Flame Tree Road (16 page)

Biren learned that Grantham Manor had once been the stately country residence of the luckless Baron le Pomme, who had whittled away his family fortune. The baron still owned the manor but he was absconding somewhere in Europe to evade taxes. The manor meanwhile was falling apart for want of upkeep. The formal living room, the grand dining hall, boudoirs and private parlors were all closed off due to roof leaks and water damage. The only inhabitable section—the west wing—was rented out to the Lovelace family. They had lived in Grantham Manor for fifteen years.

“This is the same uncle I told you about, Samuel Lovelace, the surveyor in India,” Bertie said. “After he came back from India he taught in Cambridge for a while. Now he has joined politics. He and my aunt Catherine live the summer in London when Parliament is in session and they come back to Grantham Manor during the fall. I spent many years of my childhood in Grantham Manor with my cousins.”

“Do your cousins live there now?”

“Nobody lives there right now, as far as I know. James works in London and Estelle last I heard was gadding about in Paris. They come and go. I try to avoid Uncle Samuel. He was not too happy with me after I dropped out of Cambridge, especially after he paid for my tuition.”

“I would imagine the rent at Grantham Manor would be quite dear,” said Biren.

“The room for rent has nothing to do with my uncle—it’s up to Mrs. Pickles. Mrs. Pickles is the old housekeeper of Grantham Manor. She ran the manor back in the grand old days when Baron le Pomme and his family lived here. Mrs. Pickles is very old and lives in the garret above the kitchen with all her disgusting cats. To support herself, she rents out a room in the old stables. The other day I went to Grantham Manor to pick up my uncle’s mail and Mrs. Pickles mentioned the room had become available and asked me if I knew of anyone who would want to rent it. The rent should be reasonable, I would imagine. Go and meet Mrs. Pickles. Tell her you are my friend.”

* * *

It was the perfect day for a river walk. The beautiful Cam flowed along the tall stony embankments of the colleges, ducking under the loops of tiny bridges and lingering over meadows bright with daffodils. On a rare sunny day, the English countryside was sheer poetry. The willows brightened to a deep frilly green and brushed the water like lacy petticoats. Biren watched a convoy of baby swans, still in their baby fluff, paddle behind elegant parents who looked as if they were dressed for the Queen’s Ball.

He entered Grantham Manor through an apple orchard buzzing with bees, and passed an apiary with boxed beehives fallen into disrepair. There was an abandoned Gothic dairy next to a large kitchen garden growing a fine crop of turnips and leafy rhubarb on fleshy red stems.

Mrs. Pickles sat on a small stool in the kitchen shelling peas. She had a faded blue scarf tied around her head, and her tired old body slumped over a small stool like a sack of potatoes. She squinted at Biren through shortsighted eyes.

“Young man, you’re late,” she said. “Your note said you would be here at 10:00 a.m.” She glanced up at the ancient wall clock. It was ten past. “I s’pose you want to see the room.” She set the bowl down on the table and heaved herself to her feet, which were surprisingly tiny, and shuffled toward the larder. On the wall next to a wooden cross was a hook with several keys. She selected one hanging on a rope and handed it to Biren.

She pointed to the doorway. “If you go around to the front of the house, the stables will be on your left. It’s the second room above the stables. Don’t go to the first room. It is full of rubbish. Now, about the rent. It’s fifteen shillings. Due on the first Monday of the month. I don’t provide meals. I hope you know that. You can buy dry goods, tea, coffee, soap, candles and other things at the village grocers. The bakeshop sells meat pies and other cooked dishes.” She squinted at Biren. “You probably don’t eat beef like other Indians, do you? Now, wait a minute—or was it pork? Hindustanis don’t eat one thing, Mohammedans don’t eat the other. So which one are you?”

“I eat everything,” said Biren.

“Just as well. You’ll find plenty to eat in the village, then. You can also help yourself to coal from the coalhouse behind the kitchen if you want to make your own toast and tea. The stable room has a fireplace and, oh, yes, I must warn you about the peacocks. They will take some getting used to. I don’t want you moving into the room and then wanting to move out and asking for your rent back. That’s what happened with the last lodger.”

“Did you say
peacocks
?”

“Yes, peacocks. Mr. Lovelace has a fondness for peacocks, having lived in India and such. The peacock cage is right next to the stables. Until a few years ago they were wandering all around the garden, but they tore up the plants and ate all the roses. Very destructive birds, them peacocks. Mrs. Lovelace had them all caged up. Now they make the most awful noise. The other student who used to rent the room left because he couldn’t stand the screeching. Tore his brain out, he said, the peacocks did.”

She walked back to the kitchen table and collapsed on the stool with a thump. “Young man, I may not be here when you get back. Put the key back on the hook and write me a note if you want the room. There’s pencil and paper in the egg basket above the larder. I will need one month’s rent. Fifteen shillings.”

The room for rent above the stables was narrow and Spartan with rough stone floors. All it contained was a narrow bed against the wall, a grated fireplace and a porcelain basin on a wooden stand. The small window, set rather high off the ground, roughly at Biren’s chin height, looked out at the ancient flowering trees of the apple orchard and a part of the crumbling rock wall separating the meadows. Biren watched a pale green caterpillar with white longitudinal stripes crawl in slow arching waves along the windowsill. He held out a finger and it crawled onto his hand. He carried it outside and set it onto the bark of an apple tree. His heart went out to the caterpillar—a small cheerful creature enjoying a spot of sun, blissfully unaware of the terrors beyond its leafy world.

After examining the room and finding it acceptable, Biren wandered around the grounds of the estate. Viewed from the front driveway, Grantham Manor was impressive. There were several wings in varying architectural styles that looked as if they had been added on at different times, and by different owners. The main hall was built of pale yellow Jurassic limestone—the same material as many of the colleges in Cambridge. The added-on wings all had different tints of stone, yet the mismatched pieces coalesced together in an oddly beautiful way. The graveled terrace and driveway extended out toward a pair of imposing gates flanked by great piers topped with urns. The boundary wall was ablaze with red ivy. The crescendo of color reminded Biren of the flame tree of his village in India.

Ancient oaks shaded the main lawn, and a serpentine path led to a mossy rockery and terraced garden with a beautiful climbing-rose wall. Next to a sweeping chestnut tree was a large netted enclosure that housed the family of peacocks. The male bird walked up and down with great pomp, his long tail feathers lifted delicately off the ground, while three homely females with mottled chests pecked earnestly in the dirt making small clucking noises.

It felt odd to see the sacred bird of Indian mythology strutting around in a formal English garden. The flamboyant bird with its tufted head and iridescent gold, turquoise and emerald feathers looked ostentatious and out of place. Back home, the peacock enjoyed the exalted status of a deity. Even a starving beggar in India would never dream of eating a peacock, whereas here in England the regal bird was roasted and served in a bed of his own tail feathers for special occasions. The meat was dry and gamey, he heard, not exactly delicious, which made even less sense why one would want to eat it at all. The English with their craving for exotic flesh were even known to eat larks.
Larks!
The poor little songbirds were baked into a pie to create a dainty dish for the king, Biren was told.

CHAPTER

26

Estelle Lovelace could hardly wait to get out of London.

It felt stifling, like being trapped in a corset, she imagined, not that Estelle had ever worn a corset in all her nineteen years, thanks to her carefree upbringing in India. Mummy was too busy with her gin luncheons and left the care of Estelle and her brother, James, to their ayah. As children they swam naked in rivers and ponds and their ayah, of ample bosom and little shame, swam right along with them. Estelle and James had seen more naked bodies during their childhood in India than in their entire adult lives in England. By the time the family was reinstated in England, Estelle had grown leggy and untrimmed like a wild rosebush. The English governess, Miss Smithers, with her crackling petticoats and herring breath, finally gave up and declared it too late to reshape her into any semblance of a lady.

Estelle made no bones about her disdain for London society—the hatted ladies and their tea parties where the gossip was spread thicker than the clotted cream on their scones. Of course, Estelle had added the latest delectable morsel to their conversation after her broken engagement with Pierre Jolie, or the Jolly Pear as he was nicknamed by her brother, James. The Jolly Pear was half English and half French, which made him half acceptable for Mummy and half interesting for Estelle. She had drifted into the relationship from boredom, and suffered the occasional pinch of misgiving at the thought of surrendering her independence. Therefore it was a mixed blessing for her when the Jolly Pear turned out to be not so jolly when slapped with a court case for fraud involving railway stocks. The scandal, splashed all over the London papers, made Daddy furious because he had been roped in as the guarantor for Jolly Pear’s nefarious scheme. Mummy collapsed while reaching for her sal volatile and Estelle was desperate to beat a hasty retreat out of London.

Grantham Manor called to her. Estelle longed for the quiet of the wooded glades and peaceful meadows. Maybe she would get the bicycle out and ride around the country a bit. She still had not worn the Turkish-style bloomer pants she had had tailored in Paris. They were the latest sporting fashion of the day, but Mummy would surely faint to see her in them. It was bad enough Estelle had cut off her waist-length hair, but to wear bloomer pants and cycle around in public would mean the ultimate demise of her matrimonial prospects.

Estelle had coerced Daddy into buying her the bicycle. It was only fair, she argued. James and cousin Bertie had bicycles, why not her? Mummy said too much time in the wind and sun would spoil Estelle’s hair and complexion, but her concerns ran deeper.

The bicycle had become the new symbol of female emancipation. If a woman riding a bicycle was not shocking enough, a woman sitting astride the saddle wearing a pair of bifurcated bloomers instead of a skirt was certainly the height of scandal. Bloomers, viewed as a sexually provocative garment, elicited all kinds of lewd comments.

How utterly ridiculous, thought Estelle. Even as early as 400 BC, women in India had worn gathered pantaloons of thin, breathable cotton because it was practical for the tropical weather. Ironically, this was around the same time when Roman men ruled an empire in their effeminate flowing togas. Clothes, according to Estelle, should be designed for practicality and comfort, the frills and bows being secondary. Here in England it seemed to be the other way around.

* * *

Estelle’s friends at Girton College were hardly the frills-and-bows variety. Estelle had a natural tendency to gravitate toward the rebels and the openly defiant. Most of her friends came from the privileged class but they were more drawn to social issues than to London fashion. By championing the rights of the motley and the maligned, they saw themselves as thinking women.

In open defiance, Estelle’s friends had formed their own cycling club. The controversy surrounding bicycles was often the subject of discussion. Samantha Duncan, the president of the club, a bony, athletic woman—whom Estelle’s mother once described as a hat rack—glanced through the latest newspaper report. She shook open the paper and gave a derisive snort.

“Just listen to this,” she called out to the others, then read from the report. “The esteemed Dr. Osborn, orthopedic surgeon, is quoted here saying, ‘Cycling poses a serious risk to women’s health. The latest medical research concludes a woman’s skeletal structure is too delicate and not designed for the vigorous pedaling motion. Such strenuous activity should be discouraged in females. It can cause irreparable damage to the kidneys, distort the pelvis and lead to infertility.’” Samantha threw the newspaper down on the desk. “This is utter rot!”

Isadora Burke, a spry, dark-haired woman, smoked her long-handled cigarette and blew two perfect smoke rings up at the ceiling. She was a member of a feminist group and often rallied outside Parliament for the rights of prostitutes and factory workers. “If the medical community is so concerned about women’s health,” she drawled in her gravelly voice, “why don’t they ever talk about the conditions of female workers in the factories? What about the health risks of working long hours, without proper ventilation, in appalling, unhygienic conditions?”