Black British (17 page)

I think Uncle Monty got the fright of his life. He never came near me again. Apart from shooting bewildered glances in my general direction the following years, he ignored me. Lorraine and Lily, my
older
sisters, took cover behind me and thereafter, at calculated moments I reminded them of the size of their debt.

To this day we are in agreement that Uncle Monty was without sinister intention. He was just a lonely old man who hadn't realised we were growing up. As for us, we were strong-minded girls, drunk on the arrogance and insensitivity of youth, unlikely to tolerate mushy over-sentimental behaviour. We still had a lot of maturity to achieve. There are ways of managing abhorrent situations without resorting to violence of any kind.

The other joker who “entertained” us every Christmas day was Uncle Claude. He had his own special brand of language to make his presence felt. It didn't matter what the conversation was about, who said what or who was hogging the limelight, sooner or later Uncle Claude found a way to disparage his wife.

Sometimes it was an oblique reference to her figure. “Your frock is shapeless. It hangs on you. Can't you wear something that suits you better?” (
No, Uncle Claude. That dress is the latest fashion. It's called a shift. Mummy's wearing one and so is Lorraine
.)

Aunt Kitty couldn't win, because other times she was too fat (
she definitely wasn't
). “You should wear a sari. It will hide that belly bulk.” Interestingly, he never said that in my mother's presence. The word “belly” was considered coarse in our vernacular and therefore never permitted in our presence.

Uncle Claude's putdowns could be subtle. “I can't buy a six-cylinder car. Kitty isn't able to manage a big car.” (
Of course she can. Let her try and you'll be pleasantly surprised
.) But we knew that he wanted, actually needed, to believe in her inability to cope.

On the odd occasion when Aunt Kitty ventured a timid opinion he'd make a great show of patience as he listened to her and then continued with the conversation as though she hadn't spoken. At times his barbs were direct, the intention not to be mistaken. “You don't know what you are talking about,” his tone and dismissal equivalent to blows around her head. Even the expression on his face was contemptuous. Aunt Kitty tittered nervously to tell everyone it was a joke and not to be taken seriously. She shrank further back into her chair, so far back that it's a wonder she didn't disappear altogether.

“You sit at home all day drinking tea like a
rani
so what would you know about anything, except how to cook and feed children.” He made it sound as if nurturing his sons was a lowly occupation and not worthy of respect. Her response of shock and hurt clearly visible on her face were as palpable as if she had been struck. Even the physical manifestation was the same. A red flush spread across her cheeks.

“Do something,” hissed Aunty Moira to my father. “Go on! You're his elder brother.”

My father's bitter expression was related to the distasteful task ahead and to the unfairness of primogeniture. Though he complied with his responsibilities he was never comfortable with the role. When he looked to my mother for support he got none. Her expression said it all: Any more of this and I'm taking your daughters home. Do you really want them to see this?

At times like that I presume my father used the authority granted by his two-year seniority to modify his brother's behaviour because uneasy calm would take over. We were overtly cheerful, trying to persuade ourselves that nothing unpleasant had happened while knowing the following Christmas would be the same and probably the Christmas after that. It was almost a family tradition. Our Christmas would be incomplete without this little parody. We might even feel hard done by and join the ranks of the deprived.

“But why does he do this?” I wailed that afternoon because I was now old enough to understand the implications. “Why does he spoil Christmas every year?”

“Because he can! Because he has the power. Society gives him that power.” My mother uncharacteristically spoke bitingly, lacing the atmosphere with the taint of old coffee and quinine.

“That's not entirely fair.” The protest was gentle as my father wanted, without being obvious, to apologise for his brother. “It's hard for him. He's had a bad trot.”

“Plenty of people have it hard and don't beat up their wives.” My mother's tone was tart even though she knew she had stepped onto dangerous ground with the expression
beat their wives
.

Sure enough, his response was sharp. “He's never raised a finger to her. You
know
that.” Then shocked at his own temerity at raising his voice in our presence, my father walked away.

We all knew that however angry a man might be he'd never raise his hand to a woman. He'd never use brute strength against someone less powerful than himself. That's what had always been implied and certainly what we had witnessed over the years. We lived in a small, safe world so physical violence in the home was only a vague, almost academic concept to Lorraine, Lily and me.

The silence behind my father's departure resounded through the air like loud raucous music thumped out of an untuned piano. It numbed our minds, demanded submission, so even I had the sense to remain quiet.

With a weary sigh, my mother said, “Of course he'd never
hit
her. But a few drinks under his belt and he belittles her in a manner that's embarrassing and humiliating for all of us. Your father doesn't see it. Men never do because it never happens to them. But constant undermining is just as disfiguring as being hit.”

She paused to let her words sink in before continuing. “Words are just as hurtful, perhaps more, than kicks and blows. They leave as many scars, deep-seated invisible scars, that people don't see and are happy to pretend don't exist.”

“Why doesn't she leave him? Why does she stay?”

“And live on what?” The words were hurled at me with barbed edges. Taking a deep, calming breath my mother explained. “You know Aunt Kitty comes from a good family, she's a trained teacher and has lots of talents. But if she leaves your uncle, society will condemn her, blame her and make her feel she's at fault. She'll be expected to solve a problem that's not of her making. No! The option of leaving Claude is a luxury she can't afford.”

“What about Benny and George?” I asked. Though the boys exhibited exemplary behaviour towards everyone else, both were inclined to “talk down” to their mother and laugh with shrill, almost-hysterical humour at jokes made at her expense. Without knowing what they were doing, with absolutely no understanding of their behaviour, they found it easier to identify with the more powerful component in their home lives. Was it their way of protecting themselves?

“The trouble is,” my mother continued, half musing to herself as she stared at us, “your threshold of tolerance is lowered all the time. At the moment you are horrified but in a few short years you'll become desensitised and just be irritated. At the most you'll be embarrassed, but the horror will have passed.” And then, regaining her energy she leaned forward and glared at us in misplaced frustration. “You'll never allow such behaviour, will you?”

Years later, in another life, a western country, where women believe they are “better off” than their supposedly downtrodden eastern counterparts though legislation is required to ensure women are respected in the workplace, where they don't recognise ridicule disguised as humour because it's so commonplace, I was to repeatedly witness the evidence that lent credence to my mother's words. Critical statements that are laughingly sneaked into conversations are difficult to refute. The odd one doesn't matter. It's the accumulated effect that controls her behaviour.

That dress suits you. You don't look so fat
. At 167 centimetres and 51 kilograms she could hardly be considered “fat” but that didn't stop the comments.

I can't feel at home in your house. There's no room to put my stuff
. And,
Those lamps are beautiful but your room's too small
. The underlying message comes through loud and clear: her house isn't good enough for him. From that point it's only a baby step for the woman to be made to feel that she's not good enough either.

Ignoring disparaging remarks doesn't work. When regular, constant, scathing, destructive behaviours are not challenged, objected to noisily and loudly, silence becomes tacit agreement and reinforces the aberrant conduct. Relentless verbal denigration of anyone, even when it's subtly slipped into a conversation, is a substitute for hitting them, keeping them down. It's often the beginning of seeing women as lesser beings, available to be knocked around. It's the thin end of the wedge that, in some cases, escalates to physical violence and is usually visited on women. Even in the best of families, where money, education and privilege are never in question, the evil hand of violence can and does make its presence felt.

Contradictory statements are another cheap form of manipulation.
You care more for your creature comforts that you do about me
, with later,
Your constant concern stifles me. I'm smothered, suffocated
. It's said gently, with a slight smile so that he cannot be considered aggressive, but there's only one outcome of these statements: she recognises she's at fault. “I can't win,” she told me. “It doesn't matter what I do, he's not happy. When I tell him, he says I'm hypersensitive, that he's only joking.”

Answering back in a similar vein earns complaints – behind my back of course – of:
I'm afraid of her
or
she's a challenge
or
she's prickly
. Retaliation with smarter words invokes questions about my sexuality, suggesting a transgender being – thereby making me responsible for their verbal aggression.

I know. I've experienced it all. Frequently.

But thanks to my role models in Kanpur I have a strong spine, self-respect and am not intimidated by half-baked twits who feed their meagre self-esteem by belittling women.

Uncle Claude was a wonderful uncle to his nieces. He frequented our house to talk business with his brother and always took time to tell us a joke, teach us a song or spin a yarn about his student days in England. His take-off of his pupil-master had us in stitches. He treated my mother with the courtesy and respect he didn't seem able to afford his wife, but in silent support of Aunt Kitty, my mother responded in an aloof, frozen manner and though nothing was ever said, Uncle Claude got her message.

Aunt Kitty usually called in during the late afternoon on her way home from her teaching job and we enjoyed playing the piano and singing in harmony. She had a fine soprano to my mother's rich contralto and joining them, my sisters and I learnt songs that were popular in years gone by. She and my mother never spoke about Uncle Claude's behaviour. As my mother repeatedly said, “There's nothing to talk about! The odds are stacked against her.”

Aunt Kitty was trapped in her situation, and in a way she was almost grateful that the violence was restricted to
just
words, tone and long periods of punishing silence.

It was during that conversation on that long ago afternoon that I made a life decision and announced it deliberately using ungrammatical sentences, hoping to reduce the tension in the air. “I'm never going to marry absolutely no one. I'll become a doctor and make lots of money. Then no one will tell me what to do.” If nothing else, I had learnt that economic power liberates the downtrodden.

Dinner on Christmas nights was always a sombre affair, an anticlimax after the
tamasha
and excitement of preparations, the traditions of the day and the mystery of presents. In common with the universe, we loved presents, which were a rare event for us. We knew our mother wouldn't let us be “spoilt”, so there was never an abundance of gifts. It was customary for each of us to receive two presents at birthdays and Christmas, one from our parents and the other from our sisters. We knew it was more than most people received in those times and the rarity of the event made it even more exciting. But by Christmas night, the fun had abated and Uncle Claude's behaviour had added to the dismal mood.

The meal was always roast goose, one of our own geese, but since they were never pets we didn't care. Because I was now a teenager and considered a potential “young lady” my father decided our social education needed to be extended by having a Christmas dinner of roast turkey. “Bob Cratchit had turkey.” I wanted to show I was grown-up and had read Dickens.

Hence in early December, never dreaming that the inevitable would happen, my mother arrived home with a live turkey to fatten for Christmas. Housing it in the fowl run alongside the geese, initially we were concerned that those arrogant birds, accustomed to thinking themselves king of all they surveyed, would decide to be territorial and take against this newcomer. Thankfully they ignored it, perhaps recognising it was meant for our dinner and not theirs. Or they might have realised that if the turkey's neck was on the chopping block, they'd be safe. The hens who lived at the other end of the run also disregarded it. With the brain of a hen, the life of a hen kept them fully occupied.

In the morning when the birds were let out of the run, the geese took off to explore their realm with the turkey following, sometimes at a safe distance, occasionally getting closer. Conversations were stilted: they spoke different languages.

“Honk honk,” from the gander along with “Hiss hiss,” translated into “Keep off my patch. Leave my women alone and note the pronoun
and
the plural!”

“Gobble gobble gobble,” replied the turkey equably, “I hear you, SIR. I've noted the pronoun and the plural and will definitely leave your harem alone. And,
please
note, Your Majesty, I'm here to be friends. I'll follow humbly in your wake and eat your leftovers.” The status quo remained in place with no ruffled feathers until December when we broke up for the Christmas holidays.