Enchanted Evening (20 page)

I knew from past experience that elephants do not forget. But I didn't know that monkeys didn't either. Kadera said that he and Mahdoo had both told her that Mother was coming back, but that she hadn't seemed to take much interest, and they were both as touched as we were at this funny little animal's faithfulness and devotion.

3

On a Clear Day …

Chapter 15

That season was almost as much fun as our last one in Delhi had been. It was wonderful to find that so many of my old friends were still around: ‘Aud' Wrench in particular. She and I and a few others were co-opted to decorate the IDG
1
ballroom for Christmas as a medieval hall. Bets and I contributed several vast tapestries, using the technique that I had invented when Judy Birdwood and I did the scenery for
Faust
in Simla.
2

We bought yards and yards of coarse sacking in the bazaar and got the
darzi
to sew it together in enormous squares, which we spread on the dry ground and painted with typical tapestry scenes: stylized trees and forests and castles, hunting parties with hounds in pursuit of deer, and elegant medieval ladies in flowery robes and tall, pointed headdresses. When finished, there was only one place high and wide enough to try them out on, and that was the flat roof of our bungalow. So we lugged them up there, anchored them with heavy stones, and poured bucketfuls of dirty paint water over them. Once again, it worked splendidly, particularly when they were hung on the walls of the ballroom; though I would have said that that huge, Georgian-style room was the last place in the world to try to convert into a baronial hall – somewhere between AD 1100 and 1200.

One of the first things that Mother did after settling into the house and making it look comfortable and charming and, unmistakably,
her
house was to set aside a room for all the Chinese bric-à-brac. And, having opened all those packing cases and arranged the contents to their best advantage, pin up, with the permission of the IDG and Old Delhi Club Committees, a small handwritten notice advertising the fact that they were for sale between such-and-such an hour on the following days.

The result exceeded her wildest expectations, and if only she or Tacklow had possessed a grain of hard-headed business sense she could probably have made a small fortune during the next few years. For her stock sold at what seemed like bargain prices to Delhi; though on the advice of some more commercially minded friends like Buckie, she charged three or four times what she had paid for them, plus the packing and carriage. But it was December and Christmas was looming, and people in search of pretty and inexpensive presents descended on the bungalow like locusts, so that before she knew where she was, she had sold the lot – with one exception. Tacklow's contribution to her shop were the little spoons made out of the shells he had collected on Pei-tai-ho beach. A few of these were the only things that remained unsold when the shop was compelled to close down because there was nothing left to sell!

If Mother had been a businesswoman she would have made some arrangement for more of everything to be sent to Delhi. But she never even thought of doing so, and, though delighted by the run-away success of her shop, couldn't be bothered to follow it up. To do so, she argued, would give her no time for painting; and she was doing rather well with her sketches.

I wasn't doing badly with my pictures either. I sold a series of them to the
Illustrated Times of India,
plus most of the handful that I showed at a successful exhibition that Mother gave at Maidens' Hotel.

I saw a lot less of Bets during that season, for she spent most of the time that William Henry was not in his office in his company. They dined and danced together, played tennis and golf, picnicked and went to the ‘flicks' (which was the thirties name for the cinema). Their wedding date had been arranged long ago, and they did not change it. But now that William Henry would not have to waste half his leave in travelling out alone to Peking (and the rest of it getting back to Delhi via a passenger steamer to Calcutta, in what could easily have been bad weather) they were to be married in Kashmir and spend their honeymoon in that idyllic spot, the Lolab Valley.

The season ended as usual with the Bachelors' Ball at the Old Delhi Club. And as the mercury in the thermometer that hung in our verandah began to rise ominously, and dust-devils danced like whirling dervishes across the ‘badlands' on either side of the road to Karnel, we left for Kashmir. Kadera, Mahdoo and Angie with their respective luggage, plus some of ours, went by the Frontier Express to Rawalpindi, and from there by bus to Srinagar, Mother driving her family up in the car. We arrived to find our boat waiting for us at the D
ā
l Gate with Kadera's party already on board, together with a crew of four men armed with long poles, who pushed out the boat, there and then, to our old
ghat
3
at Chota Nageem.
4

It had been wonderful to be back again in Delhi. But it was even better to be back in Kashmir. It was as if I had been away for several years instead of only two, and I remember the bliss of smelling again the special scent that all houseboats have, an incense compounded of lake water and water-weeds, the pinewood of which the boats are made and the smoke from the wood-burning stoves that are the only form of heating during the long winters when all the valley is deep in snow. The
manji
and his family had dressed in their best to greet us; his lovely wife ‘Ashoo',
5
whom I had painted so often, had put on all her silver jewellery in honour of the occasion; and there on the bank to welcome us back was old Ahamdoo Siraj. It was wonderful to be back. The men whom the
manji
had hired to take the houseboat out to Chota Nageem – which is an arm of the larger and deeper Lake Nageem – poled us along the beautiful, familiar waterways and when, just before sundown, we reached our old mooring under the giant chenar, we found our little island white with wild cherry blossom and the young grass full of the little red and white striped tulips that are such a feature of Kashmir in springtime. I could have wept from sheer happiness.

*   *   *

We had managed to get our original houseboat, the ‘Sunflower', back that year, and Tacklow acquired a cat, not by the usual method of the cat adopting Tacklow, but deliberately, from choice. He had wanted a Siamese cat ever since he had seen a pair of them that belonged to one of the keepers at London's zoo, and heard tales about their behaviour. This was long before Siamese cats began to turn up by the thousand in England. And now he had the offer of a half-Siamese one from a couple of women living in a houseboat on the Jhelum, who owned a pair of them. Both females.

They had meant to find a torn and breed from them, but as anyone who knows anything about these cats will be aware, they are almost impossible to live with when on heat. And there was no proper husband available for them in Kashmir. Their immodest yowls called up every tomcat within miles of their owners' boat, and the noise got too much for the proprietors, who, after a third sleepless night and a pailful of complaints from the neighbours, lost all patience with them and let them out. The cats spent a happy night on the tiles and returned smug and satisfied. And pregnant of course. Husbands unknown.

The two ladies told Tacklow that there was always a chance that one kitten from a mixed mating (but only one) would be a proper Siamese, and that he should have it, as they could not keep it themselves. When the time came for the kittens' arrival, the ladies sent for Tacklow in case he would like to be present. He would, and he told me that he wouldn't have missed it for a fortune. Nor would he have believed it if he hadn't seen it …

The cats were sisters, but one was much larger than the other, and the kittens began arriving at almost the same minute. It was, he said, practically a dead heat. The big cat produced four kittens, and called it a day. But the little cat continued to have them, and when she got to five, and it was clear that there were more on the way, her owners had a brainwave and, removing the next one the moment it was born, gave it to the big cat, who accepted it happily, licked off the neat sac of membrane that kittens arrive in, ate the afterbirth and cleaned the kitten up, licking it all over from nose to tail, and got it started sucking with the others.

The little cat went on giving birth, and ended up with seven of them in her basket. None in either litter took after their mothers. They were all unmistakably Kashmiri Alley-Cat, except one, which though coal-black all over, showed signs of being sleek-furred instead of furry.

About half an hour later, when all was clean and tidy and all the kittens were sucking away peacefully, the little cat took a closer look at her lot, and quite plainly, according to Tacklow, counted them and found she was missing one. ‘
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
– where's the eighth? I know there were eight!' Whereupon she left her basket, stalked across the room to her sister's, looked that lot over, slapped the big cat across the nose with her paw, and, picking up one of the kittens – presumably the right one – carried it back in triumph to her own basket.

Tacklow was enthralled: ‘I
must
have one of her kittens,' he said, ‘and don't let anyone ever tell you that cats can't count!' He waited until they were a bit older, and then chose the all-black one, because its mother could count, and because it was Siamese in everything but colour. Shape, fur, tail, ears and eyes – turquoise blue slant eyes like its mother's. This was the only ‘Kaye cat' that was not called ‘Chips'. Tacklow called it the ‘Lizel Kaz', which was Kaye language for Little Cat, and he adored it. The adoration was mutual, for the Lizel Kaz followed him everywhere, went for long walks with him and sat on his desk when he was writing. She came when he whistled, growled over bones, and fetched sticks or balls that were thrown for her, just like a dog. She also became a bosom friend of Angelina's. The two of them would share Angie's hut – the Kaz purring while Angie picked over her short, sleek fur, monkey-fashion, in search of fleas.

Mother did a lot of sketching that spring and summer, and Bets and I did a good many of our combined portraits – Bets drawing the sitter and I colouring them in with coloured pencils. They were rather effective; and certainly original. Something between a pastel portrait and a miniature on ivory. We only had one dissatisfied customer, who threw the finished portrait at us and flounced out in a rage. She was a rich globe-trotting widow of uncertain age, who had obviously been good looking in her youth and become pathologically vain.

Apart from this poor woman, who had to be written off as a dead loss, we did rather well financially with our new-style portraits; but ended up having to move our houseboat, bag, baggage and Angie, back to the Moons' ghat on the river, to cut down on the to-ing and fro-ing.

Bets had bought the material for her wedding dress in Peking, yards and yards of pearl-white Chinese satin. And within a day or two after our arrival in Kashmir she had decided on the colour, and I the design, of her bridesmaids' dresses. This had been the result of remembering our first ever visit to Gulmarg. I was never again to see Gulmarg in the early spring while snow still lay thick on the Outer Circular Road and between the pine trees in the surrounding forest. But I never forgot the sight of acres of pale mauve alpine primulas spread out by the hundred thousand on the short cropped winter grass of the
marg
. Nor had Bets forgotten them. On taking a look into the future, she had said confidently: ‘That's the colour I'm going to have for my bridesmaids.' And she did. This was the year that a dress material known, somewhat inelegantly, as ‘elephant crêpe' appeared upon the fashion scene, and among the various patterns of materials that Bets sent for to Calcutta, to Whiteaway and Laidlows or the Army and Navy Stores, there was an exact match of the lilac-mauve of the primulas.

I designed those bridesmaids' dresses, and their hats, in that crêpe, and a nice, plump lady called Mrs Cliffe, who was a whizz of a dressmaker, made the lot, including Bets's wedding dress. The pale yellow centres of the primulas were echoed by a primrose-yellow rose on the bridesmaids' hats and matching yellow roses on the muffs that they carried, while the pale emerald-green of the primulas' stalks and leaves was repeated in the long velvet ribbons on the muffs.

The wedding was set for the first of September, and the Resident and his wife, Colonel and Mrs Lang, not only lent us the Residency for the Reception, but the Residency
ghat
as well, the latter from 20 August until as long as we liked in September, so that we could be nearer the centre of activity. Bruce
6
and Edna Bakewell, who had always been particular friends of ours, had offered Bets the loan of the forest hut in the Lolab Valley for her honeymoon, and had been disappointed to hear that the wedding would take place in North China. But now that we were all back in India, they renewed the offer, which was gratefully accepted.

Our brother Bill was to be best man, and the line-up of ushers included Tony Sanger, who had captained the British Polo team to America, Bruce Bakewell, Ken Hadow and Gerry Lloyd our local Lloyds Bank manager, while the five bridesmaids, starting with me, were Joan-Mary Weir, Ray Lawrence, Connie Tallon and a charming American girl, Ora Otis Worden, who was spending the summer as a house-guest of Ken Hadow's wife, Peggy. William Henry and Bill arrived up on leave during the last few days of August. Mr Lang had put the best guest-room in the Residency at our disposal for Bets to dress in, and as the weather was set fair it was decided to hold the reception under the chenars on the Residency lawn. Everything, in fact, seemed in place for a really lovely wedding. And then, a mere two days before the balloon went up, the bridegroom elected to throw a spanner in the works.