Black British (20 page)

Someone would take to the piano and we worked through our repertoire singing popular tunes from the golden age of Hollywood. We enjoyed images of
Springtime in the Rockies
without having visited those iconic North American mountains. The River Seine and the
Bridges of Paris
also featured in our rounds as did popular World War I songs. We harmonised the 1891
After the Ball
and lamented the tragic story of
Two Little Girls in Blue
from those forgotten days of 1921.

“What about the song Richard brought home from the last war?” and we burst into
Bless Them All
about troopships just leaving Bombay.

Soon the inevitable happened.

“Let's sing
Jingle Bells
,” suggested Aunt Daphne, a distant cousin, as she often did when we had a sing-song. (
What – dashing through snow? Have you looked out of the window? It's stinking hot. The land is parched and cracked. The grass is sparse and brown. Do we really have to dash through snow?
) But she looked so pleased with her suggestion that no one had the heart to indicate the song was inappropriate for a hot summer's day in Kanpur. So dash through snow we did, and we did it with love and gusto.

The time arrived when Uncle Monty wanted to sing the Irish ballad about a boy name Danny. He sang it solemnly and melodiously in a rich bass, with almost a tear in his voice, as a tribute to father–son relationships.
Was he thinking of his own sons so far away? Did he identify with the father?

The problem was Uncle Monty was slightly deaf. When we commenced the second stanza for some reason he always fell two bars behind everyone else. Such was his commitment to the song he never realised it. Eventually, one by one, each of us gave up the unequal struggle of maintaining the correct place and joined Uncle Monty two bars behind and for a little while our singing was synchronised.

But it wasn't long before Uncle Monty was two bars behind everyone else again. And it wasn't long before each of us joined him. Again.

I often marvelled that we ever completed the song. I had visions of being old and grey-haired and still trying desperately hard to get to the end of the final verse.

When Aunt Betty had the bright idea of hosting a song-themed party we had to be as esoteric as possible to confuse everyone and make it challenging. The smart ones among us had two or three songs up their sleeves.

“I'll wear my sailor's hat,” I said, referring to a costume I had used for a school concert.

“And have everyone know your song immediately! That's stupid,
you're
stupid.” Lorraine jumped in as sisters often do.

“No I'm not,” I quipped smugly. “I'm young. I've got time to learn.” I'd heard my mother say that to my father:
Don't expect so much. She's still young. She'll learn
, and I wasn't above using it to my gain. The implication was that Lorraine, at eighteen, didn't have the advantage of youth. Sisterly banter sharpened our wits and taught us to have answers ready, another skill that stood us in good stead in our future lives.

“I'm not wearing
that
,” I squealed in horror as my mother produced a photograph of a younger version of myself dressed in a bathing suit, supposedly depicting a song about a girl wearing a revealing yellow polka-dot bikini at the beach.

“I'm – not – wearing –
that
,” I repeated, dumb with embarrassment, while Lorraine and Lily sniggered in the background. I knew then that I'd have to find my own illustration of a song and be ingenious in my choice. My mother had either been uncharacteristically insensitive or exceptionally clever. I never did figure out which.

“I'm not wearing that,” this time from my staid, old-school, always-correct father. “I can't wear…” horror overtook his words. In her
Woman and Home
magazine my mother had found a large picture of a couple kissing. With the addition of an outsized question mark the whole thing was intended to represent
I Wonder Who's Kissing Her Now
? The picture was to be pinned to his lapel in place of a boutonniere.

“That's lightweight,” scoffed Uncle Woody half laughing, half irritated. “You've got nothing to complain about.” He was carrying a silver framed photograph of his and Aunt Moira's wedding:
For Ever and Ever
. During the evening he tried on several occasions to misplace it but the eagle eye of his wife always caught up with him.

Aunt Daphne came as
The Ladies of Calcutta
, but since her skirt was adorned with Spanish dancing girls and her blouse was patterned after the Dutch national costume, we were all puzzled. Her son Havelock wanted to be the
The Sheik of Araby
. For reasons known only to him, he wore a red satin cape instead of Middle Eastern headgear. His flourishing moustaches kept falling off because the glue had melted in the heat and, without the aid of a mirror, he often replaced them upside down.

Uncle Barton, our lovely, clever,
funny
Uncle Barton showed a side no one had suspected. He arrived late to maximise his entrance, sporting a sharkskin suit in tropical white with long jacket. To all intents and purposes he seemed to have ignored the party's theme. Then he casually slipped off his jacket, unusual behaviour in itself, and turned around.

In spite of the extremes of weather he had adorned himself with
multiple
layers – but multiple layers – of red satin undergarments so no flesh could possibly be visible. He'd then carefully cut out the seat of his trousers. Having forgotten it was a song he needed to depict he had come as
Gone with the Wind
. Lily and I spent the evening giggling each time we saw him, which alternately embarrassed and gratified him.

Uncle Hugh didn't bother with costume or picture. He didn't need to. He came as himself:
Old Soldiers
, God bless them all, this one in particular,
Never Die
.

CHAPTER 13

AUNT TILLY'S PARCELS

“Mukherjee will be going to Calcutta towards the end of this month.” The announcement made at dinner in the second week of May the year I was fourteen caught Lorraine's and Lily's attention. They sat up straighter and turned expectant faces towards our mother. I knew what they were thinking and alone among the three sisters remained unmoved.

Mr Mukherjee worked in my father's office though none of us knew what he did. It never occurred to us to wonder. He was just someone who turned up periodically to serve our needs and disappeared when his usefulness was over. His visits to Calcutta were an opportunity for my mother to forward parcels to her sisters.

The pantry was raided for bottles of jam and pickles and the garden yielded fruits and vegetables carefully selected to ensure they'd last the journey. Rarely would my mother throw in the odd shop-bought something because Kanpur was considered a backwater compared to the big smoke of Calcutta. We had nothing fashionable to offer.

We knew parts of Calcutta well, both from our mother's stories as well as from summer holidays when we'd escape the great heat of Kanpur while our mother spent time with her sisters and friends. It was an exciting time for three small-town girls experiencing the bright lights of a city of many millions.

“Second city of the Empire,” my father often proclaimed as though he was stating a dogma of faith. “Calcutta used to be the second city of the Empire.” Adding, as though this metric was evidence of the city's status, “From the Victoria Club I could bet on any horse race in the world.” We were duly impressed by his manner and tone though never understood the allure of wining money at the expense of cruelty to animals to coerce them to run faster.

The shops were varied – there was nothing that couldn't be found. Dresses and shirts were displayed in every conceivable style, colour and fabric, and all in the latest fashion. Being accustomed to homemade garments we were in awe of ready-made clothes that fitted like a glove. It wasn't until later, when we were much older, that my sisters and I were able to appreciate the skill involved and the unique nature of our tailor-made, one-off garments. But of course, a person seldom values what is available on their doorstep, instead mindlessly hankering after the unattainable – regardless of quality, merit or worth.

The cinemas in Calcutta were a big attraction for us because they screened many more English films than we'd ever see in Kanpur. They also had a reputation for showing unabridged Hollywood pictures in all their lurid glory whereas our little silver screen invariably removed risqué scenes.

The nightclubs were stylish, giving our parents a chance to dance the night away. Lorraine, Lily and I forgot about our royal-purple night skies encrusted with God's diamonds as we stood under streetlamps that refracted dust and pollution to wave our parents goodbye. They often returned home in the early hours of the morning, sometimes in time to get us breakfast.

The eating houses were many, serving choices unheard of in our small town. The best restaurant served eleven different flavours of Italian ice cream, exceptional for those times in most parts of the world.

On one of our early holidays, an excited nine-year-old Lily whispered to me “Daddy's bought Firpos ice cream for pudding tonight,” and invoked that invariable characteristic of time – where it lengthens and shortens according to circumstances. Dinner took its own sweet time to arrive while Lily and I agonised over the prospect of shop-bought ice cream.

That night we all did justice to our dessert, especially me. Somewhere in the far recesses of my mind I believed that if I showed enough enthusiasm it might persuade my father to treat us a second, or even third time. Such are the depth of deviousness to which a tiny person's mind can sink in the pursuit of ice cream. Not wanting to waste a fragment I spooned up every last morsel.

Watching me with indulgence Aunt Tilly stepped in, saying, “The best way to make sure you've eaten all your pudding is to lick the platter clean.” She suited her words with action.

I hesitated, not sure what to think. Licking a plate was considered worse than bad manners – the way a
chokri
behaved and was never allowed at table in our home. And now I was a guest in my aunt's house so there was all the more reason to be on best behaviour. At the same time the atmosphere was ripe with expectation and because permission had been subliminally granted, I discarded my spoon, took a firm grip of my bowl and proceeded to transfer the absolute last sliver of ice cream to my tongue.

The general hilarity from my aunts and uncles told me I had done something entertaining so later on I was ready to repeat my new party trick.

Firpos was the most fashionable place to dine and be seen. The ambience was exceptionally exotic and a formal dress code enforced. People saved their money, dressed in their finery and with much excitement took their families there. The cuisine was first class with a menu that changed daily to include food that was unheard of in a domestic kitchen. It was the only place that served soufflés, an exceptional dish for those times. Each meal was freshly cooked and in between courses a band struck up dance music, enticing patrons to take a turn or two on the floor.

It was the second-last night of our holiday and in keeping with tradition, my parents dined at Firpos with my mother's family. As a special treat Lorraine, Lily and I were included for the first part of the evening. As we dressed in our party clothes my mother said, “You know this is a special luxury. Daddy is being extremely generous so please make sure all of you behave.”

What she forgot to tell me was that licking plates at home in the presence of an encouraging aunt is vastly different from licking ice cream bowls in a high class restaurant, where the eyes of the local elite are ever alert, waiting to register objections.

Nothing was ever said but I knew I was in disgrace. My mother was mortified; she wouldn't look at me while she packed the following day. Neither would she talk, except in clipped tones and short, abrupt sentences. I had spoilt her big evening out.

Never before had the differences in their backgrounds been so apparent as in my parents' reaction to that simple event.

“The child wasn't to know.” My father was dismissive. “We laughed at her at home so she presumed she was being smart. Beside, does it
matter
? She's a
child
.” With an inbuilt confidence bred from a privileged birth and a dominant, imperial-like family, my father had a totally independent outlook on life. He brushed the incident aside. It just didn't occur to him that it was a matter of concern. With an unconscious arrogance he ridiculed absurd social convention and rewrote some rules to please himself. As a young man he had frequented Firpos often and was well known to the old retainers. Without conceit or false pride, he knew he brought valuable custom and would always be welcome.

“I'm embarrassed,” cried my mother. “What will people say? I'm her
mother
. People will think I haven't taught her to behave. People will say my daughter is a
chokrie
.” My mother had struggled through her early life, reliant on the approbation of others for openings and opportunities. Necessity had made her much more susceptible to common opinion. She was slow to forgive. I wasn't allowed to forget.