The Choir Boats (18 page)

“Really, James,” said Sally. “You are as florid as your Mr. Darwin’s
Botanical Garden . . .
or as this garden.”

“Ah, Sally,” said James. “But it is you who blushes to match this
flower.”

They bantered along in this vein for a while, until Kidlington
grew quiet. He tossed twigs for Isaak and Jantje to attack.

“James,” said Sally on her swing under the yellowwood tree.
“Where is your unbounded stock of wit and imagination?”

“Sally,” he said in the most serious voice she had heard him use
yet. “You have wrought me up to a significant matter. May I confide
in you?”

Sally stopped her swinging, and said yes.

“I was only half in jest a while ago, when I said I envied you
McDoons and wished to be your satellite,” said Kidlington. “You
see, I too am an orphan. My father hanged himself for gambling
debts, and my sweet mother died thereafter of grief. My brother and
I were taken in by older cousins, where we got bed and board but
little else. We each won scholarships, and came like a pair of Dick
Whittingtons to London to pursue the medical profession. While we
have prospered, ’tis true, or at least see the imminent possibility of
advancement, we have had little — no, very little — of the conviviality
and fellow feeling that so characterizes the McDoons. Oh, Sally, you
must know that these past months with you have been the happiest
of my life!”

“James,” Sally said at last. “Why did you not share this with me
before? I would understand. Planet? You have been our sun, shining
forth upon us.”

For once, her ready store of quotes and commonplaces failed her
but her heart wrote him a sonnet. She held out her locket, which she
kept in her lockbox since the attack onboard (having come to half-believe her own explanations to James) but which today adorned
her neck for no reason other than because the sun was shining so.
Kidlington unclasped the locket, and the two of them gazed at the
images of Sally and Sally’s mother. Sally would have given Kidlington
the locket, if he had asked. Kidlington did not. He reclasped the
locket and handed it back to Sally. Their hands touched. The rest of
the afternoon was spent on trivial talk, but all that time and every
day that followed, Sally dwelt in Kidlington’s words of planets, loss,
and finding.

The “new” Kidlington, the one who spoke in serious tones about
weighty subjects, was in evidence two weeks later at the Termuydens’
dinner table. Talk had turned to the condition of Cape Town society,
and specifically to the fact of slavery. The Cape was full of slaves,
based on skin colour, a situation that appalled the McDoons and
Kidlington.

“Thank goodness for Wilberforce,” said Kidlington.

“True words,” said Sanford, pleased to find himself agreeing with
the young man.

“Quite right,” said Barnabas. “You Termuydens seem to be just
about the only household who does not use slaves, but keep servants
as a civilized person should do.”

The Mejuffrouw said, “Thank you. We are considered . . .”

“. . .
eigenaardig en eigengerechtig
,” said her husband. “‘Peculiar
and self-righteous.’ Sounds better in Dutch.”

“In either language, we are,” said the Mejuffrouw, laughing. Then
she stopped laughing, narrowed her pelagic eyes. “The Gezelligheid
can never use slaves. How could it?”

Sally noticed that Nexius Dexius, who said little at the dinner
table, had followed the discussion with deep interest. At one point
he looked set to interject but satisfied himself instead by slicing his
meat with restrained savagery. Nexius, an old warrior ever on alert,
noticed Sally’s expression, and gave her the ursine equivalent of a
wink before returning to the carnage on his plate. Mystified by this
confidence, Sally meant to ask Nexius about it but forgot to do so
because of what came next.

As sweet-cakes and port were passed around the table, talk turned
to Kidlington’s opportunities in Bombay. Even Sanford became
animated as he and Barnabas gave the medical student advice and
reminisced about their voyage to Bombay for McDoon’s uncle. “The
Bengal, or even the Coromandel Coast, now, that is where the real
fortunes are to be made,” said Barnabas. “But old McDoon had it
in mind to assemble some cargoes in Bombay, and he had his best
contacts with a fine agency house there.”

“Finlay, Graham & Muir,” said Sanford.

“Scots like he was . . . like me,” said Barnabas.

“We sailed out in April of 1792, and were in Bombay a full year,”
said Sanford. He looked across the table at Barnabas and said, with
slightly more Norfolk in his accent than usual, “How young we
were!”

“Beans and bacon,” said Barnabas. “Young isn’t half the story!
Peas newly popped from the pod is more like it!”

“A full year in Bombay, sir,” said Kidlington. “Where did you
stay?”

“In lodgings not half so nice as these,” said Barnabas, raising his
glass to the Mejuffrouw and Cornelius.

“Really, you mustn’t,” said the Mejuffrouw, pleased despite her
efforts to wave away the praise.

The others raised their glasses.

“Health and long life to our hosts,” said Barnabas, thumping the
table with his free hand. “And three cheers for the Gezelligheid!”

When the huzzahs had died down — and the port had been passed
around again — Barnabas continued.

“Finlay, Graham & Muir had a small set of rooms for us to let,
which they had found through their friend, the Parsee merchant
Sitterjee . . . that’s what you need to do, Mr. Kidlington, be sure to
make the acquaintance of one of the leading Parsee houses. They
speak superb English, know our ways better than anyone in India,
and are trusted by all the other natives — Muslim, Hindu, Sikh,
makes no mind. A good man like our friend Sitterjee will take care
of redeeming your
hundi
, that’s what they call bills of exchange
there. Anyway, to return to your question, Mr. Kidlington, about
lodgings. Sanford and I were in the eastern part of the Old City, just
above the English Fort, could just peek out to see Butcher’s Island
and Elephanta Island in the bay. Near Market and Dongri, fine old
part of the city, where most of the Muslim merchants live.”

Kidlington nodded again, especially as conversation turned
to the cost of lodging and food. Sanford spoke to these topics as
Barnabas drank his port and stroked his vest, a design with roundels
and palmettes marred slightly by a gravy stain from the evening
meal. As Sanford described how close the English Fort was to the
address of Kidlington’s main contacts, Barnabas suddenly thumped
the table again.

“Sanford,” he said. “Do you remember the dinners we used to
have at Adnan’s?”

Startled by the interruption, everyone stared at Barnabas. Sally
thought Sanford shot Barnabas a warning look. Barnabas plunged
ahead. “Our closest native contacts, outside of good old Sitterjee
the Parsee,” he said to the entire company by way of explanation.
“Adnan, and his brother Mohsin were estimable merchants and
sahukars
, Muslims of the Khodja following.”

A strange note entered Barnabas’s voice as he said, “These
Khodjas lived, in fact, just across the alley from the house where
our lodgings were. So we spent much time with Adnan and Mohsin.
Business, yes, much business. Made us all richer than we had been,
when we got the cargo home to London. But good company too. Do
you remember, Sanford?”

“Yes, Barnabas,” said Sanford, clearing his throat. “I do.”

“Why,” said Barnabas, “remember the dinner parties? Almost as
fine as the ones here at the Gezelligheid.”

Sanford seemed pleased when Barnabas proposed another toast
to the Termuydens. Once again the port went round as the cheers
subsided.

Undeterred, however, Barnabas returned to his story about the
Khodja merchants.

“
Hara masala
,” he said. “That’s what they called it, their special
food. I am, of course, all for good plain English cooking, best in the
world — begging your pardons, but I put it even above the Dutch —
but my carriage towards food was altered, I must confess, when I
tasted the
hara masala
.”

Sanford sighed as well at the thought of Khodja cuisine.

Reaching for the port again, Barnabas mused. “Remarkable stuff
altogether, garlic, ginger-root — Sally, you would have liked that —
and coriander seed, with those peppers . . . coconut all grated, and
almonds . . .”

“Goat’s meat,” said Sanford, despite himself.

“Well,” chuckled the Mejuffrouw. “We shall have to serve goat at
tomorrow’s dinner!”

“What wine goes with goat, I wonder,” said her husband.

“Such funny stories we use to tell and hear around the table
at Adnan and Mohsin’s,” Barnabas ploughed ahead. “Sometimes
Muir would join us. Remember Sanford, how Muir — he’s dead now,
God rest his soul — would always talk about ‘casting bread upon
the waters’? Only his brogue was so thick that Adnan and Mohsin
thought he said ‘casting bird upon the waters,’ and imagined Muir
was rattling on about duck hunting!”

At this, Barnabas began to laugh, giggle almost. Sanford reached
across the table to Barnabas. “Steady on, old friend.”

“I am sorry,” said Barnabas, stroking his vest and peering down
into his port. “I . . . well . . .” He looked with imploring eyes at
Sanford.

“Perhaps,” said Sanford, “we should conclude with the port for
the evening.”

“
Quatsch
,” said Barnabas, but he did not reach for the bottle.

The small-cakes were gone, the candles burning low. The
Mejuffrouw started to rise, when Barnabas said:

“I almost took a wife once.”

Everyone remained seated. The Mejuffrouw leaned forward with
such alacrity that she almost knocked over the port bottle. Sanford
shook his head slightly but, at the same time, clasped his partner’s
forearm across the table. Sally held her breath. For Sally (and for
Tom, had he been there), Barnabas’s celibacy was as natural a state
as the tides of the Thames or Sanford’s precision with accounts.

“Oh yes,” said Barnabas, looking into a candle, slowly stroking
his vest. “Adnan had a daughter, you see.”

Sanford started to say something, thought better of it. He
continued to hold Barnabas’s arm.

“Her name was Rehana,” said Barnabas. “She is the only woman
I have ever loved. In a wifely way, I mean. Only she was not to be my
wife.”

The Mejuffrouw pulled in every word.

Kidlington looked at Sally before he asked the question they all
wanted to ask. “Sir, what happened? If I may enquire?”

Barnabas looked away and did not seem able to speak. Sanford
released Barnabas’s arm, sat up, and told the story.

Adnan had been delighted with Barnabas and fascinated by
British ways. He had even allowed his wife, Yasmin, to join the
dinners from time to time. His brother Mohsin was of like mind
(his wife was named Bilkees). Great friendship developed between
the Khodja merchants and the men of McDoon.

“Great friendship,” said Barnabas. “Damon and Pythias. Except
that I was no . . .”

“Do not admonish yourself, old friend,” Sanford said, then
returned to the story. “We’d heard rumour, after several months
of frequent visitation in Adnan’s house, of a daughter, but we had
never seen her. Nor were we likely to — it is not their custom to bring
forth their daughters to strangers, and we honoured that by not
even asking after her presence.”

“But,” said Barnabas, staring again into the candle, “her presence
became known to me nonetheless.”

“How, uncle, how?” Sally cried. She was aware of Kidlington’s
eyes on her, and of the Mejuffrouw’s eyes on Barnabas.

“I heard the most beautiful singing,” said Barnabas. “One
evening, as we returned across the alley to our lodgings, a gorgeous
melody sung by a woman came over the wall surrounding Adnan’s
house. I could not resist my desire to see the singer. Sanford tried
to stop me — good friend, my dear Sanford — but I found handholds
up the wall, rested on a ledge, and peered over the top, down into a
garden. And there she was. And there forever, from that moment,
has my heart remained.”

Barnabas paused again, gazing out over Sally’s head. Under the
table, Kidlington touched Sally’s hand for a long moment.

“She looked up and saw me there,” said Barnabas. “She told me
once that she thought that first night she had conjured me forth with
her singing! She sang and danced in the garden, around the fountain
in the middle like . . . like an elfin queen in the moonlight, with her
black tresses swinging behind her, and her arms outstretched before
her. She was Sacontala, and I was the king who saw her in the forest,
who fell in love and then . . .”

Even the candles seemed to hold their breath waiting for whatever
Barnabas would say next.

“So began our courtship,” he said, with one tear coursing down
his cheek. “Every night thereafter I would hear her singing, and I
would come across the alley to the top of the wall. She would stand
below me, half-hidden in the dark, and we would talk in whispers.
She had some English, and I had some Gujarati and a little Hindi, so
we communicated in our own private language. She longed to know
who I was, what life was like outside her house, outside Bombay, and
I longed to know who she was, what life was like inside her house.”

The Mejuffrouw nudged her husband, who reached into his
pocket and offered a handkerchief to Barnabas.

“Thank you,” said Barnabas. “Finally I dared to come down into
the garden. We trembled every second for fear of discovery, but we
trembled more to be together.”

As he daubed his eyes, Barnabas said, “I loved her. Rehana loved
me.”

Barnabas paused. Sanford said, “Our Khodja hosts did find
out. Difficulty ensued. Adnan and Mohsin felt terribly betrayed,
as if Barnabas had been a thief. At first they wanted to sever all
connections. Sitterjee and the firm of Finlay, Graham & Muir
intervened on our behalf. In the end, our business was allowed to
proceed. Our cargo was assembled and we made ready to leave.”