1977 (34 page)

her glass and left the kitchen in a mood to demand it again; but on the way through the

living-room something caught her eye at last: a piece of paper stuck under the telephone.

The writing was in block capitals so she did not need her spectacles. It was Tusker’s hand.

The note said : David Turner. Ranpur 34105.

At that moment Tusker came in carrying the poaching pan. He went to the kitchen and

started to clatter. A tap was run. A saucepan fell. He swore. She went in to him.

“For Heaven’s sake, Tusker, go out and sit down and stop this absurd display of sulks. I’ll

poach your silly egg.”

“I can poach my own silly egg. I’m not a fool. And I don’t like being made a fool
of
.”

“Who in Heaven’s name is making a fool of you?”

“You for one. By
that
for instance.” He pointed at the telephone note, then picked up

another saucepan. “Made me sound a proper Charlie, didn’t you? May I speak to Mrs

Smalley, he says. She’s out I say. Is that Colonel Smalley, he says, this is David Turner. Who?

I say. Turner, he says. So I say, What? And he says Turner. David Turner. Guy and Sarah

Perron’s friend, so I say are you sure you’ve got the right number because I don’t know

anyone called Guy and Sarah Perron, this is Pankot 542. Yes, that’s the number I have, he

says. So I took his.”

He looked absurd, standing there at the sink, holding a pan under the running tap and not

looking at what he was doing, looking at her instead, accusingly, so that suddenly the water

caught the rim of the pan and sprayed out, drenching his bush shirt. He flung the pan in the

sink but it fell on its side and so he got drenched again before turning the tap off.

She sat on a stool, both hands clasped to her mouth, the telephone note crumpled between

them, trying to stop herself laughing out loud.

He grabbed a towel, rubbed his shirt, grabbed a glass, poured gin, then lime, and stalked

out, leaving her amid the ruins of an abortive attempt to cook an egg. She cleared the mess

up, dried a saucepan, felt the hot-plate by putting her hand near it. It wasn’t even lukewarm

yet. She put some butter into the pan, then beat up two eggs in a bowl; left bowl, pan, salt

and pepper and milk ready on the draining board; poured herself another gin and went out

to join him.

She sat down. “I was going to explain about Mr Turner today or tomorrow, but he’s earlier

getting in touch than I expected, so let me tell you about him now.”

“No need. Told me himself.”

“Yes, I see.” She sighed—sitting there, ankles neatly crossed, glass held in two hands

resting on her lap. “It’s another of those mornings when I have to be endlessly patient. I

mean with
myself
. I mustn’t let myself become frustrated by evidence of my increasing

inability to comprehend what is said to me.” She gave a little laugh. “Do you know, Tusker,

it’s so strange? I’d somehow managed to get the impression that a young man unknown to

you had telephoned, that you had a short conversation with him which ended abruptly with

your taking his number and subsequently becoming crosser and crosser at the thought that

he might have put the phone down imagining he’d been talking to someone not fully in

possession of his senses and that this was entirely due to the fact that your wife had

forgotten to warn you about him and therefore made a fool of you? However did I get that

extraordinary idea?”

“Irony doesn’t suit you.”

“Nothing does. I’m coming to that conclusion. Nothing suits me. Since I apparently can’t

tell you anything about Mr Turner you don’t know, however, and you’re obviously not in a

mood to tell me what you
do
know, I think I’ll go and ring him now.”

“You can’t very well, can you?”

She thought that out for a few moments. “You mean he’s not in for the rest of the day?

Something like that?”

“I mean you can’t ring him because you haven’t got his number.”

She closed her eyes, gently.

“I’m sorry, Tusker. I’m afraid I didn’t have my spectacles on again. All I could read was a

telephone number in Ranpur, written in block capitals with the little Biro I gave you for your

birthday. I must have failed to notice something written in smaller print. For example

something to the effect that the Ranpur number is the one to reach him on a certain date but

not before because he is in transit just now?”

“He’s not in transit. He’s in Delhi.”

“He rang from Delhi?”

“He said he was in Delhi. Presumably he rang from there.”

“I know he
was
in Delhi because he wrote to tell me so. He said he expected to be in

Ranpur on Tuesday and would ring me then, which is why I said he’s a day or two early

getting in touch.”

“So what are you making a fuss about?”

“I suppose it’s my stupid little way. Just as it’s your stupid little way to obfuscate. So shall

we take a short cut and try to establish between us some mutual understanding about the

reason he left his Ranpur telephone number, for instance whether we are to ring him, or he

is to ring us, and what his intentions are about arriving in Pankot, and when, and whether he

wants us to make his hotel booking for him?”

“Which of that lot do you want establishing first?”

“I have no particular preference, Tusker. It seems to me a simple enough list. But if it

confuses you let’s start with his expected time of arrival in Pankot.”

“Wednesday morning.”

“Good. That means he’s coming on the night train and since the night train comes up from

Ranpur we can take it he’ll be in Ranpur by Tuesday evening at the latest.”

“Tuesday morning.”

“So some time on Tuesday I can ring this number in Ranpur should I wish. Either that or

he may ring us. Now, Tusker, perhaps the only remaining point to be settled is the reason

why he may want to ring us or us to ring him. Let me hazard a little guess. Could it be he’ll

want to know whether we have been able to book his hotel room? Perhaps, since you seem

to have had such a long and friendly conversation with him after all, you even volunteered to

do that and it’s just a question of letting him know by phone on Tuesday whether he should

tell the taxi to bring him to The Shiraz or to Smith’s.”

“He said he’d prefer Smith’s because he’s heard all about it from Sarah.”

“Yes, that fits in, Tusker. That’s also why he’s chosen to come by train. He wants to do

everything in the
old
way. How long is he staying?”

“Two nights.”

“That’s about what I thought. I hope you agree, Tusker, that although we can’t put him up

here, we must still treat him as a guest, and pick up his bill. And that one, sometimes both of

us, must give time to him and take him around and see that he’s fed. We must treat him as

the friend of an old friend, because that’s what he is.”

“Ha!” he said. “I suppose you mean Sarah. You used to criticize her. You used to suggest

she was unsound.”

“There was a time when she gave one cause to wonder. She more than made up for it later

by standing by her family through all their little troubles. I’m not going to discuss that with

you, Tusker. I hope you’ve said nothing to Ibrahim?”

“I haven’t said anything to Ibrahim.”

“He would only tell Minnie and I want it to be a surprise to her. Mr Turner is bringing her

a present from Sarah and Sarah’s sister Susan.”

“He’s got your blue rinse too.”

Her cheek became a little warm. “How nice. Lovely. Susy can use the whole of my very last

packet and not just the halves we’ve been using to eke it out.”

“Perhaps you’d get to the point.”

“I’m glad you realize there is a point, Tusker. The point as I see it is that I don’t see how

we can afford to pick up Mr Turner’s bill at Smith’s and feed him at the Club or at the

Shiraz, both of which are so much more expensive than our eating arrangements with

Smith’s. You’ve said that you will never eat in that dining-room again, nor have trays sent

over from that kitchen. Now I’m quite prepared to humour you tomorrow by somehow

rustling up in our own kitchen a dinner for Father Sebastian and Susy. It will be difficult, but

not utterly impossible. What will be utterly impossible is attempting to do the same for Mr

Turner to whom I’ll have to devote quite a lot of personal attention. While he’s our guest we

shall either have to have trays sent over or keep him company in the dining-room. He will

think it very odd if you don’t join us. He will think it even odder if I meekly accept your

unexplained and incomprehensible statement about no more trays and no more visits to the

dining-room and he finds himself eating alone while you and I exist on a diet of poached

eggs here at The Lodge.”

He did not reply but continued to stare at her. She drank what was left of her gin and got

up.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to scramble your egg.”

“I don’t want an egg now. I’m past eating.”

“In that case, Tusker, since I am
not
I’m going now to have my chicken pulao, late as it is.

Perhaps later today you’ll let me know whether you can afford to feed Mr Turner elsewhere

as well as pick up his bill at Smith’s. I have no idea how near or far we are from bankruptcy,

moreover”—she hesitated, felt for the brooch in her lapel, for courage—”I still have not had

the clear statement I asked for some time ago about the position I’d be in if left alone. So

you see my difficulty. I have tried very very hard, Tusker, to go along with you and to make

things as comfortable as I can for you, and I am old enough not to worry much that the

clothes I’m standing up in are the only decent ones I have. You are just as shabby. I’m not

complaining about the past, but I
am
frightened about the future because it’s an unknown

quantity, chiefly because you have never shared your hopes and fears with me but have

simply taken your anger out on me without my knowing why or what causes it, which can

only leave me feeling that
I’m
the cause and it seems awfully unfair after more than forty

years of marriage.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. If I were I’d have a perfect right to. For the last time, Tusker, do you want

an egg?”

“No. I told you, didn’t I? I’m past it.”

“Then I’m past cooking it for you.”

She went to the head of the steps.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my chicken pulao, and to make Mr Turner’s room booking. He can at least be

assured of bed and breakfast even if the bed strikes him as motheaten and the breakfast as

rotten and the bathroom as disgusting.”

She went down the steps, still holding the brooch. With her other hand she shielded her

eyes from the glare and walked, thus, down to the hotel compound. The lame one-eyed
mali

who had been old
mali’s
assistant was crouched over one of the pots of starveling plants. The

grass on the verge of the path needed trimming. She entered the hotel. The place smelt of

stagnant water and ancient damp: pervasive smells that attached to everything—the cane

chairs, the faded cretonne-covers of the ruptured sofas, the potted palms, the cloths on the

tables in the dining-room. Only one table was occupied—by two men who looked to her as

if they had escaped from the Shiraz to discuss a deal and not be overheard. Having given her

a brief glance they resumed their muttering and their chicken tandoori.. She took her usual

place and banged the brass-bell. After a while old Prabhu padded in.

“Good morning, Prabhu. I’ll have a gin and lime and then the chicken pulao.”

“Sahib not coming?”

“Not this morning.”

Prabhu went. She asked herself : How many years have I sat at this table and watched the

hotel settle imperceptibly on its own foundations? So much weight. Too much weight. The

foundations must have sunk by now at least a foot.

Someone opened a door. Someone passed by. She looked up and recognized Mrs

Bhoolabhoy’s lawyer’s clerk, Mr Pandey, who sketched a bow and went into his room. The

gin and lime came. It might be bad for her to have another one. She didn’t care. It might be

fun to get a little merry.

The chicken pulao came. Here in India it would feed several starving families. A jug of

water came. She sent it back. The jug had smears on it. She began to tuck in. After the

second or third mouthful there was an eruption—a shriek from within, a great draught as the

door opened and Mrs Bhoolabhoy emerged, a moving mountain of flesh in pale salmon pink

and clacking sandals that billowed past, pushed into Mr Pandey’s room waving a sheaf of

papers. The door banged shut. More shouting. Then silence. A minute or two later when

Mrs Bhoolabhoy came out again she and Lucy were face to face.

“Oh, Mrs Bhoolabhoy,” Lucy began, “we’re expecting a guest on Wednesday. I wonder if