1977 (6 page)

The one I’ve just read out to you, very clearly and distinctly.”

Tusker put his head back and shut his eyes. Lucy-Mem raised her shoulders in

mystification, and made a funny little face at Ibrahim.

Encouraged he said, “What the sahib is saying, memsahib, is I think that Proprietor’s letter

last year renewing tenancy until June 30 next referred only to renewal of terms and

conditions as stated in clause two all other clauses not being renewed, for example perhaps

clauses stating proprietor’s responsibility for exterior and interior decoration and upkeep of

garden. Isn’t it?”

“Why, Ibrahim!” Lucy-Mem exclaimed, clapping her hands together in surprise. “How

quick you are. Isn’t he Tusker? Is that what the letter means? I should never have seen that.”

Ibrahim beamed, then beamed at Tusker but found the eyes open and an expression on

Sahib’s face that indicated no good.

“Yes,” Sahib said. “How quick. Too bloody quick by half. So he can get out quick, too. Get

up from there and get out. Bloody scoundrel!”

“What have I done, Sahib?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve done, as if you didn’t know. You’ve been disloyal. You didn’t see

the position like that in a split second. You’ve probably damned well known since last year. I

can picture the lot of you laughing like drains. You and that thieving lot down there that

Madam Bhoolabhoy calls servants. Ha!”

Ibrahim was on his feet now. “What the Sahib says, the Sahib says. But what the Sahib says

is not in accordance with facts. How could I be knowing such things? How could those you

call idle fellows be knowing? Also has not the grass been cut since last July until only recently

with
mali
gone to the Shiraz? Was bathroom not whitewashed last December and seats

renewed?”

“Whitewash! Ha! Too true. Whitewash. Wool over the eyes. Cunning bitch. I said get out.”

Ibrahim appealed to Lucy-Mem.

“Sahib says get out. From here, yes, but from here to where?”

“To bloody Mecca for all I care,” Tusker said.

“Mecca,” Ibrahim said, letting his shoulders droop as if exhausted by the very thought of

such a journey. “Muslim old people’s excursion. Twilight coach trip. Depart Harringay 0800,

with packed lunch of curry puffs and crates of Watney’s Pale. Sing-song all way to Southend

and back and Kiss Me Sailor hat. What is Sahib talcing me for? Day-tripping bugger-fellow?”

Most of this was muttered. With dignity he went inside. With dignity he paused to listen.

“How could you, Tusker? How could you treat Ibrahim so unkindly?”

“He’s listening you bloody fool.”

“What does it matter if he is? But he never listens. He has too much pride. You can’t treat

Ibrahim like a
servant
, Tusker. He is, I know, but then he isn’t. And he’s a well-travelled man,

a man of the world.”

“Illegal immigrant. God kicked out. That’s my opinion.”

“
Pride
, Tusker. That’s what I’m talking about. You have no pride any longer. Don’t

interrupt. And because you have no pride neither of us does. We should have gone home.”

“And who was it who wanted to stay on?”

“You wanted. I agreed. We should have gone home at least after those years in Bombay.

We should have gone home after the débâcle. Now it’s too late.”

“What do you mean, débâcle?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Tusker.”

“I don’t. I’ve been married to you for more than forty years and I still don’t know what the

bloody hell you’re talking about.”

“At the moment I’m talking about pride. And you have hurt Ibrahim’s.”

“You never do that of course, do you? Oh, no. Who was it sacked him last then? Tell me

that? And who sulks with him for days after he’s been sacked by you, eh? Um?”

“If you had pride, Tusker, instead of sitting here raving and ranting and working yourself

into a tizzy about a box full of old paper, you’d write a firm but polite note to Mrs

Bhoolabhoy inquiring about her intention in regard to the state of the garden.”

“And have her draw my attention to that letter? Make me look a perfect fool? She conned

us. Think I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing I’ve cottoned on at last but know

I can’t do a bloody thing about it?”

“Then forget about the garden until Billy-Boy comes back.”

“I’ll forget about it, don’t worry. And a fat lot of use that henpecked little sod is if the bitch

has made up her mind. Don’t think I don’t know she has, and why. She’s letting the whole

place go to pot deliberately. So let it go to pot. Let the bloody grass come in through the

windows. I don’t care. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Then I’ll help you, Tusker.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s my duty to bother.”

“In your interest too, eh? That’s more like. What’s to happen to you if I drop dead?”

“That’s not something I care to think about, Tusker. Come on. Upsadaisy.”

Ibrahim went his barefoot way through the kitchen and squatted on the narrow verandah at

the back. He lit a Charminar. What, he wondered, was a daybarkle? Daybarkle, Day Barkle?

Night Barkle? Whatever it was he fancied he was in the middle of one.

Five minutes later, hearing her footsteps, he nipped out the cigarette and blew the smoke

away above his head but remained squatting until her presence became positive and

commanding. He got up slowly, his shoulders still drooped, but not quite abject.

“Thank you, Ibrahim. You have done my shoes so beautifully -and my little bits of jewelry

too, no?”

He inclined his head. She must have been looking at them. Why?

Her misshapen old fingers twitched at her beads. She said, “You must, must be patient with

Sahib. We must both be patient. Very patient. You must please forgive him for what he said.

Doctor Mitra is very worried. And I am worried. The Sahib simply isn’t himself. At least—

he is more not himself than usual. May I confide in you, Ibrahim?”

He put his hands behind his back, this being the best stance in which to receive a

confidence.

She began: “When a man who has always been active —”—her eyes changed colour—”—

and suddenly finds himself inactive he tends, how shall I put it, to exaggerate every teeniest

tiniest little thing,
malum
?”

“
Malum
, Colonel-Memsahib.”

“He sees mountains in molehills. Broth—for instance. Long grass. Tired canna lilies. The

way the Shiraz Hotel casts all that wretched shadow when the sun comes up. So that the dew

stays longer than it should. And the dew staying longer means more nourishment reaches the

roots of the grass.
Malum
?”

Ibrahim tilted his head but frowned slightly to convey his understanding that he was in the

presence of a superior intellect.

She fidgeted.

“Let us walk,” she suddenly announced. He accompanied her into the back compound.

“WE ARE PEOPLE in shadow, Ibrahim,” she said, then stopped her slow pacing and

glanced up at the glass and concrete structure that had helped put them there. “And the dew

does not so much nourish us as aggravate our rheumatism and our tempers. I need a young

man. A boy will do. Do you know one?”

Ibrahim blinked. “Memsahib?”

“A stout youth. You must surely have among your vast acquaintanceship in Pankot such a

one. I will pay him reasonably. Rather, I will pay you for procuring him and you will pay him

for me. The Sahib must not know of this arrangement, although I might persuade him to

increase your wage to reduce the cost of the boy to me.”

The mind boggles, Ibrahim thought. She is an old lady.

He said in a low voice, “What sort of boy, Memsahib?”

“Oh, any sort, so long as he is strong and willing and not too expensive, and dependable,

and could report for duty say three days a week. If necessary he could live here to be close at

hand when needed. But yes, I see one snag —”

He wondered which of the many snags she had seen to such an arrangement. She went on:

“There is the question of tools. In this connexion tools are essential. We had better do

nothing until Mr Bhoolabhoy is back. It is all very difficult. Mr Bhoolabhoy may have to be a

party to the arrangement. Almost certainly he will.
Arrangement
. Let’s not call it deception.

Yes, Mr Bhoolabhoy will have to be a party to it. In fact the boy must appear to be Mr

Bhoolabhoy’s boy, quite apart from the question of tools, which I do not have, but Mr

Bhoolabhoy must lend his. You understand, don’t you Ibrahim? I couldn’t afford to hire the

boy and also hire or buy the tools essential to him to do his job. And another thing. This,

please understand, is only to be an interim arrangement. The boy’s hopes of a permanent

position should not be raised. An interim arrangement, yes, that’s the way to put it. An

interim arrangement to help Sahib recover his own health and strength and not dissipate it

worrying about this and that. His blood pressure is very high. It is dangerous for him to

exert himself physically and emotionally. But I have to think of my own peace of mind, too,

so if during this convalescent period I could obtain the services of such a boy, regularly, to

give me peace of mind, then when Sahib is fully himself again I could confess everything,

explain that he was really my boy, not Mr Bhoolabhoy’s. Well, not mine alone, Ibrahim.

Ours. Yours and mine. Couldn’t we between us find and use such a boy?”

“Memsahib,” he began, automatically finding the word somewhere in the still centre of his

whirling mind.

“I mean he could be of service to you too, in odd ways. But mainly to me. A boy capable of

cutting grass, tending the flowers, especially the lilies. I don’t want to lose my husband,

Ibrahim. And if I’m not to, then the grass must be kept neat and the canna lilies watered.

You were wrong about the box. You’ve admitted that. You are wrong when you think being

able to be cross about the garden helps him. It doesn’t. It hinders him. He’s not capable of

sustaining shocks, nor capable of surviving while in a constant state of petty annoyance.”

The penny had now dropped. Ibrahim felt both relieved and disappointed. Uninterested for

himself in a boy, the situation he’d first assumed she was outlining would have added

piquancy to life; but Memsahib simply wanted a
mali
. Such anti-climax.

“I know of such a boy, Memsahib. Young, strong, willing. My younger sister’s brother-in-

law’s nephew, recently getting push because of rising cost of living and international

inflationary spiral.” In fact he knew of several boys who might answer to that description,

who technically didn’t but could be fitted to it. It was just a question of going down to the

bazaar to cast his net. And the proposal could turn out to be financially attractive. One

might presume to make a small profit.

“How much would such a boy cost, Ibrahim?”

He named a figure, and added, “Plus keep.”

“Oh, dear.”

“There is another perhaps cheaper boy I’ve heard of, not so bright, but very strong and

willing.”

“That would be better. But there is still the problem about food. You know what a close

eye Colonel Sahib keeps on the house expenditure.”

Ibrahim blinked again. It was Memsahib who really kept the eye, but he had to admit he’d

occasionally come across Tusker poring over her accounts and bills and muttering. After

which they usually had a row. So he also had to admit there could be difficulties about

feeding a boy whom Tusker was to be deceived into believing was employed by Smith’s.

Although the time-honoured arrangement was—because there were no proper cooking

facilities in The Lodge’s servants’ quarters—that Ibrahim’s food should be cooked and if

required eaten in the servants’ quarters of the hotel, the Smalleys provided basic rations in

the shape of monthly doles of flour, tea, salt, sugar, cooking oil, and paid a subsistence

allowance to enable him to buy what meat and vegetables he needed.

His food was usually cooked by Minnie with whom he had an understanding on various

matters; an understanding respected by her colleagues. It was a cushy enough billet. He was

able to save most of his monthly wage. There was always buckshee rum from the stock at

the hotel. Each year, at the Id, Tusker Sahib and Lucy-Mem presented him with something

new to wear. His laundry was satisfactorily dealt with by the hotel dhobi-wallah in exchange

for a packet or two of Charminar cigarettes. It was like belonging to a Union without having

to pay the dues.

But his most treasured possession, immaculately preserved, was the last remaining set of

long white tunic and trousers which his father had worn on mess nights in the days of

Colonel Moxon-Greife, and into which he had long since grown, and worn once or twice on

the rare occasions when Colonel and Mrs Smalley were guests at the Pankot Rifles Mess.

Personal servants, although no longer
de rigueur
, were nevertheless a status symbol. As such