Heat and Dust (5 page)

“Only the other tough old hens.”

They went off into school-prefect laughter. Olivia understood that actually they would be happier without her, doing matronly things and being comfortable with each other. But they were speaking for
her
sake.

She asked “Is Mrs. Saunders going?”

“No. Joan doesn't come to Simla. Though it would do her so much good to get out of that
house
. . . You too, Olivia,” Mrs. Crawford added and gave her another Douglas kind of look.

“But why can't Major Minnies go? If it's his leave –”

They seemed not to have heard. They began to discuss their Simla plans again – principally, which servants to take with them and which to leave behind to look after the poor old Sahibs who had to stay and sweat it out in the plains.

Olivia got the information she wanted from another source. One dull morning – she was even giving up the piano – she had a visitor. It was Harry, and he came in one of the Nawab's cars driven by the Nawab's chauffeur. He said he simply had to come and refresh himself at the Oasis (which is
what he called her house). And she, seeing him, felt that
he
– though plump and unattractive – was an oasis for her. He spent the day, and in the course of it talked of many things that she wanted to hear about.

About the Nawab's wife he said: “Poor Sandy. Poor thing. It was too much for her.
He
was too much for her.”

“Who?” Olivia poured him another drink – they were having a sweet sherry.

Harry shot her a look, then lowered his eyes: “He's a very strong person. Very manly and strong. When he wants something, nothing must stand in his way. Never; ever. He's been the Nawab since he was fifteen (his father died suddenly of a stroke). So he's always ruled, you see; always been the ruler.” He sighed, in a mixture of admiration and pain.

“The Cabobpur family didn't want her to marry him,” he said. “They're much bigger royals of course – he doesn't really count in those circles: not much of a title, and by their standards he isn't even rich.”

“He seems rich,” Olivia said.

“I met him in London first,” Harry said. “They were all at Claridges – he'd brought everyone with him – everyone he liked, that is, and all the servants he needed like Shafi who mixes his drinks. And the Cabobpurs were there too – on the floor below: they'd brought all
their
people – but after a week they went away to Paris because of Sandy getting too fond. As if one could run away from someone like him. The next day he was in Paris too. He said to me ‘You come along, Harry.' He liked me, you see.”

“And you went?”

Harry shut his eyes: “I told you: one does not say no to such a person . . . By the way, Olivia, Mrs. Rivers . . . I may call you Olivia? I do feel we're friends. One feels that with
people, don't you think? If they're one's type? . . . Olivia, he wants to give a party.”

There was a pause. Olivia poured more sherry.

“He most particularly wants you to come. Of course there'll be a car.”

“Douglas is dreadfully busy.”

“He wants you both to come. He wants it most awfully . . . It's strange, isn't it: you'd think someone like him would have a million friends. But he doesn't.”

“
You
're there.”

Olivia had already asked Douglas what Harry's position was in the Nawab's palace. Was it anything official, like secretary? Douglas had not been very forthcoming, and when she had insisted, he had said “There are always hangers-on around those people.”

Harry became confidential – he seemed glad to be able to speak freely to someone: “I do want to do everything I can to make him – happier. Goodness knows I try. Not only because I like him very much but because he's been fantastically kind to me. You can have no idea of his generosity, Olivia. He wants his friends to have everything. Everything he can give them. It's his nature. If you don't want to take, he's terribly hurt. But how can one take so much? It makes one feel . . . After all, I'm here because I
like
him, not for any other reason. But all he knows is giving. Giving things.” His face and voice were full of pain.

“But that means he likes you.”

“Who knows? With him you can't tell. One moment you think: Yes he cares – but next moment you might as well be some . . . object. I've been with him three years now. Three years, can you imagine, at Khatm. I haven't even seen the Taj Mahal. We keep getting ready to go to oh all sorts of
places – but at the last moment something always comes up. Usually it's the Begum who doesn't want us to go . . . Do you know, sometimes I feel that the only person he really cares for on this earth is the Begum. He hates to be away from her. Naturally, his mother . . . I haven't seen
my
mother for three years. I'm worried about her because she hasn't been keeping too well. She's on her own, you see, in a little flat in South Ken. Of course she wants me to come home. But whenever I mention it, all he does is send her some marvellous present. Once she wrote to him – she thanked him but said ‘The best present you could send me would be my Harry home again.' He was really touched.”

“But he didn't let you go?”

Harry gave her a sideways look. He was silent – he even bit in his lips. Then he said “I hope I didn't give you the impression that I'm complaining.” His tone was prim, offended.

It was by now late in the afternoon and the day was turning stale. She had given him luncheon of which he had eaten very little; apparently he suffered with his digestion. Now it was very hot and close in the room, but it was still too early to open the blinds. The sherry was warm and sticky and so was the smell of the flowers with which she had filled her vases (Olivia could not live without flowers). Now she wanted Harry to go. She wanted the day to be over and that it would be night with a cool breeze blowing and Douglas sitting at his desk rather stern and serious over his interminable files.

Douglas spoke Hindustani very fluently. He had to because he was constantly dealing with Indians and was responsible for settling a great variety of local problems. All his work was of course carried out in his office, or in the courts,
or out on site, so Olivia never came in contact with it; but from time to time – usually on festive occasions – some of the local rich men would come to pay their respects. They would sit on the verandah with their offerings to the Sahib which were baskets of fruits and trays of sweetmeats and pistachio nuts. The rich men all seemed to look the same: they were all fat, and wore spotless loose white muslin clothes, and shone with oil and jewellery. When Douglas went out to greet them, they simpered and joined their hands together and seemed so overcome with the honour he was doing them that they could barely stammer out their appreciation of it.

Olivia listened to them talking out there. Douglas' voice, firm and manly, rose above the rest. When he spoke, the others confined themselves to murmurs of agreement. He must have made some jokes because every now and again they all laughed in polite unison. Sometimes he seemed to speak rather more sternly, and then the murmurs became very low and submissive till he made another joke whereupon they dissolved in relieved laughter. It was almost as if Douglas were playing a musical instrument of which he had entirely mastered the stops. He also knew the exact moment to start on the finale and there was a shuffle of feet and a last rather louder chorus of gratitude which came out so sincere, so overflowing from a fullness of heart, that some of the voices broke with emotion.

When Douglas came back in, he was smiling. He always seemed to enjoy these encounters. He said “What a pack of rogues they are,” and shook his head in benign amusement.

Olivia was sitting at her sampler. She had lately taken up embroidery and was making, as her first effort, a floral tapestry cover for a footstool. Douglas sat down in his chair opposite her; he said” As if I didn't know what they're
all up to.”

“What?” Olivia asked.

“Their usual tricks. They're full of them. They think they're frightfully cunning but really they're like children.” He smiled and knocked out his pipe on the English brass fender.

“Oh really, darling,” Olivia protested.

“Sorry, darling.” He thought she meant the pipe – he had made a mess with the ash, he was a recent and inexpert smoker – but she didn't. She said “They look like very grown-up men to me.”

He laughed: “Don't they? It's very misleading. But once you know them – and they know that you know – well, you can have a good time with them. Just as long as you're not fooled. It's rather fun really.”

He looked at her golden head bent gracefully from her white neck: he loved to have her sitting there like that opposite him, sewing. She was wearing something soft and beige. He was vague about women's clothes and only knew what he liked and he liked this. “Is that new?” he asked.

“Oh goodness, darling, you've seen it hundreds of times. . . . Why were they laughing? What did you say?”

“I just told them, in a roundabout way, that they were a pack of rogues.”

“And they like being told that?”

“If you say it in Hindustani, yes.”

“I
must
learn!”

“Yes you must,” he said without enthusiasm. “It's the only language in which you can deliver deadly insults with the most flowery courtesy . . . I don't mean you, of course.” He laughed at the idea. “What a shock they'd have!”

“Why? Mrs. Crawford speaks Hindustani; and Mrs.
Minnies.”

“Yes but not with men. And they don't deliver deadly insults. It's a man's game, strictly.”

“What isn't?” Olivia said.

He sucked at his pipe in rather a pleased way which made her cry out sharply: “Don't do that!” He took it out of his mouth and stared in surprise. “I hate you with that thing, Douglas,” she explained.

Although he didn't understand why, he saw that she was upset so he laid it aside. “I don't like it much myself,” he said frankly. There was a pause. She stopped sewing, stared into space; her pretty lower lip was sulky.

He said “It'll be all right once you get to the hills. It's the heat, darling, that's getting you.”

“I know it is . . . but when will you be able to get away?”

“Never mind about me. It's you we have to take care of. I was talking to Beth today. They're thinking of leaving on the 17th, and I said kindly to book a berth for you at the same time. It's the Kalka Mail – an overnight journey, but it won't be too bad, I promise you.” He was so pleased with his arrangement that it did not occur to him she could be anything else. “It's another four hours up the mountains but what a journey! You'll love it. The scenery, not to speak of the change of climate –”

“You don't for one moment think that I would go without you!”

“Beth Crawford will be there, and Mary Minnies. They'll take care of you.” He gave one look at her face and said “That's just silly, Olivia. Mother spent four months away from Father every year for years on end. From April to September. She didn't like it either, but when you're in a district, that's the way it has to be.”

“I'm not
going
,” Olivia said, sitting up very straight and looking at him very straight too. Then she said “The Nawab wants to give a party for us.”

“Very kind of him,” Douglas said drily. He picked up his pipe again to knock it against the fender.

“Yes it is rather,” Olivia said. “He sent Harry over specially to ask us.”

“It's not every day that royalty throws parties for junior officers.”

“No but I expect he's as bored as we are with our seniors.”

“
We
are?”

“
I
am.”

She was still looking at him straight but was weakened – not with fear but with love – by the way he was looking back at her. She had always loved his eyes. They were completely clear and unflinching – the eyes of a boy who read adventure stories and had dedicated himself to live up to their code of courage and honour.

“Why are we quarrelling?” she asked.

He considered her question for a moment and then came up with his reasoned reply: “Because the climate is making you irritable. That's only natural, it happens to all of us. And of course it's much worse for you having to stay home all day with nothing to do. That's why I want you to go away.” After a moment he added “You don't think I like it any better than you, do you.”

Then she collapsed completely and could only be held up by his strong arms. She said she'd be bored, she'd be irritable, she'd be hot, she'd quarrel with him – all right! But please not to send her away from him.

The Nawab said “When the guest will not grace the house
of the host, then that house ceases to be a happy place.” Although this probably sounded better in Urdu, Olivia understood what he meant and felt both flattered and embarrassed.

“So I have come,” the Nawab said and spread his arms wide to show how much he was there.

He had come as before, with a whole retinue. But this time he refused to stay: he said no, it was his turn and he could not accept her hospitality again before she had accepted his. This embarrassed her more, for what could she tell him to explain her neglect of his invitations? But, like a man who understands every situation perfectly, he saw to it that she didn't have to explain anything. He told her that he had come all this way to invite her to a little drive and perhaps, if she felt like it, a little picnic somewhere in some shady spot? No, he could not – would not – be refused. The whole expedition need take only half an hour, fifteen minutes – let her look upon it only as a sort of
token
gesture, by way of reparation to him. He made it sound as if all sorts of intricate Indian codes of honour were involved – and perhaps they were, how was she to know? And she
wanted
to go so terribly!