The House of Blue Mangoes (50 page)

Kannan didn’t appear to have heard. ‘You know Churchill said that the British soldier could fight on without ammunition, but not without his daily cuppa. And most of that tea comes from here. Makes one feel proud, you know, those merchantmen braving U-boat packs to get this precious stuff to England.’ He was walking off with the tea-maker when he realized she wasn’t following. ‘This way, Hen, it’s an eye-opener to see how these chaps decide whether the tea is of the best quality or not.’

‘Do you mind if we skip the tea-tasting? I’m really tired.’ She saw the enthusiasm on his face fade, replaced by puzzlement and a little hurt. She felt guilty, but she’d definitely had enough.

‘It’s all ready. It’ll only take a little while.’

‘Do you really mind if we do this another time?’ she asked, wondering, even as she spoke, whether it was worth being so stubborn. After all, it was just another step in the stupid tea-making process, and if she’d been able to endure a whole morning of it, surely she could put up with another half an hour.

‘Well, all right then, if that’s the way you want it,’ he said stiffly, and she realized he was angry. This annoyed her. Suddenly she wanted to get free of the stifling atmosphere of the factory. The entrance was only a short distance away and she began walking towards it. She had almost got there when she heard quick steps and Kannan caught up with her.

Outside, he said grimly, ‘You might have had the courtesy to wait until I’d finished talking to the tea-maker, making my excuses.’

‘I didn’t want to come in the first place. It was your idea,’ she said.

‘Oh, really! You should have said you didn’t want to come.’

‘So this is all my fault, is it?’ she said, her anger growing.

A couple of workers were coming up the path towards them, and Kannan said quickly, ‘Look, not here, please. If you want to say something to me, say it at home, not in front of the whole world.’

She suppressed the sharp retort that sprang to her lips, and walked away to where he’d parked the motorcycle.

The silence between them lasted as long as it took for Kannan to drive to the house, park the motorcycle and lead the way into the bedroom. He shut the door firmly behind him. And then they went for each other, systematically targeting every weak spot in the other’s psychological make-up, determined to cause the maximum damage. All the things that had been swept aside by the force of their love returned, swelled their anger, made them implacable.

‘I’ve never been so humiliated,’ Kannan began. ‘Have you gone mad? Shouting at me in front of the factory workers!’

‘I never wanted to go to your stupid factory, it was your idea. Wait, let me see if I can recall the exact words . . .’

‘That’s it. I’m never going to take the trouble to think up things for us to do. Not only do I have to slave, I’ve also got to provide entertainment for missy amma, while she lolls around the house.’

‘That’s because there’s nothing to do here, you stupid ass. You’re so caught up in the romance of tea that you don’t seem to see that this place is dull, so boring I could cry.’

‘Yes, yes, I see, of course I see,’ he said, his voice ominously calm, ‘you’d much rather be dancing in your Railway Institute with your boyfriends, you cheap little . . .’

A mirror from her dressing table came flying at him. ‘How dare you call me cheap!’

‘How dare you call me boring?’ What on earth had possessed him to marry this awful woman? How dare she talk to him like this? He couldn’t remember his mother or any of his aunts or cousins even making a mild complaint to their husbands! Why, none of them even addressed their husbands by name! The fight lasted over an hour. She told him exactly what she thought of him, his friends, his job, and he reciprocated in kind, telling her exactly what he thought of her, her friends, Tambaram Railway Colony and whatever else he could throw in. Gradually the heat left their accusations and finally, tearful and remorseful, they made up. Kannan allowed himself to give in, something she was grateful for. She had never seen him this angry and it frightened her. She wondered whether she was as much in control of the relationship as she had thought. She shelved her unease. They made love, promised not to hurt each other. They meant it when they said it, but both knew that certain things had been said and could never be locked up again. To avoid a repeat of the ugliness that had left them both diminished, they took care around each other, trying their best not to give offence, to recapture the perfect unscarred love they’d had.

Five days later a uniformed servant from the General Manager’s Bungalow turned up at Morningfall bearing one of Mrs Stevenson’s famous invitations, not to tea but to dinner. They had just finished breakfast, and Kannan opened the envelope, read the engraved card and passed it to Helen, saying, ‘At long last, an invitation from the Dragon Lady. I was beginning to wonder whether it was going to come at all.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Tell me, please, please,
please
.’

‘No, seriously, it’s nothing.’ He hoped she wouldn’t persist. He thought about his own preparations for the party Mrs Stevenson had thrown for him when he first arrived. He had spent a fortnight observing everything the Frasers did – the way they sat, ate, drank, wielded cutlery and glasses. Even then he had almost collapsed from the strain of trying not to come up short during the course of that long evening. He had made it through somehow. How was Helen going to cope? He was sure she would bridle if he tried to coach her, so what was he to do?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she said brightly.

‘Just thinking that this will be the grandest party you’ll have seen yet.’

‘Oh, I’m so excited. I’ve heard they live in the most magnificent bungalow.’

‘That they do.’

She frowned. ‘Do you think Mrs Stevenson likes me? She seems so forbidding.’

‘That’s the way she is with everybody. She’s actually very nice.’

‘I hope so. I haven’t exchanged a word with her yet, she looks so . . . so . . . headmistressy!’

‘She’s the perfect hostess,’ he said, thinking provided we’re the perfect guests.

‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ Helen said, making a face.

‘Look, let’s go over to the Frasers’. I’m sure Belinda will be able to help.’

‘Fine, let’s do that,’ Helen said. ‘Now I’m really excited. I think I’ll wear the earrings Dad gave me.’

His heart went out to her. For all her city ways, she was still so naïve, such an easy target.

80

Major Edward Stevenson didn’t consider himself an especially daring man. He had fought in a war, even shot a tiger before the beasts became scarce, but if he were asked to describe himself, the adjectives he would have chosen would have been dependable, unexcitable, cautious, solid. He had two more years to go before retirement, and he was looking forward to the time when he could retire on a pension, perhaps in England, perhaps in one of the other colonies. Canada possibly, no, that would be too cold, maybe Kenya, where there would be servants and a pleasant climate. Perhaps even here in India, if those pesky nationalists would only calm down a bit. He had thoroughly enjoyed his life on the estates, but when the time came he would be quite happy to go.

He knew that Matilda dreaded his impending retirement. And had known for a long time that she camouflaged what she truly felt about most things. But even so, he had been disconcerted by the scene she had created the previous Friday when he had said that they should invite the Dorais over soon. It didn’t seem quite good form if the young couple weren’t welcomed to the district with a party at the General Manager’s Bungalow, especially now that virtually everyone else had had them over.

She had said, ‘It’s pathetic to see a foolish old man trying to do something daring.’ She had said a great many other things, and it had shocked him because they hadn’t had any real disagreements for as far back as he could remember. In the manner of couples who have been married for a long time, they knew how to manage their life together so that it offered the maximum benefits with the minimum amount of discomfort, so her outburst had left him dumbfounded. The moment he had mentioned the Dorais she had let him have it. She had accused him of letting the side down, she had screamed that he was undermining her position in society. It had all spilled out in a great torrent of emotion. She had quickly dammed up what remained, but the damage had been done. In his patient, methodical manner he had absorbed everything, waited for her to calm down, accepted her fervent apologies and left the breakfast table attempting to understand her outrage.

After her husband left, Mrs Stevenson had stayed on at the table. She was furious with herself. She hated it that Edward knew how much Kannan and Helen bothered her. This had never been her style. Now she had ruined everything by verging on hysteria. He would do everything he could to ensure that she was nice to the Dorais. And when he dug his heels in, it would be sensible to go along with him.

Oh, the pity of it, she’d thought miserably, in the days following their disagreement. Have I learned nothing in the years and years I’ve been married? It would take every ounce of skill she possessed to win him over. And it would be a long, slow process, but there was no way around it. She should start at once. It wouldn’t do to let things fester. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to throw the grandest party the district had seen in a long time.

On the morning of the party, Mrs Stevenson carried out her customary inspection of the bungalow. The servants lined up on the veranda after breakfast. Mrs Stevenson sailed down the line, inspecting a button here, a discoloured shirt there. Madaswamy shuffled along at her side, proffering explanations and trying to deflect the memsahib’s wrath by shouting even louder than she did. Today, the dog-walker and the junior polisher of brass – doorknobs, pot holders, vase holders, sconces – were sniffling in a noticeable way and Mrs Stevenson sent them back to the servants’ quarters that sprawled behind the house. The senior polisher would have to take over. It would mean a very long working day, there was so much brass in the house, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She paused then, right in the middle of her inspection, as the servants waited nervously, struck by the contrast between the palace she lived in and the house that Edward and she had lived in when she had first moved to Pulimed. It had been little more than a three-room shanty, and although she had lived in it only briefly, she could still recite from memory the list of possessions she had taken charge of from the old man who served as the bungalow’s cook, major-domo, butler and polisher of brass. There had not been much brass to polish except the front-door knob. This he would spend over an hour gently rubbing in an alcoholic haze, the fumes of metal polish and cheap country liquor mingling in the air. The shanty’s inventory wasn’t large. The list was obviously the work of the man who held it out to her:

Thinking about it now, Mrs Stevenson smiled. She even recalled thinking how odd it was that table had been misspelt three different ways. The memory of her first house always put her in a good mood, and she swiftly completed her inspection, dismissed her servants and walked out of the house into the mild morning sun, glorying in the magnificence of the General Manager’s Bungalow. It spread over much of the cut-away top of a low hillock, its walls of brick and stone covered with honeysuckle and climbing yellow roses. The driveway, gleaming white after its customary wash on party days, wound its way down what remained of the hill to Major Stevenson’s offices. Azalea and camellia bushes lined the driveway and when these were in bloom, they perfumed the air with a subtle scent. Massed phlox and fuchsia, gerberas and zinnias, irises and petunias painted the flower-beds in front of the bungalow in iridescent swatches of purple and blue, red and yellow, white and pink. The cannas clumped on the lawn, the hollyhocks that bordered the live hibiscus hedge, the
Gloriosa superba
that crept along the ground, spilling its dramatic flowers on to the lawns that marooned the house in a lake of polished green . . . everywhere that Mrs Stevenson looked, something pleased her.

She walked back into the bungalow to inspect the rooms, a task that would take her until mid-morning, given her standards of perfection. The counterpanes on each of the beds in each of the eight bedrooms would be scrutinized to see that not a wrinkle marred their surface. The flowers in each of the seven bathrooms would be minutely examined; the seven baths would be looked into to see that no circles of dirt ringed the plughole. Mrs Stevenson was nothing if not thorough.

By the time she had finished her rounds, she was ready for her elevenses. But before that she would need to hand out the stores for lunch. Having done this, she dismissed the butler, rang for tea in the smallest of the bungalow’s three living rooms, and reluctantly allowed herself to think about the evening ahead.

81

Kannan wheeled his motorcycle to a stop, and Helen clambered off. Although they were exactly on time, there were already vehicles in the driveway – the Frasers’ hulking Humber and Freddie’s Golden Flash, green to Kannan’s blue. His friend must have just arrived, for he could hear the ticking of the motorcycle’s engine as it cooled. Helen took off her wrap, and the two of them stamped their feet on the gravel to get the circulation going and walked up the shallow steps that led to the veranda. Major Stevenson met them at the front door, heartily exclaiming, ‘Ah, Dorai, Helen, wonderful to see you. You, my dear, look smashing!’ She was looking her best. The lilac dress that the old tailor had copied from a six-month-old copy of
London Weekly
in two days flat was an excellent fit and set off her perfect complexion. She wore her only good piece of jewellery – sapphire and diamond ear studs that had belonged to her mother and that Leslie had produced with a flourish the day before her wedding, bringing tears to her eyes. The earrings glowed a deep mysterious blue as they passed into the great lamplit drawing room where Mrs Stevenson waited.