1977 (5 page)

grubbing Punjabi woman can cause a Christian Sahib a moment’s disquiet?”

It was in his mind to say something of the sort to Tusker but just then Dr Mitra appeared

to see how his patient was doing and Ibrahim was ordered off to get coffee for him, which

he grinned at while boiling; boiling twice to make it doubly disgusting the way the doctor

deserved to get it. Ibrahim detested Dr Mitra who spoke to him as so many high-toned

Indian nobodys spoke to their own and other people’s servants: as if they were no better

than coolies touting for headloads at a railway station.

To Ibrahim the difference between being treated by men like Dr Mitra as if he were merely

a machine and an anonymous one at that, and being sworn at by a Sahib like Tusker showed

the distinction between a real sahib and the counterfeit. The same kind of distinction

between a real memsahib and a self-appointed one was apparent when you compared Lucy-

Mem with Mrs Bhoolabhoy.

Ibrahim regretted the passing of the days of the
raj
which he remembered as days when the

servants were treated as members of the family, entitled to their good humours and bad

humours, their sulks, their outbursts of temper, their right to show who was really boss, and

their right to their discreetly appropriated perks, the feathers they had to provide for the nest

when the nest they presently inhabited was abandoned by homeward-bound employers.

Ibrahim had been brought up in such a nest. He still possessed the chits his father had been

given by Colonel Moxon-Greife and a photograph of Colonel and Mrs Moxon-Greife with

garlands round their necks, Going Home, in 1947. He had also inherited and preserved the

two letters which Colonel Moxon-Greife had written to his father from England. Finally he

had inherited the silence that greeted his father’s two letters to Colonel Moxon-Greife

inquiring about the possibilities of work in England for young Ibrahim, now going on

twenty.

“Coffee, Sahib,” he announced, clattering the tray in front of Dr Mitra and got nothing in

reply except a warming word from Tusker who said, “What kept you, you old bugger? Pour

the bloody stuff out then.” Which Ibrahim gladly did after first bending close to Dr Mitra

and using an expression learned from an old friend whose father had looked after a family in

French Pondicherry murmured, “Tuay maird, Sahib?” Dr Mitra nodded, not understanding,

then said, “
Bus, bus
,” as Ibrahim slopped in the under-boiled goat’s milk which he hoped was

full of the germs of tuberculosis and amoebic dysentery.

Back in the kitchen he clattered pans. Mitra was the kind of man who would end up in

Finsbury Park, London, N, removing people’s gall bladders when they only had appendicitis.

Mitra was Sahib’s choice but Ibrahim trusted no Indian doctor to treat a white man. At a

pinch a Muslim doctor would do, but a Hindu doctor never. The nearest European doctor

though was down in Nansera, and he was an Austrian and a Catholic and the Catholics were

worse than the Hindus because they believed in human suffering and uncontrolled birth-

rates. The Hindus at least had offered a free transistor to every Indian having a vasectomy.

But carrying a transistor had at once become unfashionable among the younger men. That

lawyer’s babu, Pandey, whose transistor was enormous, must have lost his marbles.

Lucy-Mem returned before Dr Mitra had gone. Ibrahim feared they would ask him to stay

to lunch. They enjoyed company. But Mitra went and Lucy-Mem walked down to the side

entrance with him. When she got back she came into the kitchen and said, “Ibrahim, it’s bad

for the Sahib to have the box.”

“No, Memsahib, good.”

“Doctor Mitra says not good. For blood pressure very bad.”

“That is because Doctor Sahib does not understand Colonel Sahib’s psychology. Colonel

Sahib is not a Virgo like Memsahib.”

“What?”

“Not a Virgo. He is born under the Ram sign of Aries. He must always be butting-in,

talcing charge, solving non-problems, vindicating self and own beliefs.”

“That’s just astronomy, Ibrahim.”

“Astrology, Memsahib, not astronomy.”

“Astronomy, astrology. No
box
, Ibrahim. Tonight I shall hide the box. Tomorrow if he asks

for it you will say,
nai malum baksh
.”

“And sound bigger fool than I look? No, Memsahib. Box is good for recuperation. With

box good juices flow. Without box juices cease. Sahib turns his face to the wall and all is up

with him and with us.”

“No box,” she repeated. She vibrated in every frail bone. Her eyes were bright lavender,

her skin like cracked bone china.

In the morning her eyes were grey again, like her hair which needed another blue-rinse. Not

smiling at him she said in her lightest smallest voice, “Perhaps you are right about the box. If

he asks you you may give it to him. I am going to the chemist for his prescription.”

Within ten minutes of her going Tusker asked for the box and the key. Ibrahim gave them

to him. Then he went into the bedroom. He gave Lucy-Mem’s best pair of black high-heeled

court shoes a special shine and replaced them on the steel rods at the bottom of the almirah.

He dubbined the sensible shoes she had not worn since she and Tusker last went for a

tramp, both wearing their tweeds, carrying stout sticks and accompanied by the dog they had

inherited from the Blackshaws who had tried retirement (from Tea) in India but lost heart

about it and gone home.

After washing his hands he replaced worn-down mothballs with new ones among the little

pile of cashmere twin sets in the second drawer of the chest. He examined each woolly vest

and more delicate items of underwear, inspecting them for snags and setting aside any that

could do with attention either from Minnie’s needle or his own expertise in invisible

mending. Finally he opened her jewel box and removed the diamond ring and the diamond

regimental brooch which she wore only on special occasions such as Ladies’ Night at the

Pankot Rifles Mess, poured a small measure of the gin into a medicine glass, dropped ring

and brooch in and left them to clean themselves.

After they had soaked for ten minutes he dried them carefully, returned them to their velvet

boxes then swigged the gin. The shadow of the disapproving Prophet fell on him.

“Waste not want not,” he said aloud. The sun shone again. Aglow, he went out on to the

verandah and stood arrested. Tusker Sahib was pale as death. The document in his hand

shook. His mouth worked.

“Sahib?” he ventured.

Sahib took no notice. The document continued to shake, the mouth to work. Alarmed, he

went down into the compound and stood where he could keep a watch on Tusker and a

lookout for Memsahib. Seeing her returning he ran to meet her.

“I was wrong, Memsahib. Box bad.”

“Oh.”

She stood still. True memsahibs never panicked.

“Well, Ibrahim, we live and learn. How bad?’

Ibrahim raised his shoulders.

“Let us go together, Ibrahim, and see.”

She led the way. Arrived by Tusker’s side for a moment Ibrahim thought the Sahib had

gone. He sat slumped, eyes shut, mouth open. But suddenly he opened one eye.

“Oh dear,” Lucy-Mem said. “Have I woken us from our little nap?” She clasped her hands

under her chin.

“We were not having our little nap. We were thinking our little thoughts. Plotting our little

plots and planning our little plans.”

“Plans for what, Tusker dear?”

“Murder.”

“And who is to be the unhappy victim?”

By way of reply he handed her the document, a single sheet of paper, a letter in fact, which

she complained she could not read without her spectacles.

“Then that explains it. You didn’t have the bloody things on last time.”

“Last time, Tusker?”

“Last time. When you said, ‘How nice,’ or ‘that’s a relief’ or some such footling thing.”

“If I commented on it dear I must have read it. And if I read it then I must have had my

glasses on. So stop fretting. Read it to me and remind me.”

She gave the document back; rather, had it snatched from her arthritic hand.

“Dear Colonel Smalley,” Tusker Sahib suddenly shouted, as if he’d now decided she was

deaf as well as short-sighted. “ ‘Mr Bhoolabhoy has explained your objection to proposed

rent-increase. Agreed therefore to renew tenancy of Lodge from 1 July 1971 to 30 June 1972

on same terms and conditions as stated in clause a current agreement now otherwise

expiring. Please countersign and return copy this letter enclosed both parties attaching letter

to expiring agreement making no further need further formalities this year.’ Signed, ‘Mrs

Bhoolabhoy, Prop.’ “

“Well?” Lucy asked.

“Well? You call that well?’

“You were pleased at the time. Chuffed in fact.”

“Chuffed? What kind of damnfool word is that?”

“One of your words, Tusker. Doesn’t it mean pleased?”

“It may or may not.” He was still shouting. “But I’m not pleased now. You were supposed

to check this letter. I didn’t know you couldn’t
see
it. How could I know a thing like that

when all you said when you gave it back—I remember now—was, ‘oh, well done, Tusker.”

“Wasn’t it well done?”

“The bitch cheated us. Two heads arc better than one you’re always saying. You’ve said it

for years. You’ve brain-washed me into thinking it. You’ve made me
rely
. So it’s us that’s

been conned. Us, not me.
I’m
not taking the responsibility.”

Lucy-Mem drew up a chair and sat down. Ibrahim squatted nearby, ready to give advice if

asked. After all it was a family crisis. As if sensing this in some remote corner of its dim

brain the dog shambled out from its place behind Tusker’s chair, collapsed at Lucy-Mem’s

feet and gazed mournfully from one to the other.

“I’m not very bright over business matters,” she said. Tusker opened his mouth to speak

but she ignored this and went on: “If you want me to understand in what way Mrs

Bhoolabhoy has conned us you’ll have to explain it in words of one syllable.”

“How the bloody hell can anyone do that when the two key words are current and

agreement both of which have more than one syllable to start with? I’ve just read the

damned letter out clearly enough. Can’t you even take it in now?”

“Tusker, all I can take in is that you are raising your voice to me, abusing me, I won’t say in

front of the servants because we have only one.”

“It looks as though we’re going to need another, doesn’t it?”

A long pause: Tusker glaring, Lucy fingering her string of seed-pearls, Bloxsaw panting,

Ibrahim holding his breath.

She let go of the pearls and stroked Bloxsaw’s head. The dog turned its blood-shot eyes to

look at Ibrahim as if to share the caress with him.

“I can’t think what you mean, Tusker, after the way Ibrahim has slaved for us while you’ve

been poorly.”

Ibrahim inclined his head to one side. Then waited. Behind Colonel-Memsahib’s gentle

manner he recognized the familiar steel. Himself an old devotee of Hollywood films, as she

was, he knew Memsahib was about to go into her Bette Davis bit. He had seen her at it

when she thought herself alone, strutting up and down, arms folded, waggling her old

bottom, muttering in that unmistakable voice. If the Sahib had another attack here and now

and she was the only one with him and he asked for his pills she would remain
(that’s
what

she was thinking) just where she was, stroking Bloxsaw’s head, eyes wide open staring at the

canna lilies, pretending not to notice his distress, his fight for breath, his struggle to get out

of the wicker-chair and fetch them himself. She would go on sitting fondling the dog, alert

for the sound of collapse. Then after a minute or two she would go inside and call out
in
a

calm voice, “Ibrahim? Ibrahim? Fetch Dr Mitra immediately will you? Tell him the master is

ill. Very very ill.”

For the moment, though, the master seemed very well. He said, “What on earth are you

talking about?”

“Well Ibrahim did, didn’t he?
Slave
.”

“So what?”

“So how can you talk about getting another servant?”

“Yes, I see.” With exaggerated marks of patience and of suffering fools he folded the letter

and put it back in the box and turned the key. “Personally,” he said, “I have always assumed

that another means an other. One other. Not a different one, not one in lieu of one already.

An other. Another. A
mali
for instance. To cut the sodding grass. Except that we’re not

hiring one except over my dead body.”

“Well yes, I see. I misunderstood. And you’re quite right. The grass is Mrs Bhoolabhoy’s

responsibility. So you’ve always said, and so it is, it’s in the lease.”

“Not any more.”

“How can that be, Tusker dear?”

“Because we haven’t had a lease since last July. We’ve only had that conning bloody letter.