The Strangler Vine (2 page)

He nodded unconvincingly. Frank looked at me.

‘If they are going to work for the Company, they should damn
well learn our language. Up here?’ I said again to the
harkara
, before Frank could start yabbering in Hindoostanee. He nodded and advanced up the lane at a loping trot.

‘Will you come?’ I said.

‘No,’ said Frank. He was already striding among the stalls, his breeches edged in mud, oblivious to the native press about him. He
gazed
about him; he was happy. ‘I shall be looking at the caged animals and the druggist’s stall. I think I saw a pangolin somewhere along here.’

I followed after the
harkara
, my boots sinking into the ooze. The dwellings started out as tumbledown mud-and-thatch hovels, then became more substantial, flat-fronted and flat-roofed, with cracked green shutters. The
harkara
stopped before one and pointed. I mopped the drops from my forehead, wiped the inside of my collar, straightened my jacket, pressed down my hair, checked my pocket watch – I was not supposed to wear it with my uniform, but it looked rather well around my cross belt – walked up to the dirty green door and knocked.

It seemed an age before I heard anything. Then came a number of wrenchingly slow footsteps, an elaborate coughing and throat-clearing, a series of locks drawn back at what seemed like five-minute intervals, then, finally, a sleepy-looking elderly
darwan
pushed his nose between the doors and gazed at me. I stood to attention.

‘I have a message for Blake Sahib,’ I said. ‘He lives here?’ I ventured, a little louder. The man contemplated me quizzically but did not move and would not open the door any further.

‘I must enter,’ I said slowly and clearly. ‘I have a letter from the Governor General’s office.’ I could not help thinking that the task would have been better done by a native clerk. The
darwan
and I regarded each other for a moment, and I was about simply to push past him when, with an air of utmost reluctance, he opened the door, inch by inch, to admit me. I stepped into darkness, my eyes taking a moment to adjust.

It was a cool anteroom with broken matting on the floor, and a number of dusty bows and arrows mounted on a wall. Beneath these was a long console table of native inlaid design on which there
were a number of curiosities, also dusty, which I could not make out. Through a doorway was a courtyard in the Indian style. The darwan looked expectantly at my feet. It took me a moment to understand that he wished me to remove my boots. His expectation seemed so utterly demeaning, so intensely insulting, it was as if all the indignities and disappointments of India were suddenly met in this one gesture. A surge of irritation leapt in me.

‘No!’ I said. ‘No.’ I shook my head violently.

The
darwan
regarded me speculatively for a moment, as if deciding how far he should press me. I stared furiously back. ‘I must see your master!’ I said, loudly.

Slowly, he walked through to the courtyard and I followed. He gestured to show with his hands that I should remain, then disappeared through a dark doorway on the far side and I was left quite alone. It was not the reception I had expected. I drummed my boots against the paving and fiddled with my sabre. The place had seen better days. The courtyard was shaded and well proportioned, its floor paved in mosaic that must have been handsome when new, but was cracked now, and there was an air of disintegration. Broken pieces of furniture gathered dust in the corners. Two bolsters had clearly sat through the monsoon and showed signs of rot. The small fountain was silent and clogged with weed.

‘
Qui hy?
’ Is there anybody there? I called out at last, which brought me, more or less, to the limit of my serviceable Hindoostanee. There was a mumble of voices from the rooms at the far end of the courtyard. Then nothing.

‘I must see Blake sahib,’ I called out. ‘Now!
Jaldi jao!
’ Quickly!

I waited, hovering between anger and embarrassment. Then, finally, another native appeared. Whereas the
darwan
had been at least neatly presented, this one was dirty. Wrapped in a large cotton blanket, he shuffled into the courtyard, apparently oblivious of my existence. He was a poor thing, grizzled, puffy-eyed, wearing a mangy beard, and barefoot. Beneath his blanket I could see an unkempt muslin shirt and a pair of dirty white pyjamas. Then, when he was but a few feet from me, he turned to one side and from his mouth issued the most enormous wad of wet scarlet pan,
which he spat on to the ground inches from my feet. I stumbled backwards, almost losing my footing, but the red droplets were already making a fine pattern on my muddied boots and breeches. I looked at him, aghast. I expected an immediate apology in the voluble manner of the Bengalee. Instead, he looked at me mulishly.

‘You clumsy oaf!’ I shouted, losing my calm entirely.

‘Fuck off,
lobster
,’ the man said.

I record these words – the insult to my uniform made obscene by the filthy words that accompanied it – only to convey the outrage and disgust I felt upon hearing them. At the same time I was completely astonished that the apparition before me was an Englishman. But there was no doubt he was. As I stared at him I could see that he was not quite as dark-skinned as I had thought, his beard and moustache the product of unkemptness rather than native custom. He was a head shorter than me, his shoulders slouched, and his hair hung greasily to his neck. His face had the unhealthy, yellowish tinge of a European to whom an annual bout of fever is no stranger. His skin was blotchy, his lips cracked, and his deep-set eyes were sinisterly ringed with grey. He was old too, at least forty.

‘Is there anything in the words “fuck off” that you do not understand?’ he said, in an accent in which I was sure I recognized the smell of the Thames, and he continued to fix me with an unfriendly gaze which I found extremely discomfiting.

‘I am Ensign William Avery,’ I said, as coldly as I could, resisting the instinct to flinch, ‘and I am to deliver a letter personally to Jeremiah Blake. It comes direct from the Governor General’s office. I am required to bring back an answer.’

He snorted and grimaced. ‘Well, you’d better hand it over then.’ He held out his hand, the blanket falling from his shoulders and on to the damp tiles. He appeared to be wearing some sort of baggy native garb made out of old sacking.

I regarded him sullenly, an unpleasant realization coming over me.

‘I am Blake. Now hand it over,’ he said.

As slowly as I could I retrieved the letter, and as I passed it to him
I looked deliberately through him. ‘I am required to bring back an answer,’ I repeated. He looked over the envelope for a moment.

‘Perhaps you would like me to open it for you?’ I said with exaggerated courtesy.

He ignored me, tore off the top, pulled out the contents, and scrutinized them.

‘The answer is no.’

At first I could not quite believe what I had heard. When the Governor General’s office issued a request, one did not say no.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ He shuffled round, dropping the letter on the ground as he went. I scrambled to pick it up and though under normal circumstances I should never have done so, I read it. It was a summons to Government House the following evening to discuss ‘a confidential matter, which touches closely upon your own affairs’. It was signed with a name I did not recognize, ‘on behalf of the Governor General and the Secret and Political Department’. Irritation and anger were swiftly overtaken by mild panic. I could not deliver this answer to Government House. I cursed the ill luck that had sent me on such an errand, though I found it hard to imagine how such a broken-down creature could be of any interest to anyone in Government House.

‘Sir, I really think you must comply.’

Jeremiah Blake kept on walking.

‘Sir,’ I said more urgently, ‘I cannot deliver a refusal to the Governor General’s office, you must know this. It is simply not done. You must attend. At the very least you must be sensible of the honour you are being paid.’

He looked round, his face quite expressionless, and said, ‘I have no interest in the Company’s affairs.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I beg you, sir.’

‘No.’ His refusal met something angry in my own breast and though I should not have spoken, I did.

‘Mr Blake, I have travelled all the way through Blacktown, a place which seems to me to demonstrate only too vividly the degradation and miserable depths to which this godforsaken country has fallen,
to deliver your letter, and I wish to let you know’ – I could hear my own excitability, but I could not stop – ‘that I regard my reception at your house as having been notably lacking in courtesy. I have been treated by your servant and yourself with incredible rudeness. I can only attribute this state of affairs to your marination in the lowest native ways. Whatever my own qualities or lack thereof, I am a representative of the Company and should have been treated with respect.’ I looked pointedly at where the pan was splattered in a large red bloom on the ground near my feet. ‘Your language was disgraceful and your
darwan
was offensive. He virtually refused to allow me in and he tried with the greatest insolence to force me to remove my boots.’

Jeremiah Blake, who had thus far continued to show me his retreating back, paused and turned.

‘Listen, Ensign,’ he said. ‘I’m no longer a member of the Company’s army. I live in Blacktown so I can live as I wish and not be troubled by the fastidiousness of ignorant lobsters and
swoddies
who find my habits too oriental. As for respect for the Company – it can whistle for it, as far as I’m concerned.’

As he limped away an old native woman appeared in the opposite doorway. Ignoring me, she came and picked the blanket up from where it had fallen, and wrapped it carefully about him, speaking quietly in Hindoostanee as they left the courtyard.

The house was very silent. ‘Goodbye, Mr Blake,’ I called. ‘Good riddance!’

I returned to the anteroom and heaved open the front door. It began to rain with heavy beating monsoon drops, and I was in an instant entirely soaked. I walked out into the alley and down towards Frank and the palanquin. He would be drenched and up to his knees in mud by now.

At least, I told myself, I would never have to see Mr Jeremiah Blake again.

‘
Music from the feast drifted over the palace’s lakes through the open window of the Maharanee’s rooms. Had the events of the evening been possible? Had she imagined the fire in the Sheikh’s eyes, the brief sensation of burning when his hand touched hers? Did she imagine still these mysterious sensations, so shameful and yet so enticing, that she felt even now?

‘She turned to the window and almost cried out. As bold as the day, as mysterious as the night, unmoving, unsmiling, there stood the Sheikh. The light silk curtains swayed about him as if they were clouds, as if they were wings. Yet his eyes were black as pitch. He had exchanged his flowing native robes for European attire. Was he angel or devil? thought the Maharanee. How could I know? I am only a woman. A woman alone in a room with a man with whom I should not be left alone. She felt her heart fluttering, bird-like. The Sheikh took a step towards her.

‘“You do not know what to think,” he said, his voice low, hypnotic. His eyes glinted, and for the first time she felt a surge of fear in her bosom. It could not be. He took another step.

‘“Is that because you are a woman, and I am a man?”

‘The Sheikh took another long stride.

‘He whispered, “Is it because you are fair, and I am dark?”

‘He strode forward again. They were no more than a yard apart. The Maharanee could hear wild drumming in the distance. With dread she understood that it was her own treacherous heart.

‘“Or is it because you know that you should say no …”

With a final stride, he reached her, and as breakers throw the prow of a ship on to the rocks, as an earthquake causes a city to quiver and fall, so she was consumed by a terrible compulsion to submit. Yet she knew she must resist, though he whispered in her ear, “… but every fibre of your being longs to say ‘Yes!’”

‘“No – yes – I cannot,” cried the swooning Maharanee, as he drew her to him
—’

‘You are making that up!’ I protested, outraged.

‘I deny it!’ said Frank, snapping my copy of
Leda and Rama
closed. ‘Well, perhaps just the last part. But you must admit, it is a little much—’

‘It is not! It is a
roman-á-clef
, and quite in keeping with its exotic setting.’

‘William, it is appalling old nonsense, but you are so enslaved to Mountstuart you cannot tell the difference!’

‘You talk rot!’

Frank and I shared a small cache of novels. Our tastes, however, did not always agree. Mine ran more towards the heroic, Frank to the more satirical and comic – though he had converted me to his latest passion,
Pickwick Papers
by Mr Boz, whose monthly instalments he had begun to receive off the boat from his sisters in Edinburgh. It was one of the few things in Calcutta that made me laugh.

Before we could argue more, the
khansaman
– our steward – came in, bringing with him two invitations to the levee at Government House that very evening. Both of us were rather wary of him, as we were of all our servants. It was one of the peculiarities of European life in India that everyone employed vast numbers of them. Even we ensigns were obliged to employ at least seven each – it was both the custom and necessary, because each caste would do only their small allotted task. I had a
bhisti
to carry water, a
dhobi-wallah
to do the laundry, a
punkah-wallah
to work the ceiling fans, a
syce
to care for my horses, a valet, a
khitmatgur
to make my morning coffee and wait at table, and a grass cutter for the horses. Macpherson and I shared the
khansaman
, the cook, the
napi
who shaved us, a low-caste
mehtar
who swept and cleaned, and the occasional use of a
dirzi
to make clothes. Their salaries –
tuncaw
–
ate horribly into our pay, and they all seemed entirely beyond our control. Most spoke barely a word of English. The
syce
was often drunk. I had once found the
khitmatgur
straining my punch through my stockings. Moreover, my possessions were disappearing week by week, but I could not be
sure who was taking them. All the while, the
khansaman
insisted he would ‘arrange it all’, and never did.

We gazed at our invitations. We were last-minute invitees, added to swell the numbers.

‘They are truly scratching down to the chaff,’ said Frank. ‘There really must be a great many sick officers.’

‘After my achievements yesterday,’ I said, wincing, ‘I would have thought that even if the entire officer corps was dead they would not have asked me.’

It was mid-afternoon on the day following my ghastly encounter in Blacktown, and in hindsight the whole Blake incident seemed quite baffling. On my return to Government House I had prepared myself for the inevitable dressing down, having confessed to Frank that my ill temper and impatience had made everything a thousand times worse. Yet when I made my report to Captain Turpington, the aide who had sent me, he had seemed not at all surprised.

‘I really do not know what to say, sir. I am very sorry to report – I did all I could, sir – that Mr Blake says no.’

Captain Turpington looked up from his desk. ‘Say that again, Ensign.’

‘Mr Blake, he declined to come to the interview. Tomorrow.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘I am sorry to say … well, sir, he said’ – I swallowed – ‘he said he had no interest in the Company’s affairs. I did my best to reason with him, sir, I truly did’ –
While in the grip of fury
, I thought to myself. ‘But not with any success.’

I thought I saw the edge of Captain Turpington’s mouth twitch, but the rest of his face remained entirely unsmiling. ‘I see. And how did he take that?’

‘He was somewhat abusive, sir … in fact extremely abusive.’

‘Indeed.’ Captain Turpington put his elbows on his desk, folded his hands under his chin and leant upon them. I fidgeted, waiting for the inevitable reprimand. Instead, he said at last, ‘Well, that would appear to be that. You are dismissed, Ensign.’

Perhaps I was not as deep in disgrace as I had thought.

‘I think we should definitely make an appearance,’ said Frank,
who never wasted an opportunity to mix with the senior ranks. ‘The temptation of three new issues of
Pickwick Papers
straight off the boat does hold great attraction, but I am all for going – see if I can’t find out what’s happened about my posting. And you must fly there on winged feet, because the Fairest She is bound to attend.’

I was divided about such occasions: it was an honour to be asked, but Calcutta society, more than anywhere else, was all about rank and precedence, and one might just as easily find oneself slighted and patronized as favoured. But it did seem more than likely that She – Helen Larkbridge, the loveliest, most adorable girl in Calcutta – would be there, and that would make up for the rest.

The
dhobi-wallah
had for once done a good job on my best dress uniform. I donned red shell jacket, white muslin shirt, white breeches, and we set off for the Governor General’s levee.

‘If I were the Governor General I would have had Mountstuart deported by now.’

‘Yes, but no one knows where he is.’

‘I heard he had gone up country to research Thuggee for some poem.’

‘With any luck the Thugs will get him.’

‘But have you actually read it? Who are Sheikh Habeebee and the Maharanee of Oleepore? I mean, I’ve heard various theories.’

‘It does not matter a jot who the characters are. The book is an attack on the reputation and respectability of Calcutta. It portrays the place as a hotbed of untrammelled lust and greed. It could do untold damage. The native news sheets are already dangerously critical of Company policy. And it could damage our reputation in England too.’

‘You exaggerate. It is nothing more than a superior “blood and thunder” – and an entertaining one at that.’

We had arrived at Government House some five minutes before. Frank had marched into the melee immediately, as he always did, while I hovered at the edge for a moment, a semi-detached member of a deferential audience listening to four senior Company civilians fuming over Mountstuart’s book.

I sipped my champagne and let my attention stray. The Marble Hall was the biggest room that I had ever entered. The vastly high ceiling was supported by two avenues of white columns which dwarfed everything else, and it was lit by three of the biggest chandeliers I had ever seen. There was little in the way of furniture – a series of plinths holding marble busts of the twelve Caesars (most of whom, I vaguely recalled, had come to bad ends), and a somewhat dilapidated gilded seat that was said to have belonged to the infamous native warlord Tipoo Sultan. Even now, the hall filled with a crowd of Calcutta’s great and good, voices still echoed, though it was also blissfully cool.

There were familiar faces, but in Calcutta one was never quite sure if someone senior to oneself might cut one dead. The men, as ever, vastly outnumbered the ladies. The civilians sweated in black broadcloths, though here and there one glimpsed a blue silk necktie or striped waistcoat. The military men ran the gamut from red-faced brigadiers through sallow middle-aged majors finally in sufficient funds to find a wife, to younger officers, most more senior than I. An army of white-clad natives carried trays of champagne and iced claret. As for the ladies, the plethora of gems caused the company to twinkle almost as brightly as the chandeliers. Emeralds and pearls glittered off every ear lobe and rested on every satiny bosom. In Calcutta everyone with a little money had precious stones, and this was where they wore them. An ungallant observer might have observed that the Indian climate was not always kind to the ladies, as it was not at all to the men. It swiftly and ruthlessly killed the rosy bloom on a skin accustomed to English cloud and climate.

My attention was drawn to the centre of the party where, surrounded by every marriageable man in Calcutta, the unattached young ladies recently off the boat from England were to be found – along, naturally, with their chaperones. Wits called them the fishing fleet because they had come out to catch a husband. Peering into the midst of them, I began to search for signs of She.

I launched myself into the crowd, smiling and nodding as I went, scraps of conversation assailing me – Mountstuart’s book,
Mountstuart’s whereabouts, the Governor General’s tour to the Upper Provinces, the opium harvest, the good-for-nothing natives.

‘Ensign Avery!’ a large woman called out to me, and tapped my wrist with her fan. Mrs Merchantly was a Calcutta matron who prided herself on taking care of new arrivals. There was no option but to stop. ‘We haven’t seen you in such a long while! You are looking as handsome as ever.’

At that moment a fracture opened in the crowd and I glimpsed Miss Helen Larkbridge, lovely, fresh, golden – and quite unaware of my presence. I winced inwardly as I saw that her attentions were simultaneously being claimed by a tall lieutenant, a red-faced major and a civilian who was just now expansively and confidently waving his hands about.

I turned to Mrs Merchantly and bowed. ‘You are too kind, and it is my pleasure, as always.’ I wondered how quickly I could extricate myself.

‘My goodness, what a delightful party!’ Mrs Merchantly grinned, and her dimples wobbled. ‘Now, have you read Mr Mountstuart’s book, Mr Avery? Everyone seems to be talking of it.’

‘As a matter of fact I am in the midst of the first volume,’ I said.

‘The man ought to be ashamed of himself,’ said Mrs Merchantly’s friend, Mrs Kincaid, who stood beside her. With her high clipped Scottish tones, she reminded me of a small fierce bird. ‘It is a book not suitable for maidenly eyes, and I am not sure it is not too profane for any woman.’

‘But is it true,’ said Mrs Merchantly, ‘that the Sheikh is a portrait of – well, you would know, Mrs Kincaid, you know everyone in Calcutta.’

Mrs Kincaid nodded beadily. She could never resist an audience. ‘There are two candidates for that
honour
,’ she said, lowering her voice so we bent towards her, ‘and although perhaps I should not speculate, many people are of the opinion that it is Willoughby Greening.’ She looked at us triumphantly, having named one of the two richest men in Calcutta, a man I had thought beyond reproach.

‘Do you still have that good-for-nothing
khansaman
I told you to get rid of, Mr Avery?’ Mrs Merchantly interrupted. ‘Is he still
stealing from you? What he needs is a good
refreshing
.’ I was lost for a moment, then remembered that she meant a beating. ‘You are too kind for your own good.’

Mrs Kincaid said, ‘The natives are kindly creatures, most of them, but they are simply by nature dishonest. Their ungodly heathen religion enslaves and has degraded them. They do not understand the difference between good and evil. They are addicted to lying.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Mrs Merchantly enthusiastically, ‘you know that they say, “What horns are to the buffalo, deceit is to the Bengalee.”’

‘The Rajas and their courts are the worst,’ said Mrs Kincaid. ‘So corrupt. No sense of duty to their people. Constantly murdering each other. It would be better for everyone if the Company simply took over the native states.’

At that moment my saviour appeared, weaving his way expertly through the clustered guests.

‘Mrs Kincaid, Mrs Merchantly!’ said Frank, grinning widely. ‘What an unexpected, unanticipated and unsought pleasure!’

‘Mr Macpherson,’ said Mrs Kincaid, ‘you’ve not been by in an age!’

‘I know, Mrs Kincaid, I have been most remiss, and I will address it, but I fear I must drag William from you. There is someone he absolutely must speak to immediately. A very particular errand.’ He gestured into the crowd.

‘I wonder if it concerns one of those charming young ladies over there. The lovely Miss Larkbridge, perhaps?’ Mrs Kincaid said sharply, while Mrs Merchantly’s dimples vanished. ‘All the young gentlemen seem to like her excessively.’