Ryman, Rebecca (43 page)

"Don't!"
She leaned over to place a finger across his lips. "Don't wish, it is bad
luck. Let whatever comes, come. I can bear it."

He
said something under his breath and turned away towards his own mount. It was
only when she was half-way home that Olivia identified in a delayed reaction
the few words he had mumbled. "I pray that I can too."

For
the moment they made no sense. For the moment.

It
was Dassera day.

Tomorrow
the immersions would start. Scores of those exquisite images of the ten-armed
goddess that Olivia had seen being lovingly fashioned in Kumartuli would be
consigned to the river Hooghly, held in Bengal as sacred as the mighty Ganges.
Today, in thousands of Hindu homes the final day of the ten-day celebrations would
be dedicated to devout worship of Durga. There would be feasting and singing
and chanting, and gifts would be exchanged, new clothes worn, alms distributed
and maunds of sweets eaten. Even in the White Town there were reverberating
sounds of revelry from the intermittent Indian dwelling-places: drum beats,
cymbal clashes, chanting voices, tingling bells, the raucous laughter of
children. In the Templewood house the enormous contingent of servants had
constructed their own altar in their compound and installed in it an image of
Durga.

"Oh,
the noise, the
noise!"
Lady Bridget clamped her hands over her ears
and shuddered. "I do wish they would keep their blasphemous heathen rites
to themselves. Why should all of us be afflicted?"

"The
festival comes only once a year, Aunt Bridget," Olivia
pointed out.
"For them it is a great occasion and it means much."

"Thank
the Lord it is only once a year! But if it's not one festival it's another.
It's a wonder we're not all struck deaf."

Because
of the holiday declared for the Indian staff, Sir Joshua had gone off with
Arthur Ransome to pay Dassera visits to all their Hindu suppliers, agents,
retailers and associates, as was the custom on this auspicious day. In
exchange, baskets of fruit and sweets had been arriving at the house since the
morning from those Hindu merchants of means with whom Templewood and Ransome
did business. Estelle, as usual, was out. Olivia, tiring of her aunt's constant
and tedious carping, took her book into the garden to read in peace, if that was
the word that could be used considering the frantic impatience with which she
awaited tomorrow night. The novel she was reading,
Wuthering Heights,
had
been sent to her aunt from England by her Cousin Maude. It was, wrote Cousin
Maude, creating a literary sensation in London. Although a poignant and daring
love story, it had been written by an unknown spinster named Emily Bronte, the
cloistered, unworldly daughter of an impecunious Yorkshire clergyman. Olivia's
choice of reading was therefore fortunate; the book was so gripping, so moving
and written with such beauty and passion that she could hardly bear to put it
down.

She
sat beneath a spreading acacia tree, to a branch of which she had tied her
beautiful blue Vanda orchid. The creeper had now taken root in the bark to
spill over with lovely cerulean blossoms framed by shining bottle green
leafage. Suddenly, from the kitchen end of the garden, Babulal approached to
shyly fold his hands in respect and then lay a marigold at her feet. Would the
missy mem, he asked hesitantly, do them the great honour of participating in
their worship rituals tonight after supper? It was the final and most
auspicious day of the festival.

Olivia
was touched. It was a simple request and came from the heart. She didn't even
think to refuse it. Knowing that her aunt might make an unnecessary fuss if
asked for permission, she decided to accept the invitation anyway and make her
apologies later to her aunt should any be required. In her diffident but
rapidly improving Hindustani, she accepted Babulal's invitation with pleasure.

Somehow,
evening came, the creeping hours made less intolerable for Olivia by Emily
Bronte's riveting story of love and despair and terrible tragedy. The cold
supper of meats and salads served was well in tune with Lady Bridget's silent
mood since neither Estelle nor Sir Joshua had returned in time for the meal. As
soon as it was
over, Olivia set off as discreetly as she could to fulfil her promise to
Babulal.

The
sudden realisation that she had never yet set foot in the servants' compound
came as a vague surprise to Olivia. Lady Bridget herself seemed to have a
strange aversion to it; she neither spoke of it nor showed any concern over
what might be its condition. To Olivia's knowledge, she certainly never visited
it. Her own lapse made Olivia feel guilty; what little heed they all paid to
those who worked hard to keep them in such comfort! Even though the compound
was visible from the kitchen window, she was now astonished by its vastness.
The compound was rectangular, lined on three sides by single-storied rooms,
perhaps thirty altogether. At the far end was the washerman's house and behind
that a water tank. Next to it stood the cow shed housing the milch cattle and
the resident milk man who supplied their daily requirements. Olivia had often
encountered the milk man at the pantry door making his morning deliveries. That
the Templewood domestic staff was extensive Olivia already knew; what surprised
her now as she was ceremonially escorted around the settlement was the number
of women and children in the community.

Even
in the modest environment, this evening there was gaiety and a blaze of light
and colour. Everyone wore shining new clothes, no doubt those that Lady Bridget
and Sir Joshua had distributed this morning as traditional baksheesh on Dassera
day. Focus of all the jollifications was the altar, gaudy but cheerful, that
had been constructed in the centre of the court-yard. The idol had been
lavishly decorated with tinsel and bright silk vestments, a red sari and blouse
and impromptu shining jewellery fashioned out of gold braid. Each of the ten
arms of the goddess held a different item and one foot rested on a lion's head
since the lion was her carrier according to mythology. Trays of flowers,
sweets, fruits and nuts rested on the altar as offerings. Oil lamps and incense
burners nestled in between. A Brahmin priest, hired for the night at
considerable cost, it was proudly told to Olivia, sat singing vesper hymns and
chanting
mantras.
Above the altar was an orange canopy on top of which
had been fixed a metal trident.

Olivia
was charmed. As guest of honour, she was given a chair, the only one in sight
since everyone else squatted on the ground. Piety shone out of dark, glistening
faces as the rituals proceeded, and there was a spontaneous, unspoken sense of
joy that was very touching. Even though Dassera was a Hindu festival,
all the Muslim
servants on Sir Joshua's staff participated with equal enthusiasm. Rehman, the
chief bearer, looked entirely strange in a checked shirt and bright green
lungi
as he happily stirred a gigantic cauldron on the verandah from which spicy
aromas arose and wafted. Olivia barely recognized the normally impassive face
and the stiff form that she was used to seeing only in characterless white
uniform. The prayers concluded, a tray of sweets was passed around the
congregation as a blessing from the goddess. Olivia took a piece of what looked
like pistachio fudge and smiled to herself. She wondered how many of the
ingredients for the feast being prepared tonight had been abstracted from her
aunt's larder, but she could not help feeling satisfied that they had. Opening
her purse she took out a handful of coins without counting them and placed them
in the tray of sweets as her own contribution towards the modest but moving
occasion.

By
the time she returned to the main house, Sir Joshua had come back, eaten and
closeted himself in his study. Lady Bridget had retired, perhaps to continue
fretting about Estelle, who had not yet returned home from wherever her wilful
wanderings had taken her today. After a moment's uncertainty, Olivia sought out
her uncle in his study.

"There's
something I'd like to talk to you about, Uncle Josh. It's about Estelle and I
feel you should listen."

"Estelle?"
Looking up from the figures he was scribbling, he seemed faintly alarmed,
perhaps at the seriousness of Olivia's expression. "Why, is she ill?"

"No.
She is in perfectly good health, at least physically." His stare became
blank, indicating that he had no idea what she was talking about. Olivia
grabbed his momentary attention and quickly continued. "I know and
understand your recent preoccupations, Uncle Josh, but Estelle doesn't. Since
she's had very little attention from you lately, she's convinced herself that
you no longer love her."

"No
longer love her? Bless my soul, what an extraordinary notion!" He looked
vaguely unsettled.

"Well,
of course it is, but Estelle doesn't see it that way." Olivia further
pressed home her advantage. "And in her pique, she's taking it out on poor
Aunt Bridget, who's at her wit's end. I think you should find some time to have
a talk with her, Uncle Josh."

"Who,
Bridget?"

"No,
Estelle.
She's set her heart on this pantomime, Uncle Josh. I know Aunt
Bridget objects strenuously, but it's really
quite innocuous. Maybe you could
persuade Aunt Bridget to let Estelle have her way. You see," she hauled in
a breath and plunged into a detailed description of the problem on both sides,
noting that through her recital her uncle listened with undivided attention.
She finished and then sat back to wait for his comments, since he appeared to
be giving the matter some thought.

After
a long while he looked up. "He's turned us down, you know," was all
he said.

"What.
. .?" It took a moment for Olivia to understand the drift of his remark
and realise that it had nothing to do with what she had said. She breathed in
deeply and sighed. "Your proposal?"

"Yes.
We got his formal refusal this morning."

So,
Arvind Singh had not gone against his friend's wishes after all! "Does the
consortium plan to better the offer?"

"The
consortium!" He gave a snort of disgust. "A bunch of liver-faced
goons scared of their own behinds! No, the consortium is not prepared to better
the offer, but it no longer matters." He suddenly smiled. "There is
more than one way of catching a monkey, my dear,
more
than one."

There
was no point now in reviving the matter of Estelle and her pantomime. Sir
Joshua's attention was no longer available, if it ever had been. She would have
to wait for another opportune moment to broach the topic again. It was doubtful
if in his present mood of rabid disappointment and anger he would consider
favourably the idea of indulging his daughter's dramatic aspirations.

Without
her knowledge, her deferment of the paltry matter was the second worst decision
Olivia was to make in her life. The worst would come tomorrow.

At
last, at last, it was the day of the immersions!

Estelle
had returned scandalously late last night and a flaming row had ensued between mother
and daughter at the breakfast table after Sir Joshua had left for work. Since,
with deliberate disobedience, Estelle had stalked out of the house again today,
no doubt another fireworks display would follow to enliven the dinner table
tonight. Weighted down by her own anxieties and her almost intolerable feeling
of suspense, Olivia no longer cared one way or the other. The morning had
passed in
completing
Wuthering Heights,
and in the afternoon she had somehow
forced herself to sleep, but once the nap was over and she had had tea with her
aunt, after which Lady Bridget went visiting, the hours dragged by as if
anchored down with millstones. For a while Olivia played with Clementine, a
sadly neglected little pup these days, then she did some weeding in the garden
and mentally plotted her escape route from the house for the hundredth time.
Then, for no reason other than that her nerves screamed for relief and her mind
for diversion, she wandered idly into the servants' compound. What she saw this
time horrified her.