroom. Probably going to have a cry, Mrs Stevenson thought with satisfaction. Maybe she would even decide to leave Pulimed. She caught young Freddie Hamilton watching Helen leave the room and frowned. It was time the young knave found a wife.

Across the room, the talk was of the war. The news from the northeast was not good, although the planters tried to take heart from the fact that everywhere else the tide had turned in favour of the Allies. ‘Should get that blasted corporal any day now,’ Major Stevenson declared. ‘Wish I could’ve bagged a couple of Boche myself. Got my first one in St Lo and I forget how many thereafter.’ The Major’s war exploits were famously boring, but there was nothing his listeners could do to escape and he began to retell them now with gusto.

‘Cow or bicycle?’ Freddie mouthed at Kannan when he caught his eye. ‘Ten to one it’s moo-moo,’ he mimed.

‘Do you know,’ the Major began, ‘what struck me the most about the war was not the brains spattered over the faces of soldiers, the flies clustered thickly on the blood that encrusted almost everything on the scene of the battle, the unexpected sight of an arm or a leg dangling from the trunk of a tree or the window of a house . . .’

Freddie winked at Kannan and said soundlessly, ‘I won!’

‘No, none of these,’ the Major continued. ‘Almost thirty years after my first battle, the thing that still remains with me is the smell of dead cows. It was a big dairy farming area that we were fighting in, and there were bloated, rotting animals lying around everywhere. And the stench . . . it went through your body like a fever. Some of the men would have a laugh at first, puncturing the swollen bellies of the dead animals with their bayonets, but the odour that was released was so concentrated and intense, they quickly stopped. And . . .’

But the Major didn’t have time to finish because just then Helen walked in. Freddie hailed her, saying, ‘Over here, Helen. Can’t have the most beautiful woman in the district monopolized by someone else.’

He was the only one there who could have dared face down Mrs Stevenson. As one of the few young Englishmen left, he was a constant reminder to the planting community of the charm and youthfulness of their own kind, a talisman that kept them all going. He was an especial favourite of the women, and that pretty much ensured he could do as he pleased. They put up with his pranks, and his flirting. But Freddie was aware of the limits to what would be acceptable. He took these equably, as he did most things, for he was an uncomplicated, energetic man who loved the outdoor life.

Patrick Gordon, whom both Freddie and Kannan shared a dislike of, said with a brogue that Kannan found very difficult to understand, ‘These Nips in Burma are a worry, surely. Could overrun India, if we’re complacent. Just like they did Singapore and Rangoon and Mandalay.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the little yellow men. One of our Tommies is worth ten of them!’ Major Stevenson said confidently. ‘It’s all strategy, I’m sure.’

Freddie said with a smile, ‘They’re little, they’re slit-eyed, they’re almost yellow, but pound for pound they’re the best fighters in the British Army . . . Guess who they are? . . . The Gorkhas, of course,’ he said when he received no answer.

‘Better than the Black Watch . . . or the Highlanders?’ Gordon said slowly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He was slow in everything he said or did and could be tremendously irritating.

Freddie butted in, ‘With due respect, sir, we can argue about that another time. We have a beautiful young lady with us, and by Jove, we must entertain her. Anyone heard the joke about the Gorkha and the Kraut?’

Without waiting for a response from his audience, Freddie began. ‘Well, this Gorkha and a big lumbering German sergeant met on a battlefield in France, let’s say Rheims. They had exhausted all their ammo. The German had heard all about these little warriors and their prowess with their razor-sharp khukris, so he advanced cautiously, his rifle and bayonet extended well before him. The Gorkha was the first to attack, ducking in under the German’s guard, his khukri whistling through the air . . .’ Freddie paused and looked at his listeners. It’s peculiar how eyes of every hue glitter in lamplight like bits of polished glass, he thought. Feels like talking to a bunch of stuffed animals. But he had everyone’s attention, for the story was new. ‘Nothing happened for a moment. The German gave a mighty, belly-quivering laugh. “You missed me, little man, my head’s still on my shoulders and now you’re going to die.” “Not so, you beeg white peeg,” the Gorkha said. “If I were you I wouldn’t turn my head too fast.’’’

Everyone laughed, and even Helen managed a small smile. Only Gordon looked a little puzzled.

‘Well, sir, the Gorkhas’ khukris are supposed to be so sharp and cut so cleanly that the victim doesn’t even feel his head parting company from his neck.’

82

The tinkling of a little silver bell announced supper. The dining room looked magnificent. A lace tablecloth with intricate embroidery covered the teak dining table, crystal shone at every place and a turbaned bearer stood behind every chair. Major Stevenson looked at the scene with satisfaction. Matilda was a wonder, he thought; even the Governor, why, even the Viceroy, would be hard-pressed to put on such a show, especially in these difficult years.

Kannan didn’t quite see the scene the way the Major did. The grand table with its flowers and spotless napery, the rows of polished silver and the shining crystal, filled him with dread. Even his months of training could founder here, he realized. Surreptitiously he moved next to his wife and asked in a whisper: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I am,’ she whispered back, but it was clear that she wasn’t. At least she would be spared the attention of Mrs Stevenson during dinner, he thought. At a signal from their hostess, soup was served.

It was unusual for such an elaborate supper to be served during the war, if only out of a sense of guilt. Although the shelves of Spencer’s were virtually bare, and the catalogues of the Army & Navy Stores and Harrods of London were suspended, the planters didn’t really feel the pinch as much as others did. They grew their own vegetables, there was enough game to be had, and liquor was still freely available. Even so, an old-fashioned six- or seven-course meal, patterned on the great feasts of the 1920s and the 1930s, was rare.

But it all fitted perfectly in Mrs Stevenson’s mind. Her party would be the talk of the district, and not even Edward could blame her if, incidentally, a few of the guests were discomfited by the array of knives and forks and spoons. She realized she was rather enjoying herself.

Kannan was certainly not. He tried very hard to eat his soup skilfully, but his spoon clattered loudly against his hostess’s Royal Doulton and he slurped up the tomato soup, no matter how hard he tried. Helen did better than he.

There was baked river trout to follow, with parsleyed new potatoes and green beans. As the meal proceeded without mishap, Kannan began to relax. Fish was followed by an entrée of veal and olives, which was succeeded by a magnificent glazed duck, brown and gleaming in its skin of Calvados and honey, accompanied by rice and sausages in a nest of red cabbage. There was a clatter across the table and he saw Helen’s portion of duck fly off her plate and land on the table. Major Stevenson was quick to go to her aid, but her face grew tighter. For an instant, Kannan felt pure hate towards Mrs Stevenson, and then he sternly reminded himself that, if they were going to do things the English way, they would have to learn to cope with all this. Duck was followed by pudding, an enormous custard quivering and shaking in its dish, all brown and gold and ivory. After the sweet came the savoury: cold venison paste spread thickly on toast. The servants bustled about, the dishes appeared and departed as if by magic, and the discomfort Kannan had felt at the beginning of the dinner was replaced by a growing sense of weariness, and finally an overwhelming desire to go home. Their ordeal ended with the arrival of Major Stevenson’s zealously hoarded Madeira port and Trichinopoly cigars. Mrs Stevenson rose, as did the other ladies, and the men settled down to enjoy their cigars.