The House of Blue Mangoes (54 page)

Kannan thought for a while. Kumaran came in with tea and biscuits.

‘I had an uncle who died fighting you chaps, and my grandfather died in a battle long ago. I didn’t know either of them, but I guess they would qualify as heroes . . .’

‘Joe was certainly cast in the heroic mould. You could have added him to your pantheon. Where’s Helen?’

‘Couldn’t come. She had some work to do,’ Kannan said lamely.

Something of his discomfort must have shown on his face, because Freddie asked, ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said slowly.

‘Aha, the well-known perils of married life.’

They laughed together.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ Kannan asked, picking up a book,
The Man-Eaters of Kumaon
, from the bedside table.

‘Oh, Michael brought it when he came to visit. Apparently it’s a big bestseller. He had it mailed from Bombay.’

‘Has he written anything else?’

‘I don’t think so. Cracking stuff. He goes after a man-eating tigress which has killed four hundred and thirty-six people, and only just escapes being killed himself.’

‘I’ll ask Michael if I can borrow it after you.’

‘Yep, put in your claim quickly. I’m sure there’s going to be a long queue. Every bloody planter here thinks he’s God’s gift to shikar.’

‘Have you ever taken a shot at a tiger?’

‘None left,’ Freddie said with a grimace. ‘That’s the problem with the planting life today, you know. When I was growing up, there was an exotic figure in my life, a distant uncle who owned a tea estate in the High Wavys. I used to look forward to his visits home. Tigers, panthers, elephants, a day scarcely seemed to pass when my uncle wasn’t fighting for his life. Ripping
Boy’s Own
stuff. It really fired my imagination, I can tell you that!’

‘And nothing since you’ve been here?’

‘Not really. There’s no big game any more, not unless you count the occasional elephant. But somehow I’ve never warmed to the idea of shooting elephants. It’s prohibited anyway. But there was that time when Joe and I saw a black panther that Harrison had shot. Remember Harrison? That maverick planter I told you about who went native, God knows how many years ago, and virtually dropped out of sight?’

Kannan said, ‘Harrison?’

‘Come on, I’m sure I’ve told you about him. Best shikari the hills had ever seen, until toddy claimed him. Anyway, he’d been called in to shoot a panther that had been prowling around the old bungalow at Empress. Last time I saw him, incidentally, wonder what he’s doing now . . . but listen, this story is about the panther, not Harrison . . . I remember that the dead beast looked pretty pathetic, a tangle of legs and a disproportionately large head. It’s only when I took a closer look that I began to have an idea of its terrible power, you know, teeth, great yellow eyes.’

‘I remember reading somewhere that the grunting of a charging leopard can stop an elephant in its tracks.’

‘Wouldn’t that be grand to see? A black panther charging out of the black night, only to be stopped at the last possible moment by the crack of Freddie’s rifle that takes it right between the eyes . . .’

‘How on earth are you going to shoot a springing black panther on a pitch-dark night?’ Kannan asked, smiling.

‘Oh, between the whites of the brute’s eyes I expect, or should it be the yellows . . .’

‘Bet you’d be shaking so much your quivering would put the poor panther off its aim.’

‘Speak for yourself. The Hamiltons of Lincolnshire are known for their nerve,’ Freddie said with a laugh. ‘What a pitiful time we’re having of it,’ he went on after a while. ‘No tigers, no leopards, nothing that gives you the thrill of going after a dangerous animal . . .’

‘Wild boars are dangerous . . . the first time I shot one I couldn’t get over how sharp its tusks were. And Michael was telling me about the poacher who was gored by a boar a few years ago. He died, Freddie, bled to death, he was too far from civilization to get medical help.’

‘But they’re pigs, Cannon. Swine. Nothing ennobling about them. This wasn’t what I was after, if truth be told, when I signed up for the glorious life of the estates.’

‘Well, you could always be at war.’

Freddie flushed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kannan said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ Their conversation dried up. Kannan felt awful. How could he have been so insensitive? It had slipped out, and he had certainly meant nothing by it. Freddie’s voice jerked him out of his remorse.

‘You know, I know this sounds disrespectful, but when I think of Joe blazing through his life so fast, just eating it up, it seems right that he went so quickly. He would have made a miserable old man. I can’t see him at seventy, white-haired, wrinkled, a garrulous old drunk . . .’

Freddie seemed to go off to sleep after that, so Kannan got up to go.

‘Thanks for coming, Cannon,’ Freddie muttered sleepily. ‘Really appreciate it. We’ll get together, tomorrow, the day after, when I’m better.’

Kannan was almost at the door when he remembered.

‘Oh, Freddie, I forgot to tell you, the annual tennis week will henceforth be played in honour of Joe. There’s to be a Joe Wilson Cup and everything.’

‘Good. Now all we need to do is win it for Joe!’

87

There’s nothing quite like playing tennis in the hills. The ball travels through the air with great clarity and when it is struck it sings off the racquet with tremendous velocity, the sound and the action resonating through the cold, thin air. That summer, the thwock-thwock of tennis balls took on a greater urgency as the planters prepared for the Joe Wilson Cup.

The women’s matches were played first. Agnes Webster of Chenganoor Estate, who had taken part in Wimbledon before the war, easily outclassed her opponents to capture the ladies’ trophy. The redoubtable Mrs Webster had no obvious counterpart in the men’s draw. The majority of the younger Assistants and Superintendents were overseas with their regiments, and of those who remained there weren’t more than a dozen fit enough or proficient enough to wield a racquet. Sensing her tournament losing much of its gloss, Mrs Stevenson persuaded her husband to contribute a crate of hoarded Famous Grouse to the spoils that the victor would take away. Eight more planters entered the fray, but most of them were so decrepit or unskilled that it made no difference to the eventual quarter-final line-up.

Kannan was astonished to find himself in the last eight. He hadn’t touched a tennis racquet until a year ago, but under the tutelage of his Superintendent, who was a keen if erratic player, he had become fairly good at the game. He had acquired a decent first serve, covered the court well, and made up for a non-existent backhand with his best shot, a running forehand drive that curved wickedly away from his opponent. The two men he had faced during his run-up to the quarter-finals were planters in their fifties, with neither the stamina nor the strokes to hinder his progress. His third opponent hadn’t even bothered to show up. A walkover.

Today would be different, Kannan knew, as Freddie and he walked towards the courts from the clubhouse. His opponent was no pushover. He had never seen Hemming play, he was an owner-planter from the far north of the Periyar district, but Freddie had filled him in.

‘Looks and plays like Big Bill Tilden,’ he had yelled in Kannan’s ear as they motorcycled towards the club. ‘Same high serving action and penetrating ground strokes.’ The great American was Freddie’s ideal. Kannan preferred the fighting Englishman, Fred Perry. While their games couldn’t live up to those of their heroes, the young Assistants mimicked their every other action – the way they held their racquets, the way they shook hands, their positions on court after they had executed a shot. If passion alone could have improved their on-court skills, Hamilton and Dorai would soon have been champions. But, as things stood, they were no more than enthusiastic club players, with Kannan having the edge over Freddie simply because the latter was the most unco-ordinated athlete the district had ever seen.

‘You can win this tournament, my friend,’ Freddie said as they got to the courts. Through the high wire mesh that enclosed the playing area they could see the first two matches getting under way. Robert Cameron vs. Stuart Webb and Alec Cameron vs. Graham Court. The sun was pleasantly warm on their shoulders, and the tea fields pooled gold and green all around the playing area.

‘You’re mad,’ Kannan said. ‘Have you forgotten the dreaded Camerons? And Hemming?’

‘You’ll beat them. They’re all old enough to be your grandfather.’

‘But they’ll wipe the court with me.’

‘Don’t worry. If all else fails, I’ll throw rocks at them at critical moments.’ To Kannan’s disgust, Freddie started whistling. He felt nervous, almost nauseous, as the tension gathered in him.

He watched the Cameron brothers walk to their serving marks, their slow, smooth swagger subconsciously reflecting the arrogance of players who ruled the court. They swatted the ball a couple of times across the net to their opponents, their racquets travelling in lively controlled arcs that Kannan had practised a thousand times on his own but could rarely replicate. Within moments, both brothers had settled into a lovely rhythm, as they swung the ball to their opponents on the far side.

‘No bets on who is going to win. Cameron Redux.’

‘Yuh.’

‘Hullo there. George Hemming.’ Kannan turned sharply. His opponent was a tall man, in his late forties, fit and with a strong grip. ‘See you around later. Have a good match,’ he said to Kannan in an accent he couldn’t readily identify and was gone.

‘Definitely like Bill Tilden. The height. And those shoulders.’

‘Come on, Freddie, you’re making me nervous.’

‘Sorry, old boy,’ Freddie said with a smile.

And then they went silent, for Alec Cameron was preparing to serve the first ball of the day.

Kannan didn’t know where Cameron had learned his tennis (although it would have been easy enough to find out from Freddie, who seemed to know everything about everyone) but wherever he had picked up his game it had given him a service action that was unique. Turned sideways on to the net, he glanced quickly at his opponent, then bent seriously to the task at hand. He bowed carefully, piously almost, over the ball, and then went quiet like the sea at rest. The world waited with him, the red tennis courts veined with white, the light-suffused tea, the tall silver oaks that lined the playing area, the stepped flower-beds, the ballboys, the umpire, the six spectators, his opponent. There was nothing static about the second or two that Alec was stooped over the ball. No, this was a powerful dynamic moment, full of implicit violence and grace, all his splendid and varied talents merely counterbalancing each other. A few seconds more and Cameron was arcing back, a wave gathering power, before exploding forward, his legs rocketing him upward like pistons towards the gently falling ball. The moment of contact between racquet and ball was unbelievably violent, the twisty downward smashing motion of the serve spiralling the ball forward from the strings with immense speed. Cameron’s opponent took a half-step forward but was way too late, the ball had arrowed down the centre of the T, paused for a moment at contact, then skidded wide. An ace. Fifteen-love.

Within no time at all, Cameron was three-love up and looked on the point of breaking his opponent’s serve again, holding three break points against him. The hapless Court, who seemed to have been battered into submission, chose that moment to assert himself. He strode purposefully to the service line and banged in a winner. One break saved. He served another excellent serve, which Cameron barely managed to reach; Court put away the short ball easily. Two break points saved. The tide was beginning to turn. It was then that Cameron chose to create a moment of magic.

Great athletes, like musicians and artists of genius, have it in them to create works of art, perfectly executed plays that leave spectators and opponents awestruck and linger on in the memory long after they have lit up the scene of battle. Court’s next serve was very good, but Cameron was ready for it. He lunged for the ball as it swung out wide and managed to return it deep to his opponent’s forehand. Court scrambled for it, and with every ounce of skill he possessed, he contrived to hit the best shot he could, a searing forehand cross-court that landed on the line. Incredibly, Cameron was there, and he began to put together a point that all those watching would remember for a long time to come.

Off-balance, he dispatched Court’s thunderbolt back to him, scrambled into position, and when the ball was returned, loomed over it like a deity, and struck it with a backhand of great beauty and violence. The ball sped to the far corner of the court. An exhausted but valiant Court managed to get to it, but only just. For the first time that afternoon Cameron came to the net, and put away the easy volley. Four-love. Every spectator present applauded, the umpire restraining himself but only just. The poor courts, old Slazenger racquets, worn-out balls (the war had made new tennis balls impossible to find), shabbily dressed urchins who functioned as ballboys . . . all these had, for just a moment, been gilded by the beauty of the play.

Court applauded too; after that perfect point, all the fight seemed to have gone out of him, and he handed the first set to Cameron six-love.

Kannan and Freddie, who had been transfixed by the action on court, found voice. ‘By Jove, that was astonishing, monstrously brilliant,’ Freddie said with awe. ‘Budge would have played like that, Borotra . . .’

‘I’m going home,’ Kannan said. ‘Best to give my opponent a walkover. Rather than shame myself.’

‘Nonsense, man. Who knows, you might be able to give this Hemming a run for his money. He’s no Cameron. And if you make it to the final it will be an achievement in itself. Who knows, maybe old Alec C will have the flu or malaria on the day.’

‘Let’s stop pretending. I’ll go and shake hands with Hemming, honourably leave the scene of battle.’

‘Not so honourably, old boy. For Christ’s sake, do you think Joe would have walked away?’

‘No, he wouldn’t, but sometimes you know that no matter what, you can’t win . . .’