by Maggie Ford
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The monsoon had departed, leaving the air fresh and sweet. Everything was green and the streets colourful with people and vehicles and animals, and full of noise.
Inside the humble little shop that sold foodstuffs, openfronted as were all those along the side street off the busy main thoroughfare, sat four men: the shop owner himself, Mr Syed Hamed; his cousin Mr Mahmud who was a policeman; Ranjit Sandhu, servant to Mrs Alexander Willoughby, and his friend of many years, Panna Chand, servant to Mrs Ansley Burrington, both men well known to Syed Hamed in that they always came to buy food from his shop counter on their day off.
Syed Hamed, eager to show off the new upright chairs he had just bought, had invited the three in to sit on them and as it was nearing time for tiffin had given them a drink of tea, a little food from his counter and some sweetmeats in which he often mixed the tiniest morsel of bhang, the dried leaf of the hemp known as cannabis which had loosened their tongues a little after they had admired the chairs.
They spoke in English as Mr Mahmud was originally from another part of India, his native language being Urdu, and Panna Chand’s language was Gujarati.
‘It is a good thing the British will be leaving to return to the plains in two weeks. The monsoon will be over. I have had enough of them demanding my attention for this and that as though I am mud under their feet.’
Ranjit Sandhu waggled his head at the speaker. ‘It is all very well for you to say that, Mr Mahmud, but the British are my bread and butter.’
Very well for Mr Mahmud. Mr Mahmud, being a policeman, would still have his job when the British began to flock back to the plains in a week or two’s time.
‘When they leave Simla, then I am having to look for work unless Mrs Willoughby finds me invaluable enough to take back with her to Jalapur. I am looking to that with all my heart.’
‘But that, it seems to me, doesn’t stop you gossiping about her,’ Syed Hamed put in, engaged in smoothing a proud hand over the seat of his new chair.
‘Forgive me, Mr Hamed, I assure you, I do not gossip.’ Ranjit was hard put to remain this polite, but as a guest in Mr Hamed’s shop and also with Mr Hamed being Muslim and he Hindu, it wasn’t polite to row with one’s host, nor seemly for a Hindu to show himself up in appearing impolite to one of another religion.
‘I merely happened to mention, Mr Hamed, that Mrs Willoughby seems to me a far happier woman now that Mr Burrington is keeping her company,’ he went on. ‘More so that her husband is so seldom with her which makes her very lonely.’
‘I do not understand these people,’ Syed Hamed said. ‘I am afraid I find them most arrogant. Especially the women. I for one breathe a sigh of relief when they leave.’ Syed Hamed was a mere shopkeeper and in that lowly station, lowly in the eyes of the British, he had cause to complain. ‘They ignore us, they are rude and think themselves far above our own ladies who are the most modest of all women, even consider themselves equal with, if not exalted above, the Begum herself. They put on airs. Yet do they not all behave most atrociously?’
Ranjit was in agreement. ‘Yes indeed. Most atrociously,’ he echoed, then leaned forward on his chair, his voice dropping confidentially. ‘My own mistress, Mrs Alexander Willoughby, speaks most sweetly. As the British say, butter would not melt in her mouth, though I cannot see the reasoning behind that statement because butter melts in everyone’s mouth, good and bad. She is very pleasant to me, I must say. But, I ask you all, is it right for a woman like that to be having a debatable association with the husband of another woman?’
‘Is that what is happening?’ queried Panna Chand. ‘And who is the wronged lady?’
Ranjit waggled his head again, but a cunning look came into his dark eyes. ‘It is not for me to say. I do not spread gossip. That is left adequately enough to the wives of the British to do. You, my dear Panna, can think what you will, you being the lady in question’s servant.’
There came a long, low, slow gasp. ‘Oh me! Oh my! Not Mrs Burrington you say?’
‘I am saying nothing, my friend. I have said nothing. As I regretfully appear to some to be a gossip, I am vindicating myself. So now I am saying nothing.’
An awkward silence descended over the group, then Mahmud struck up heartily. ‘I offer up a great prayer when the British leave Simla. How quiet it is when they go. As near to heaven as can be.
The shopkeeper inclined his head in agreement and took a sweetmeat from a dish with its tiniest morsel of bhang, enough to lighten one’s head and spirits and make one’s words a little more eloquent. ‘They should quit India altogether, I say. But mark my words, the day will come when they will – I am sure of it. For too long have we been under the heel of the British. For long we have striven to drive them out. But the day will come.’
Mahmud smiled sagaciously. ‘Then you will miss them. And sadly, so shall I, for all my grumbling. Why, as arrogant as they are, they spend good money in our shops. They keep the peace most adequately. Without them I think India would dissolve into chaos. Though I have no love for them, we will all be the poorer once they go. I am thinking India herself will be the poorer when they go altogether.’
‘I disagree. India will be the richer. We will be ruling ourselves again. For the first time in three hundred years. No longer under the British heel, we will hold up our head high as a nation in the world.’
The spouting going over their heads, Ranjit and his friend Panna fell to talking together, their voices low. ‘Are you sure of what you said?’ asked Panna. ‘My mistress is a very shrewd woman. In such a small community how is it she cannot know of her husband’s infidelity with your mistress?’
‘For one thing,’ Ranjit said, ‘Mr Burrington does not visit my mistress all that often, but only when Mrs Willoughby’s husband has not been to see her for two weeks or more. Her husband visits so rarely, being busy with his work in Jalapur. Your master has not visited my mistress above four times in all.’
‘Ah …’ The sound carried wisdom. ‘So he is not head over heels in love with her, or he would manage many more times.’
‘Indeed.’ Ranjit drew deeply on his cigarette, and picked himself a pink sweet. ‘It is my opinion he is dallying with her, but she does not see that and looks forward eagerly to his visits far more than she does her own husband’s.’
The conversation began to blend as the other two included them once more into theirs and the matter was forgotten in the ensuing debate on their country’s state of health, the spasmodic uprisings here and there and the hope that one day India would come into her own again and all the British with their overbearing, puffed-up opinions of themselves go home for ever.
Panna Chand, merely a temporary servant to his mistress while at Simla, had no loyalty towards her and far less opinion of her than Mrs Willoughby’s servant had for his employer’s wife. It amused him to know that he held in his hands the key to the haughty Mrs Burrington’s plunge from arrogance. She had been harsh to him, short with him, had accused him of insolence and if time were not getting short before her departure would have sacked him without reference. So it profited him in a way to see her brought down. And he might still get a reference if he went about it carefully so as not to put himself in any bad light. It took him five days to rehearse what he was going to say.
‘Will I put out port for master?’ he asked innocuously an hour prior to Mr Burrington’s return from his round of golf at the club.
Mrs Burrington cast him an exasperated look as if regarding a backward child. ‘Panny …’ She insisted on calling him that, preferring something more English-sounding than Panna. He hated it. ‘After all this time, you know the port is only put out for guests. Master prefers a brandy when he comes home. He does not drink port. And I prefer vermouth. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, mistress. It is that I was told by Mrs Willoughby’s servant that he has port there.’
She was staring at him, her brittle blue eyes hard. Panna Chand felt his insides tremble. Had he g
one too far? He fought with himself to look innocent.
‘Who was it told you that?’ she was asking.
‘Mrs Willoughby’s servant, mistress. When Mr Burrington is there.’
‘When is Mr Burrington ever there?’
‘Mrs Willoughby’s servant said to me, often.’
‘How often?’,
‘I do not know. But many times … he has said.’
‘What time is he there?’
‘In the evenings. I do not know. I am only told this. I am told he is going as a friend when Mrs Willoughby’s husband cannot come to see her. I am told it is to keep her company.’
Mrs Burrington’s face had paled. Her tone had dropped. ‘How long does he stay?’
Panna found himself beginning to falter, stammer. He was getting himself into deep water and he was frightened.
‘I asked you a question, Panny. How – long – does – he – stay?’
‘I have not been told that.’ But this would defeat the object. ‘Mrs Willoughby’s servant did mention that it was many hours.’
He could see by the working of Mrs Burrington’s face that she was doing calculations as to when her husband came home at odd times, the lateness of those times, and he debated whether he should dare further his information or leave cats to find their own way home. Then he made his mistake.
‘Mrs Willoughby’s servant says he is very kind to her, kissing away her tears when Mr Willoughby does not come …’
‘Stop! How dare you! How dare you people discuss our affairs. Who do you think you are? Get out of my sight! You’re dismissed. Do you understand? Dismissed!’
Carefully Panna put the bottle of port he’d been holding down on to the little drinks trolley and made a brief, begrudging salaam. It was obvious he had gone too far and would get no reference to give his next employer if ever he found one. Dismay consumed him but there was little he could do. It was back to his family who farmed locally, working the soil, a poor living, until luck came his way again. He prayed to the Divine Will to give him luck.
‘And take that with you!’
Quickly Panna snatched up the offending port, salaamed again and withdrew.
‘God, Annie – you’ve been an utter damned fool. What made you think you could get away with it?’
She watched Alex pace the floor in their Jalapur residence as she packed her belongings. They had returned here in virtual silence. What she had done had become common knowledge among all the British at Simla, and it had followed her all the way back to Jalapur. And even here in Jalapur no one was receiving her.
‘You’ve made me look an utter fool too.’
‘Is that all that matters to you, Alex?’ She found her voice, but it came in a tremulous whisper, a pathetic attempt at rebellion. ‘That I’ve made you look a fool?’
Of course it wasn’t all that mattered to him. He had been stunned, then disbelieving, then outraged and wounded, the painful realisation sinking in slowly that with another man she had made a mockery of their marriage. Yet still his disbelief lingered and it was this disbelief that hurt her most.
‘Why?’ he had queried, like a child not knowing for what it was being scolded. ‘When did you stop loving me?’
Annie had been in tears, blubbering that she didn’t know what had possessed her but that she had been so lonely, had looked on Ansley Burrington as no more than a source of companionship, then comfort, and that he’d taken advantage of her loneliness, and she, idiot that she was had let him seduce her. She hadn’t realised what she had been doing, how she would hurt Alex, and if only Alex had visited her more often none of it would have happened. It all sounded so weak and unconvincing. Alex had been withdrawn, civilised, had said that their marriage was over, that he couldn’t look her in the face any more. Here, in Jalapur, he remained so, even when she, as she had a moment ago, came again to him to beg his understanding, his forgiveness, saying that she still loved him, asking if they couldn’t try again. But she had hurt him too much for that. She knew now, their marriage was wrecked.
How her silly affair with Ansley had come to his wife’s ears was still hazy. But of course she knew how it had spread – servants’ gossip. Mrs Burrington would have wanted it kept quiet. But out of hand she had dismissed the servant carrying the tale and most likely out of spite he had let the story travel on until the whole station knew about it. Of course, affairs abounded in these often lonely circumstances, people looking for a little diversion in a tight and unnatural community. Gossip helped to make their world go round more excitedly. A little tittle-tattle in the club could sometimes be brushed under the carpet before too much harm was done. But she hadn’t been liked from the beginning. They had pounced on her, ostracised her, or she had ostracised herself keeping away from them all, Annie wasn’t sure which. But her life these past two weeks had been spent in isolation and misery with Alex having found out, or having been told. Annie suspected the latter.
He was being very civilised about it, but she knew that beneath the stiff exterior he was devastated, terribly hurt. She heard it in his voice when he had whispered, ‘I really thought you loved me, Annie.’
‘I do love you,’ she had implored in a torrent of wailing. ‘It was all a ghastly, silly mistake, I was so lonely, he took advantage of me. If only you’d been with me more.’
Now she was packing to go home; the home she had yearned for so long to return to for a visit was to be her final destination. Alex had bought her a single ticket. He would stay here. There was to be no reconciliation. She hated seeing the look on his face, the hidden tears giving him a stricken, grey look. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Closing the lid of her last trunk, Annie straightened up, looked beseechingly across at him, but he turned his face away, and she looked instead out of the open door to the veranda, the garden beyond fresh and vivid after the monsoon. This would be the last time she’d see it, this scramble of shrubbery, trees, vines, brilliant tropical flowers, a harsh blue sky reflected in the tank. So many times she’d yearned to look out upon the subdued tones of a soft English scene, now oddly she felt sad that she’d never see this one again.
A servant came in to say that the car was here to take them to the railway station. Alex was going with her. there he would see her settled into her compartment and go outside to stand and watch the train leave. Would he kiss her before he left? Would he wave her goodbye? Or would he walk away without a backward glance?
The drive to the station was made in silence. Only once did he speak. ‘Have you got enough money?’
‘Yes, adequate,’ she replied and occupied herself in gazing at the passing scene, unbelievably pink buildings, open-fronted shops, the thronging thoroughfares, the hordes of bicycles, tongas and colourfully painted motor trucks; the camel-drawn carts, the odd elephant pulling some heavier cart, goats, dogs, and of course the sacred cows that wandered at will, fed by anyone as a matter of course, thin only because, like India’s human population, the overwhelming heat itself discouraged any tendency towards sleekness.
She concentrated her mind on the noise about her, the constant tinkle of bicycle bells, the squeak of cart wheels and rumble of the lorries, the babble of people, the cries of vendors and the occasional thin sound of a snake charmer’s flute, the cobra weaving in a drugged figure-of-eight to the charmer’s own movements.
Moving slowly through the traffic, Annie even welcomed the several faces that peered in at the window, the hands extended for alms, the bric-à-brac waved in her face in hopeful exchange for a few rupees. She welcomed anything so as not to have to think of what was happening to her. The only time Alex spoke was to order the vendors and beggars away and to tell the driver to try and move faster – impossible in this day-time traffic.
At the station it was quieter. The train stood gently puffing; she boarded, had Alex get her baggage loaded on, watched him tip the porter who salaamed deeply and many times at the generous amount, the money gripped between his cupped palms.
&nb
sp; ‘Are you all right?’ Alex said as he came back. She nodded. The train smelled of warm oil, the carriage faintly of sweat and more pungently of perfume meant to erase any other smells. It made her feel sick. Her last smell of India. Yet she had no longing now for the fresh, newly-cut-grass smell of England, its sweet chill air and the salt tang of Leigh. All she wanted to do was cling to these powerful odours to which she had become acclimatised. It tore at her with hands that did not want to let her go and she in turn mentally held those invisible hands.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ she heard herself say to him. Her hands touched and held his sleeve momentarily but he had already turned away, whether to hide his own misery or his rejection of her, she didn’t know.
She had said this so many times these past two weeks, begging forgiveness, pleading to stay with him, promising to make amends. It was all to no avail. And this was the last plea she gave or was allowed to give as he stepped out of the carriage and off the train. He stood silent as the engine gave a small jerk, then another stronger one, began to move, sounded its whistle. He stood with his eyes lowered and she willed him to lift them.
Briefly he looked up as the train gathered speed ‘Take care of yourself.’
That was all. She wanted to cry out, ‘I love you, Alex.’ But it was too late and they were too civilised. She let the train carry her away knowing it was the last she would ever see of him. There would be a divorce. He was staying on in India, putting his life together. Well, his parents had had their wish. The marriage hadn’t lasted. They had their son back. In time he would come home to England, but not to her.
Annie sat back on the hard wooden bench that would be her seat, or another like it, all the way to Bombay, to the ship that would take her home.
She had forgotten how cold England could be. October was only just beginning to produce a chill in the air, but Annie, newly arrived, shivered desperately as she moved down the gangway on to English soil.