Читать книгу Thursday’s Child - Helen Forrester - Страница 10

My term of duty on the following day did not start until two o’clock, so I missed the fun when Bessie received a telephone call. As a result of the Egyptian invasion, poor Bessie had worked until late on Sunday evening but had returned to work at her usual hour on the Monday morning, in order to act as Chairman at a meeting of an Anglo-Polish organisation. She was at the meeting when the club telephonist called her out of the room and said that someone who would not give his name wished to speak to her urgently.

She lifted the receiver and a reproachful voice immediately upbraided her. Could she not recognise love when she saw it – his heart was broken – one day was all he asked.

‘Who are you and what do you think you are talking about?’ asked an outraged Bessie.

When he gave his name she became more polite – the stony politeness reserved for Muslims.

‘I think a mistake has been made,’ she said guardedly.

‘You are the Mrs Forbes, the beautiful Mrs Forbes with whom I danced last night?’

‘Well, I am Mrs Forbes, but I did not dance with anyone last night – I was too busy.’

‘Yes, I remember – I remember – there were two Mrs Forbes – you are the lady of the blue dress?’

‘No,’ said Bessie. ‘I’m the lady of the pink dress.’ Then she thought of my blue dress. All Bessie’s latent motherly instincts came to the fore. Deliver me to this lunatic? No. She dealt summarily with the Egyptian and returned, full of apologies, to her Committee.

‘Bessie, dear, what did you say to him?’ I asked, after I explained the confusion over the initial introductions the previous evening.

Bessie looked at me sideways. ‘I told him that your reluctance to accompany him was natural, because you had an Italian husband six feet tall and expert with a knife.’

‘Bessie,’ I gasped, ‘you’re a dreadful scallywag.’

‘It was effective,’ said Bessie dryly.

During the afternoon I took two Americans round the docks, after which they were to take dinner with an English family. I left them at their hotel and walked through the crowded streets towards the club, meaning to do a couple of hours of work at my desk before taking dinner in the canteen. One way of avoiding the more crowded pavements was to take a short cut through a store which had its front and back entrances on adjoining streets, and this I did, only to collide with Mother.

‘Hello, dear,’ said Mother, clutching her parcels to her.

‘Hello, Mum. What are you doing here?’

‘Christmas shopping.’

Mother was looking worn, so I asked her to come and have some tea. We turned back into the store, and were fighting our way through the Cosmetics Department, towards the lift which would carry us up to the restaurant, when I suddenly saw a familiar face bent over an array of perfume bottles, while a bored shop assistant stood behind the counter and dealt with other customers between addressing the perfume buyer. I heard her say: ‘Passion of Paris is considered most alluring.’

‘Mr Singh,’ I said.

‘Who?’ asked Mother, peering through her eye veil.

‘Mr Singh. Come and meet him – he is quite amusing.’

Mother loves meeting new people, so we walked across to the perfume counter and I asked if I could help him, and then introduced him to Mother.

‘Please do help me,’ implored Mr Singh. ‘My friends at my digs say that dragons like scent for Christmas – they do not tell me which perfume to buy – it is most confusing.’

‘Dragons?’ I queried.

‘Landladies,’ said Mr Singh unsmilingly.

I heard Mother stifle a laugh behind her parcels, and I hastily straightened my own face and looked gravely through the collection of bottles. I was very conscious of Mr Singh standing by me. He did not look at my face, but he watched my hands as I sought for the best bargain for him. He took out a finely tooled leather pocket book and paid for the present, and then looked hesitatingly at Mother and me.

‘Will you join me to drink tea in the restaurant before continuing your shoppings?’ he asked.

Before I could open my mouth, Mother said that we would be delighted. She had never met an Indian before and was evidently excited at the prospect of examining further the specimen before her. Her neat, grey curls danced as she talked vivaciously to Mr Singh, and it was obvious that she enjoyed the tea party that followed. Mr Singh held open the doors for her and helped her with her parcels, pulled out chairs, and insisted on ordering masses of buttered toast, since the restaurant had sold out of cake. Mother was conquered by him before the meal was ended.

At the end of an hour I remembered guiltily my piled-up desk and said that I must return to work. We collected the parcels and Mr Singh paid the bill.

As we were waiting for the lift to take us down again, Mr Singh asked: ‘We are – that is – the Indian community is giving a Christmas party – I wonder – Mrs Delaney – Miss Delaney – would you like to come?’

This was a rare honour. The small Indian community tended to mix amongst themselves and rarely asked outsiders to their entertainments. In any case, no opportunity to refuse was given me. Mother accepted with alacrity for both of us.

‘We are mostly students,’ said Mr Singh. ‘It will be held in the club canteen.’

The canteen was decorated for the occasion with the Indian national flag and a picture of Gandhiji framed with flowers. It was a good party, although everything went wrong. The lights fused, the hot food, cooked by the students themselves, arrived cold, and the ice cream melted, but nobody was upset. Leisurely our hosts lit matches while the Canteen Manageress mended the fuse, somehow the Indian food tasted good, though strange to Western taste – and Mother felt like an empress.

As the eldest lady there she was specially looked after, and she was enchanted by the respect shown to her. She was soon surrounded by an assortment of men in Indian costumes; and three girls were almost tearing off their saris in an effort to show her how they were put on. As soon as their first shyness had worn off, they all talked at once, and I could hear her clear English voice rising above theirs, as she asked questions about their studies, their costumes and their homes.

Mr Singh looked after me and brought his special friends to meet me. He was very nervous and seemed fearful that I would criticise the arrangements for the party.

‘This food is not typical of India. The ladies who cooked it are not used to cooking – in India each family employs a cook.’

I assured him that the food was excellent.

‘We should have put up more decorations – the room looks bare.’

I reassured him on that point too.

Gradually he relaxed and soon he was laughing and joking with the little circle who had gathered round us. I sat quietly and listened, occasionally adding some small remark to the conversation. He was very popular amongst his own people, of that there was no doubt. Occasionally he broke into his own language and after these interludes there was always a roar of laughter.

‘Singh knows more jokes and riddles than anyone here,’ confided a small, handsome woman in an orange sari.

‘He should tell me some in English,’ I said, ‘I’m sure they must be good.’

Singh looked at me, full of contrition. ‘I forgot,’ he said.

‘Afterwards you shall tell them all over again in English,’ I teased.

He salaamed. ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said.

I could see some of the girls present giving each other knowing looks at this promise of a private conversation; it meant nothing to me at the time, but it meant everything to them, and speculation as to Singh’s intentions ran high.

Mother asked Ajit – for Ajit he had become by the end of the party – to Christmas dinner at our house, and although I was pleased at her offering hospitality to a visitor, I wondered with some trepidation what Father would say about an Indian coming into the house.

Father did not make any special comment. He just looked very shrewdly at the man before him, the same careful look with which I am sure he scrutinises income tax returns, and then made him sit down and drink sherry, while Angela, Mother and I arranged the dinner table.

Although I had lived the whole of my life with my parents, I learned something new about Father that evening. It was apparent that he did not feel at all awkward about his foreign guest; there was none of that strained manner which is often apparent when even the most courteous man of one colour meets a man of another colour. It was as if Father had never heard of a colour bar – and I was proud of him. Strangely, too, I felt proud of Ajit. Father yarned happily about how he had fought with the Japanese in Russia and how well they had endured the cold winter, and Ajit told him how the Madrasi soldiers had successfully fought in a Kashmiri winter. Then they went on to the adaptability of mankind in general, from there to religions, and, by the time the port was served, they were old friends.

Angela sat down at the piano and played carols as we sat round the fire; and I watched the face of this stranger, who had tumbled into the middle of our family. The flickering firelight sometimes silhouetted the almost Greek profile and sometimes lit up the full face, so that its calm gentleness was fully revealed.

Father must have been looking too, as he smoked his after-dinner pipe and plied his guest with tobacco. He asked to which caste he belonged.

‘I am kshatriya – warrior caste,’ answered Ajit. ‘That is the second caste.’

‘A very gentle warrior,’ I thought.

When our guest took his leave and Father was bolting the front door for the night, he said to me as I started to mount the staircase: ‘The first young man I have met for a long time who has both brains and manners. Got any more like him at your club?’ And he grinned a little wickedly.

‘Plenty,’ I said, blowing him a kiss, ‘of all shades.’

Upstairs Angela was hanging up her frock in the big wardrobe in my room. She said, without preamble: ‘He’s rather a pet, isn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Ajit Singh.’

I started to pull the hairpins out of my bun. ‘Yes,’ I said almost reluctantly, ‘I suppose he is.’

On the evening of Boxing Day I was on duty at the club to make sure that the few ladies who had no private invitations had something or someone to entertain them. As I went from one easy chair to another in the lounge, I found myself looking for Ajit Singh. The room was lit with coloured lights half hidden in evergreens. A German architect had amused himself by decorating the room and the result was a soft glow with an occasional sparkle of tinsel or silver balls. It would be easy to miss someone in such dim light, and I had just decided that he had not come, when a voice from a particularly dark corner said: ‘Hello.’

I jumped, the cushion I had been shaking up still held in one hand.

‘It is Singh.’

He was sitting cross-legged in a deep settee and was smoking his pipe.

I said: ‘Good evening. How are you?’

‘Very well. Can you sit with me – today everybody is out, and I think your work is not great.’

‘I haven’t much to do.’ I sat down beside him. He continued to smoke, saying nothing and looking reflectively at me.

‘Will you come to the University Ball with me on New Year’s Eve?’ he asked.

Before I could stop myself I had answered in the affirmative, and when I saw his face soften, I was glad I had said yes. I foresaw all kinds of complications arising from that simple ‘yes’, but his pleasure was unbounded and I did not regret it. He thanked me effusively and also added thanks for the previous day’s invitation.

I said we were glad to have him and then asked him about Indian Festivals, which subject kept up the conversation until Dr Wu came in with Madame Li and the conversation became general.

Ajit Singh did not dance well, but the University Ball was fun. I knew several people present and was amused to see their eyebrows shoot up as they noted my Indian escort.

I did not care. I was enjoying being made a fuss of by a man who liked to come and look at me on Saturdays and Sundays.

We were eating ice cream when a very tall Indian, with a very short redhead on his arm, came up to us and roared: ‘Ajit, old chap, introduce me.’

‘Miss Delaney, may I introduce to you Mr Chundabhai Patel-my friend.’

My hand was enveloped in an enormous brown one. Chundabhai was the biggest ugliest Indian I had ever seen, but I could not help liking him. Six feet six inches was topped by a bullet head, blessed with small, twinkling eyes. His hair was cut to within an inch of his head, like a dog’s coat. His suit was of a quality rarely available in England at that time, and his shirt was silk.

He pulled forward his lady friend. Her name was Sheila Ferguson and she was doing chemistry under the same Professor as Chundabhai. Her freckled nose wrinkled and she tossed her red hair, as she described the Professor’s despair over the work of both of them.

When they went away to dance, I asked Ajit who Chundabhai was.

‘He is a Banya, the son of a rich chemical manufacturer. Soon he will go home to Shahpur to work with his father.’

So I heard the name of Shahpur for the first time; but it was just the name of an Indian town, a name more easily pronounceable than many. I asked where it was and whether it was a big city.

‘It is one of the richest of Indian cities. It has many industries – cotton, metalware, chemicals – but it has little water as it lies at the juncture of three deserts.’

‘Is the Government trying to improve the water supply?’

‘Certainly it is. Further north there is a river which is being dammed. From it they will obtain power for Shahpur and with the power water will be pumped from new deep wells. One day perhaps there will be a better way of bringing water to Shahpur, but Government has much work to do – it cannot do it all at once.’ He grinned at me, and added: ‘The British did not expect to harvest much tax from the district round Shahpur, so they did not care about providing water for it.’

It was the first time I had heard him criticise the British régime in India. His usual attitude was to ignore the past and speak only of the future of his country. Other Indians sometimes said that the Germans or the French would have been worse taskmasters and would have made their struggle for freedom both longer and bloodier.

‘Don’t be too hard on my fellow countrymen,’ I said.

He thought he had hurt me and to comfort me he said immediately that India had much that was good to learn from England, and that India was indebted to many fine English administrators.

Chundabhai came back to the table. Sheila followed with two English friends of Ajit and Chundabhai, and the party became hilarious.

This was the first of many occasions that Ajit and I enjoyed together, sometimes with a group from the club, sometimes just the two of us. It was a peculiar relationship. Ajit never asked anything of me – he seemed just content to be with me; and I was grateful for his peaceful presence. Part of me cried out to be loved, but I could not imagine being loved by anyone but Barney – and Barney was dead.

Very occasionally Ajit came to our house for an hour or so on Sunday evening, when I was not on duty. Mother always made him stay to supper and he basked in the comfortable, domestic atmosphere. After one of these visits, as we walked down the path to the gate, he said to me rather wistfully: ‘You have a splendid home.’

‘I think you must have a nice one too,’ I said.

‘I have,’ he said absently, ‘but I cannot hope to provide for my wife what Father provided for Mother. Middle-class people in India do not have so much money in our days.’

‘It is the same in England,’ I said. ‘If Angela or I got married, we would probably start in a two-roomed flat.’

‘Would you?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Of course.’

He shook my hand and went through the gate. I leaned over it and watched him out of sight. I was troubled because I saw myself hurting yet another man by refusing his proposal.

But I flattered myself. No proposal came.