1977 (36 page)

no longer so distinct against the sky, perhaps just an indication of how poorer her sight was

now than then. The air was coming quite coldly from the mountains and she shivered, went

in to make another cup of coffee and longed for the telephone to ring.

While the kettle was boiling she read Tusker’s note again:

“You asked for a clear statement of yr posn if widowed. Far as I can see y’d get from

IMWOF about £900 pa plus a RW supplt of maybe £600. Say £1500 in all, adjustable from

time to time to cost of living index. The Smalley Estate income dries up on my death but

y’ve always known that, Luce, and for the past ten years quite apart from the fall in value of

the capital investment it’s also yielded less interest because some bloody fool at Coyne

Coyne persuaded the trustees to reinvest some of it in so-called Blue Chip equities (young

Coyne, I reckon). Been getting less than £200 a year out of it since about 1964. Always tried

to keep some of that money back in London but gradually had to have it all transferred as it

came in to the Bank in Bombay. Present bank balance here approx £500, maybe £200 in

London. Life Insurance only £2000 but the policy’s with profits and been going long enough

maybe to double that value at maturity. What it all comes to Luce is you’ve enough to take

you home if that’s what you want though in yr posn I’d prefer to stay here, considering the

sort of income you’ll have. At home you can’t starve really, what with supplementary

benefits, and things like Distressed Gentlefolk (Ha!). Also they’ve got the Nat Health and

Old People’s Homes. Perhaps for a white person being poor in England’s better than being

poor in India, though by average Indian standards we’re rich if not by the standards of the

Indians we mix with. I’m sorry, Luce, if I seem to have made a mess of things. You’ll be

wondering where some of the money we’ve occasionally managed to get our hands on went

and I don’t really know. It was never much anyway. About £3000 compensation when my

army career petered out with Independence and I was too old to transfer to British service.

We spent a lot of that on that trip home for Smith Brown & McKintosh (because they

only paid
my
expenses) but I’m not making that an excuse. I know I was a fool, Luce. The

profit I made on the car we brought back from the UK and sold to old Grabbitwallah as I

used to call him, in the days when that sort of gimmick was still legal was really no profit

because it was paid for in black money, in one hundred rupee notes which I couldn’t very

well bank, and nothing goes quicker than hundred rupee notes. Some of them quick on the

Bombay racetrack, as you know. In those days nearly everybody was bringing cars out from

home free of UK tax because they were being exported and then selling them to Indians

who couldn’t get cars any other way except by waiting years. But I was playing out of my

league because I thought of money like that as fairy gold whereas to people with a real

instinct for turning a fast buck it was plain solid cash. Some of my separation pay from

Smith Brown & McKintosh went on paying up arrears on my contributions to

IMWOF, I’d got a bit behind, but I never mucked about with that, Luce, because I knew it

would be your mainstay. Most of the rest went on that round-India trip before settling here.

I know for years you’ve thought I was a damn’ fool to have stayed on, but I was forty-six

when Independence came, which is bloody early in life for a man to retire but too old to

start afresh somewhere you don’t know. I didn’t fancy my chances back home, at that age,

and I knew the pension would go further in India than in England. I still think we were right

to stay on, though I don’t think of it any longer as staying on, but just as hanging on, which

people of our age and upbringing and limited talents, people who have never been really

poor but never had any real money, never inherited real money, never made real money,

have to do, wherever they happen to be, when they can’t work any more. I’m happier

hanging on in India, not for India as India but because I can’t just merely think of it as a

place where I drew my pay for the first 25 years of my working life, which is a hell of a long

time anyway, though by rights it should have been longer. But there you are. Suddenly the

powers that be say, Right, Smalley, we’re not wanted here any more, we’ve all got to bugger

off, too bad you’re not ten years younger or ten years older. I thought about this a lot at the

time and it seemed to me I’d invested in India, not money which I’ve never had, not talent

(Ha!) which I’ve only had a limited amount of, nothing India needed or needs or has been

one jot the better for, but was all I had to invest in anything.
Me
. Where I went wrong was in

thinking of it that way and expecting a return on the investment in the end, and anticipating

the profits. When they didn’t turn up I know I acted like an idiot, Luce, for years and years.

The longest male menopause on record. One long Holi. Can’t talk about these things face to

face, you know. Difficult to write them. Brought up that way. No need ever to answer.

Don’t want you to. Prefer not. You’ve been a good woman to me, Luce. Sorry I’ve not made

it clear I think so. I’m not going to read all this rigmarole through when I’ve finished—if I

did I’d tear it up. So I’ll just stick it in the envelope and forget it. Don’t want to discuss it. If

you do I’ll only say something that will hurt you. No doubt will anyway. It’s my nature. Love,

Tusker.”

She went into the kitchen. The kettle was boiled almost dry. She managed to make about a

half-cup of coffee. She took it out to the verandah, still wrapped in her coat. Intermittently,

from the Shiraz, she felt and heard the thrum and drum of the band in the Mountain View

Room. The stars sparkled. When the band stopped she could hear the calls of the jackal

packs in the hills. She drank up her coffee and went indoors, put the wire screen in position,

closed the door and left it on the latch in case Tusker had forgotten his key. She rinsed the

coffee cup, checked that his cocoa-tray was ready, then went into the bedroom, undressed

and went to bed. She put Tusker’s letter under her pillow and turned off her light.

She would be sixty-seven next birthday. If Tusker died she would be lucky to have £1500 a

year. For capital, there would be only the £2000 plus profits from the insurance. She would

have enough to take her home, but what then? She dropped off, woke, tossed, turned.

Presently she switched the light on to see the time. It was gone eleven. In the dark again still

juggling with figures and possibilities she remained alert, for a while. Then she must have

dozed. She was woken by voices and identified Tusker’s and Dr Mitra’s and Mrs Mitra’s.

God forbid that they stayed. Presumably they’d brought him home and he’d invited them in.

Within a few moments she was relieved to hear their goodnights, Tusker locking up after

them, going to the kitchen to make his cocoa.

Peace enveloped her. She turned on her side away from the light from the living-room and

let her sleepy fingers find their way to the envelope that contained the only love letter she

had had in all the years she had lived.

AT 7.15 ON THE MORNING of Monday April 24, Lucy finished her bed tea. Over at the

hotel, Mr Bhoolabhoy heard Mrs Bhoolabhoy moan in Room i. Fifteen minutes later Lucy

tiptoed out of the bathroom, having dressed in there in order not to disturb Tusker who had

had a restless night and was now asleep. She went to tell Ibrahim to delay Burra Sahib’s tea

until 8.15, when she would be leaving for the Shiraz. While she was telling Ibrahim this and

giving him the shopping list, Mr Bhoolabhoy, summoned by Minnie, was tiptoeing into Mrs

Bhoolabhoy’s room. He too had spent a restless night, after a strangely puzzling and taxing

day with Father Sebastian, Mr Thomas and Susy. Entering, he found Lila as he’d expected to

find her: prostrate, moaning gently. They had not spoken since the row on Saturday.

“Shall I send for Dr Rajendra, Lila?”

The mouth shaped the word No.

“Dr Taporewala, perhaps.” He moistened his lips. “What about Dr Battacharya?”

She moaned again, then murmured, “You have written the letter?”

“I am about to.”

“Do it. Then bring it. I will sign it.”

“There is no need for you to be bothered with trivial matters of detail, dear Lila. What am I

here for?”

“Sometimes this is a question I ask myself.”

“Lila, it will have to be typed.”

“Naturally.”

“The machine will make a noise.”

“One has one’s crosses.”

A moment or so later, sitting in his cubbyhole, Mr Bhoolabhoy inserted a sheet of hotel

notepaper plus carbon and flimsy in the old Remington and began: April 24, 1972. My Dear

Colonel Smalley —

From Dr Pandey’s room there came the sound of All India Radio. He ran out, opened Mr

Pandey’s door, switched the radio off, indicating the state of Mrs Bhoolabhoy’s head. Then

he went back to his office.

Writing the letter would put the seal on his total and abject surrender to Lila. He knew he

had already surrendered. But it was still a difficult letter to write. It was like composing a

warrant for the execution of an old friend. To hack the halting sentences out he had to keep

reminding himself that it was also like composing a warrant for his own life-long

imprisonment. He and Tusker were both victims of a system. He would spend his remaining

years like a little dog at Lila’s heels, panting after her all round India and perhaps beyond the

black water, wagging his tail, until she decided it was time to have him put down. A merciful

release? This morning it was one he almost welcomed.

He should have been told about the organ. Yes. For years he had gone on and on about the

organ. He had once tried himself to raise the money for its restoration. Mr Thomas knew

this. Susy knew it. The sudden pealing of the organ yesterday which should have been a joy

had been a shattering blow to his self-esteem. “We wanted it to be a surprise for you,

Francis,” Father Sebastian said. “A little reward for all your past endeavours.”
Past

endeavours? “How kind,” he replied. And looked from one to the other and noted their

smiles. Smiles of pity? Gradually the explanation of the organ’s otherwise miraculous

resurrection had been unfolded. Father Sebastian had had a look at it. He knew something

about organs. He suspected that things were not so bad as they had been allowed to seem.

(Allowed?) He also knew of an expert technician, in Calcutta. The man had come up. He had

stayed with Susy. Mr Thomas had let him into the church with the spare key. Within ten days

he had worked the miracle and for days afterwards Susy had been practising.

“We wanted to surprise you,” she said, echoing Father Sebastian. “But, oh, goodness, what

we didn’t have to get up to. We thought you’d catch us at it any time. During day time Mr

Thomas’s kids kept watch with orders to divert you if you put in an appearance while one of

them went to warn Brother John in the organ loft. And at night when I practised Joseph

kept watch to run and warn me, just in case you took it into your head to visit and see

nobody had run away with the Church.” They laughed. Joseph had known, too, then. Only

he had not known.

“It must have cost a great deal of money,” was all he could say, but trying to look pleased,

as happy for himself as they seemed to expect him to be.

Susy said, “Father Sebastian is on a Grants committee for things like this.”

“And not everybody,” the priest said, “is interested only in money these days. It was much

a labour of love. Brother John said it was not technically difficult. He and his assistant soon

had it fixed up. At Whitsun we hope he will come up again and give a recital.”

“He played so beautifully,” Susy said. “Oh, I felt such a nincompoop in comparison. His

Bach was out of this world. Miles better than poor old Mr Maybrick’s, who taught me when

I was quite a little girl and could hardly reach.”

I too am out of this world, Mr Bhoolabhoy thought; and thought it again as he typed,

“Your very Sincerely.” I am no longer needed here. I do not know about organs. I cannot

play organs. I take other people’s word for it when they say organs are u.s. I inquire gently

year after year about restoring organs and say to people please may we not do something

about this organ. But the only organ I know anything about is the one that has contributed

to all my difficulties and does not need restoring but having a cloth put over it.

It was eight o’clock : the old witching hour in the days when Smith’s was an hotel he was

proud to manage.

“I shall be off in a few minutes,” Lucy told Ibrahim. “I’ve made another little list, because