The students at St Ursula’s Ladies College, even the green-haired ones, would have been surprised to see their distinguished headmistress hobbling down that dusty country road. Her smart Delhi suit was badly rumpled, the blouse hanging out of the skirt. On her feet she wore Sumati’s cracked old leather sandals, because in her hurry Usha hadn’t been able to remember where she’d put her shoes.
She hadn’t remembered the time either. The post office was shut; it was ten o’clock at night. No light shone in the windows of the postmaster’s house, but Usha battered grimly on the door. She’d hobbled all this way in the dark, her feet were killing her, the soles of Sumati’s sandals seemed to be fastened on with nails. She was making that call to Priya! Priya’s family had to know! Usha checked her watch again and did a rapid calculation. Ten o’clock here, so in Sydney it would be late afternoon, it would be about half-past four.
‘Who was that?’ the postman’s wife asked as he stumbled back to bed.
‘The one from Delhi. Kalpana’s child.’
‘The school teacher?’
‘That’s the one.’ He pulled the cotton quilt up to his chin. ‘Always in a hurry, always rush, rush, rush.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Ignatius, as Priya came back from answering the phone. It was half past three in the morning, the very middle of the night. Back in India, Usha had counted the time difference backwards instead of forwards. ‘It’s not Mrs Oliver’s baby coming early, is it?’
‘No, ’ said Priya.
‘Or Mr Crombie’s kidney stone?’
Priya shook her head.
‘Or–’ he grinned at her, ‘old Mrs Pepperel’s indigestion?’
‘None of those, ’ answered Priya.
‘Then who?’
‘Mum.’ Priya’s eyes were round with amazement. ‘Guess what? Nani’s coming! Nani’s coming here!’
7
Nani’s Coming
Neema’s dad burst out with the news at breakfast. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you!’
Neema looked up from her bacon and eggs. ‘A surprise?’
‘A really big one!’ Her dad’s face was glowing; he nudged at her mother’s arm. ‘Go on, Priya. You tell her, it’s your family, after all.’
‘Nani’s coming, ’ said Neema’s mum.
Neema gave a small startled jump in her chair. ‘Gran?’
Oh no! Not Gran again. Gran was so bossy! She couldn’t stop being a headmistress for a single minute, not even when she was on holiday. Every moment she was at it: asking questions about school, going through your folders and your homework exercises, frowning and sighing out loud. She’d find Ms Dallimore’s essay and want to know why Neema hadn’t even made a start.
‘But – but she was only here in July!’
Neema’s mum tried to hide a smile. ‘Not your gran. Nani.’
‘Nani?’
‘Your great-grandmother, ’ said Dad. ‘Mum’s gran. Or, if you like, your gran’s mum.’ His eyes shone beneath their sandy lashes; he loved anything to do with families.
Because he never had one when he was little, Neema realised suddenly: no mum or dad, or aunts and uncles and cousins, no-one at all except Sister Josephine and her little band of nuns, and the other orphans at the children’s home. Perhaps that was why he loved her and Mum so much, so specially, loved even stern headmistress Gran. And now this other person, Nani.
‘Remember when we went to Nani’s place?’ he asked her. ‘That little town beside the river? Remember the buffalos?’
Neema shook her head. No matter how many times she told him, Dad never quite believed that she didn’t remember a thing about their trip to India, when she was only three. The trip to family, she thought.
‘And how we used to sleep out on the roof at night, because it was so hot?’ Her dad’s voice became very soft and tender. ‘And go down to the river after tea? Remember the river, Neema?’
She didn’t, of course. Not the river, anyway. But deep down in her memory, something began to stir. Neema screwed her eyes up, concentrating, and a picture of two old ladies floated slowly into her mind. Two old ladies standing side by side. ‘I think I do remember something, ’ she said slowly, ‘only it might be a dream, because there’s two old ladies, one in a white sari, and one in – a sort of rainbow one. A really bright rainbow.’
Her mum and dad began to laugh.
‘What’s the matter? What’s so funny?’
‘You’re remembering Nani – she’s the one in the white sari, but you’re also remembering Sumati, for sure.’
‘Who’s Sumati?’ asked Neema, bewildered.
‘Your Nani’s friend. She always wears very bright saris – as a kind of celebration, ever since her husband ran away to be a Holy Man.’
‘Huh?’
‘Great swirls of colour, ’ grinned Dad. ‘Riots of it! Pink and orange and purple and black and green–’ ‘Violent colours, ’ murmured Neema’s mum.
But Priya wished Sumati was coming too, so Nani would have someone to keep her company. Priya would take time off from her work at the university, of course, but what would she and Nani do all day?
‘What will we do with her?’ she asked aloud.
‘Do with her?’ Neema’s dad sounded puzzled.
‘How will we, sort of, entertain her, while she’s here? Find things for her to do?’
‘There’s lots of things, ’ said Neema eagerly. ‘We can take her to the beach–’
‘That’s just what I mean. We can’t go there, she’d be shocked.’
‘Shocked?’
‘Yes! All those skimpy swimsuits, and those, um, courting couples–’ ‘Oh.’ Neema’s dad went pink. ‘Well, there’s always the river; we can have a barbecue.’
‘No we can’t; she’s a vegetarian, remember? We can’t even walk by the river, the whole place smells of roasting meat! And that’s another thing – we’ll all have to be vegetarians while Nani’s here.’
‘Fine with me, ’ said Dad. ‘We can be vegetarians, can’t we, Neema?’
‘Sure.’ Neema forked up a thick slice of bacon from her plate.
‘How does Nani spend her time when she’s at home?’ asked Dad. ‘What does she like to do?’
Priya cast her mind back to those childhood holidays she’d spent at Nani’s house. Oh, how she’d hated that place! It was so hot, always, the sun blazing from the fierce blue sky, and there was nothing to do – not unless you wanted to walk by the river, or along the dusty paths through the fields. She could hardly believe her own clever headmistress mother had grown up in such a place.
But how had Nani and Sumati spent their time? Little images rose up in her mind: the bazaar in the early morning; baskets of vegetables, the old ladies’ long fingers testing the freshness of bhindi and brinjal and bitter gourd; the shady courtyard of the house, the two of them hunched over trays of rice and lentils, cleaning, sifting, cleaning again; the dark little kitchen shack, the smell of charcoal . . .
‘She cooks, ’ said Priya.
Neema’s dad looked round their own bright kitchen. ‘Plenty of room to cook here.’
‘Yes, but–’ Priya frowned. Obviously he didn’t remember Nani’s cooking, the cooking she’d learned from Sumati, and Sumati had learned from her old grandmother in that village in the hills. Priya shuddered at the thought of it: rotis you could sole your boots with, vegetables boiled in oil . . .
‘But what?’
‘Oh, nothing, ’ answered Priya. They would soon find out. ‘Nani doesn’t speak any English, remember. And you two don’t speak a word of Hindi.’
‘But you do.’
Priya flushed. ‘You know what Mum said about my Hindi last time she was here. She said I’d picked up such an awful accent she could hardly understand me.’
That was just like Gran, thought Neema. Always criticising.
‘She said it sounded like a different language altogether, a really awful one, that should be called Hindian, or Australi.’
‘Oh well, your m
other’s a little–’
‘Bossy, ’ finished Neema.
‘But if she can’t make out my Hindi, then how will Nani?’
‘Look, don’t worry, ’ said Neema’s dad cheerfully. ‘We’ll manage. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’ He smiled delightedly at his wife and daughter. ‘She’s your grandmother, and Neema’s great-grandmother, Nani’s–’ his voice lingered lovingly on the last word, ‘family.’
8
Ms Dallimore at Home
‘My nani’s coming to visit us from India, ’ Neema told Kate as they walked down the corridor to Mr Crombie’s history lesson.
‘Your gran?’ replied Kate, a little startled. ‘But she was only here last winter.’
Kate was afraid of Neema’s gran: she looked at you so sternly. She looked at you as if she was about to ask you to spell the kind of word you’d never heard before, which only ever appeared in tiny print, in the deepest pages of the dictionary.
Neema giggled. ‘No, not Gran. Nani is Mum’s gran; she’s my great-grandmother.’
‘Your great-grandmother!’ Kate had never met a great-grandmother before. ‘What’s she like?’
Neema shook her head. ‘I don’t remember. But she wouldn’t be all headmistressy like Gran. Mum says Nani never even went to school.’
‘Half her luck, ’ sighed Kate.
What would Nani be like? wondered Neema. Already Mum had prepared a room for her, the spare bedroom down the hall from Neema’s. She’d bought a new doona for the bed, and new curtains for the big window that overlooked the street and their front yard. In less than a week, Nani would be here.
Outside the library, Ivy Stevenson and her boyfriend Danny Moss were making plans for their evening. ‘Eight o’clock?’ asked Danny.
Ivy nodded.
‘Meet you on the corner of her street, then. And remember to wear dark clothes.’
‘Right, ’ said Ivy, and then she nudged his arm. ‘Look! There she is!’
Ms Dallimore was walking across the courtyard. Her step was light and brisk, her eyes sparkled, her pale face held the glow of great enthusiasm. Last night her dear companion, Vladimir, had given her the most marvellous topic for a senior essay: The World, the Flesh, and the Devil. Her Year Tens had been getting a little sluggish lately, and Ms Dallimore could hardly wait to try it out on them.
‘She’s getting paler, ’ whispered Ivy.
‘Paler and paler, ’ responded Danny.
It was like a little song, a chant, that echoed everywhere around the school.
It was eight o’clock and Ms Dallimore and Vladimir were dining by candlelight. It was a single candle, and a very small one – the sort you find on birthday cakes – because Vladimir’s eyes were very sensitive to the light. He wore dark glasses, inside the house and out, even in the gloomiest days of winter when the sun hadn’t shone for weeks. Vladimir and Ms Dallimore dined by candlelight and washed up by candlelight and listened to music in the dark. (Television was far too glary for Vladimir.)
Ms Dallimore (whose name was Madeleine) smiled tenderly at her companion across their ill-lit table. He was wearing his painting smock with the big pockets, which he always wore at mealtimes, and washed all by himself, thoughtfully, to save Ms Dallimore the bother.
‘Some wine, my love?’ asked Vladimir.
‘Um, no, ’ said Ms Dallimore quickly, placing her hand across her glass. ‘I’ve got marking to do this evening.’
Vladimir brewed his own wine from an old family recipe. He brewed it in the cellar, a place Ms Dallimore never visited because it was so very black and creepy down there, and the stairs were so steep and frightening. The wine was a very deep dark red, almost black, with a strange taste that was almost – Ms Dallimore shuddered – meaty.
‘Cold, my love?’ enquired Vladimir.
‘What? Oh, no, no.’
‘Perhaps, as they say, a goose walked over your grave.’
‘A goose?’ Ms Dallimore sounded startled.
‘Pardon, my Madeleine.’ Vladimir sighed. ‘Often I forget I am no longer in Europe. Here it would be a magpie, or perhaps a crow.’
‘A crow, ’ echoed Ms Dallimore uneasily, forking up a piece of lamb chop and some peas. She glanced across at her companion’s plate, where the food lay quite untouched. Vladimir ate in the strangest way: one moment his plate would be full, but when you glanced again it would be almost empty.
‘Oops!’ In the gloom, Ms Dallimore dropped her fork. When she came back from the kitchen with a clean one, Vladimir’s chop and peas were gone, only his potatoes remained, right in the centre of the plate.
Ms Dallimore sat down.
‘And how are 7B, Madeleine?’ asked Vladimir.
‘Oh! Oh dear! Vladimir, when I was in teachers’ college, I had such dreams, such ideals! I thought I might encourage children to use their minds, their imaginations, to listen to the heavenly music of their souls . . .’ Ms Dallimore, seeking sympathy, gazed into Vladimir’s dark glasses and saw only her own face mirrored there. She loved him dearly, but– ‘Vlad, isn’t there something you can do about your glare problem? So you don’t have to wear dark glasses all the time? And so we could’, she waved at the shadowy corners of the room, ‘have a little light in here?’
Vladimir sighed. ‘I fear not. Mine is a hereditary affliction, about which nothing can be done.’
‘But Vladimir, surely, in this day and age–’
‘Ah! “In this day and age”, ’ repeated Vladimir. ‘That sounds like a good title for one of your essays, my love. Or even, simply, “Day and Age”.’
‘Why, yes!’ Ms Dallimore exclaimed excitedly. ‘It – it’s wonderful, Vladimir. “Day and Age” – why, they could write about almost anything.’ In her enthusiasm, Ms Dallimore dropped her fork again, as Vladimir had known she would, and when she returned from the kitchen, the pockets of his smock were bulging, and the potatoes on his plate were gone . . .
Outside the window, Ivy Stevenson and Danny Moss crouched among the bushes, trying to catch a glimpse of their Year Seven teacher’s mysterious boyfriend. It was difficult because the room was so dark, full of flickering shadows from that single tiny candle. Dimly they could make out Ms Dallimore’s pale face, but her companion’s back was turned towards them.
‘Can you see him?’ whispered Ivy.
Danny shook his head. ‘Nah.’
And then, almost as if he’d heard them, Vladimir swung round in his chair to face the window.
Ivy and Danny saw a long white face beneath a shock of thick black hair; they saw full wet ruby lips and the spooky gleam of Vladimir’s dark glasses.
‘Geez, he’s wearing shades in the middle of the night!’
‘Oooh, look at his mouth, his lips are really red, like – like blood!’
Danny grabbed Ivy’s hand. They scrambled from the bushes and ran – ran with their hearts thudding, across the lawn to the gate, out into the street, down the road, and they didn’t stop till they’d rounded two corners and were hidden in the prickly safety of old Mrs Peterson’s hedge.
‘Think he saw us?’
‘Nah – too dark.’
‘He might be able to see in the dark. It’s the light that bothers them.’
They crouched together, listening. After a few more minutes Danny said, ‘He’s not coming after us, anyway. There’s no footsteps.’
‘He mightn’t have footsteps.’
‘Ah, come on!’ said Danny. ‘Let’s go down the reserve.’
‘Do you think he is?’ asked Ivy a few moments later as they hurried on through the streets. ‘Do you think he really is–’
‘Count Dracula?’ Danny thought for a moment. ‘He does look a bit like him, with that spooky white face, and those shades–’
‘And those lips, ’ shivered Ivy.
‘Except, ’ said Danny, ‘Count Dracula’s not–’
‘Not real, ’ finished Ivy, with a little sigh.
‘Yeah. He’s only someone from a fairy story. Know what? I r
eckon it’s all coincidence, see?’
‘Coincidence?’
‘That Ms Dallimore gets round with some weird guy who happens to look like a vampire, and that she’s so pale. Red-haired people are pale.’
‘And getting paler, ’ whispered Ivy.
‘She’s probably got some kind of vitamin deficiency.’
‘Iron, ’ said Ivy knowledgeably, ‘or maybe B12.’
They walked on a little further. ‘He’s handsome, but, ’ said Ivy.
‘Handsome? That weirdo? You think so?’
‘Sort of – distinguished. Romantic.’
‘Romantic!’ scoffed Danny, but a moment later, he put his arm around her. ‘Hey, Ive, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve found this really romantic place that no-one else knows about. How about we go there one day?’
Ivy smiled. ‘Where is it?’
‘The zoo.’
‘The zoo?’ Ivy wrinkled her nose.
‘Not in the zoo, exactly. You know that bushy bit, down behind the monkeys’ enclosure? Well, there’s a track through there, right down the hill to the beach at the bottom, and round the rocks there’s this other little beach, really small – a sort of secret beach. It’s got this great sand, really white, and sort of, uh – pearly.’
‘Pearly, ’ echoed Ivy.
‘So, wanna go there one day?’
‘I might, ’ replied Ivy. And then she sighed, because somehow she couldn’t imagine Ms Dallimore’s distinguished companion taking a lady anywhere near a zoo.
Ms Dallimore woke suddenly in the very middle of the night. She pictured Vladimir’s dinner plate as it had been the first time she’d gone out to the kitchen in search of a fresh fork: she saw the untouched chop, and the potatoes, and the peas. She remembered how when she’d come back the peas and the chop had vanished, and when she’d come back the second time the potatoes had gone too – the plate was bare. Completely bare.
The question was – and it worried Ms Dallimore a little, as such things do in the middle of the night – what had happened to the chop bone?
Kalpana's Dream Page 4