Tales from a Master's Notebook

by Various

  It was not long after Bethany’s first pot-pie incident that Julian happened to bump into Harriet in the village and ask what she was working on. It was this event that apparently tipped the balance for him; made him take his historically important moral stand. After giving him coffee at the flat, she started to complain about the next curatorial challenge at the Hall: Julian might not know this, but along with the Green Ladies, the baby buggies, the Betamax tapes and the seed packets, it seems that their father had collected smelly old moth-eaten Afghan coats, which were both disgusting and a health hazard.

  Julian had given his older sister a steady look and said, with significance, ‘Afghan coats?’

  ‘Yes!’ she had shrieked. ‘Can you BELIEVE it? Afghan COATS!’

  She and Franco hated to be beaten by anything, she’d carried on. Hadn’t they already worked wonders ‘conferring value on the worthless’? But the Afghan coats were another thing altogether: they might actually need to be destroyed. It was only a matter of bunging them in the furnace, really. No one would ever know, and they certainly would never care.

  ‘But you can’t do that,’ Julian had said.

  ‘What are you TALKING about? Of COURSE we can!’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t because I absolutely won’t let you.’

  What critics admired so much in My Father’s Tat was the sheer emotional maturity of it. Julian described how he had returned from abroad to find his father’s profoundly charged collections displayed in the family house as objects of ridicule by siblings blind to their true heart-breaking significance. They had always known that their mother had been a rags-to-riches model in the 1960s, but had they bothered to find out about her background working in Boots the Chemist selling mass-produced pictures of white horses leaping ashore through snowy white breakers, or women with long faces and weirdly verdant complexions? Did they not remember that their mother had been married at Chelsea Town Hall wearing an Afghan coat? That her only dowry had been some out-of-date packets of seeds? The insensitive older siblings did not come well out of My Father’s Tat. At every stage they stubbornly resisted the obvious interpretation of the collections they had inherited: that their father had never recovered from his bereavement, and that the Hoagland Hall collections, far from being the mere raw material for larky monuments to ephemerality, were in fact powerful testaments to loss.

  In the end, Franco decided to move his family back to London. He knew when he was beaten. He resumed his stockbroking and appointed an agent to oversee the business of the Hall. He didn’t care if Julian lived there, because at least it meant that Bethany was all right. He still rejects Julian’s interpretation of their father’s tat; but his objections grow weaker. His only act of retaliation against Julian was to inform Bethany that experts in Chinese medicine (he consulted three) completely rejected Julian’s absurd and amateur prediction that the trauma would come out ‘through the hands’. But by then it was too late. My Father’s Tat was winning prizes for non-fiction; Julian had been a guest editor on the Today programme; visitors to the Hall were issued with packets of Kleenex and guided in a new direction so that the baby buggy room (‘Devastating’ – The Observer) was the clear emotional climax of the tour.

  It was too late, too, when the German woman wrote to Franco from Patmos, enclosing some documents that Julian had left behind. Franco received the little parcel at his office and at first was just bemused. The German woman was still livid with Julian, it seemed. When Julian had lived with her (she wrote), he had made her feel guilty for working all the time! Even though he had made no effort to contribute! He just played his damned guitar! (She used a lot of exclamation marks.) He had also broken things of hers, and when she was upset by this, he had accused her of caring about things more than she cared about people! Franco understood completely why, even years after Julian’s departure, the German woman still felt these injustices so keenly.

  And then, among the papers of Julian’s, was a letter from the 13th Earl, their father. Written when Julian was in his twenties, it had been preserved unopened between the pages of The Magus, which is why it had taken the German woman such a long time to locate it. Franco sat down and looked at it with trepidation. A letter from his father was a rare enough object in itself; this one had been sent around the time when his father had begun his collecting. And Julian hadn’t even opened it? Franco braced himself, and opened the letter resignedly. This would be the proof that Julian was right, wouldn’t it? Here would be the authentic howl of the bereaved husband; the key to the true, shattering significance of … their father’s tat.

  But no, in fact it wasn’t.

  Dear Julian, (it said)

  May I ask, first of all, did you receive the birthday cheque? I had no reply from you, but I have learned to read little into that, as I know you are above such everyday conventions. I merely note that the cheque was cashed with the usual alacrity, so naturally I hope the dibs are in the filial coffers as intended.

  On the subject of thank-yous, I received the educational paperbacks you sent on the evils of materialism; they gave me an excellent laugh, and you will be pleased to hear that, as a direct result, I was at Tiverton on Friday and bought in the sale there an absolute mountain of meaningless crap! I can’t tell you how liberating and weirdly life-affirming this was. Old video tapes, old pictures, all sorts of ghastly and worthless impedimenta. The first delivery is due this morning. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for – as always – showing me the way. There is a similar sale in Worcester on the 24th where I intend to sweep the board. They are advertising a job lot of ‘baby buggies’. Does this mean a buggy of small proportions, or a buggy for a baby to drive? I sincerely hope not the latter, but can’t quite picture the former. I suppose all will be apparent on the day.

  I am sorry that Franco and Harriet will have the bother of throwing all the crap away when I am dead, but it gives me so much pleasure to imagine how much your eventual inheritance of such stuff will aggravate your finer feelings that I just can’t resist carrying on. All of you children take things so deeply to heart! Your dear mother and I always agreed that no good would come of it. Lighten up, Julian, for goodness’ sake. You only live once, old chap.

  Yours affec,

  Dad

  AMIT CHAUDHURI

  WENSLEYDALE

  For love, all love of other sights controls,

  And makes one little room an everywhere.

  Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,

  Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,

  Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

  My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears …

  I’VE ALWAYS WANTED to be a writer, baba. I want to express myself – there’s so much beauty in small things. I don’t have the skill, baba – but I love words! What if I hadn’t been born into this family? If I hadn’t been Sir Bikash’s son, Sir Purnendu’s nephew? Maybe I could have been a writer. There would have been no compulsion to read Economics. I was a simpleton. I loved Cambridge. I hated Economics. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t have the courage to tell my parents that my heart lay in life and not the burra sahib stuff that was their life. I mean the simple things. Sunlight on a January morning. I am sitting now in the sun.

  *

  I love winter sunshine. Soft and sweet. Mishti. The Bengali word gets it best, doesn’t it, Amit? The Bengalis are not a sweet people, but they’ve devoted much superfluous energy to sweetness. Nolen gur, payesh, kheer et cetera. The sunshine is more palatable.

  *

  The sun is far away. By the time the rays reach Lower Circular Road and fall on the porch at the back where I’m sitting, they’ve – how should I say it, baba – become a kind of touch. Is it all right to put it like that, baba? I used to read the Statesman here. I mean till a few years ago. When Irani wrote his Caveat every day, and Calcutta Notebook teemed with the bustle of the city. Irani lost his marbles before he died. There was another journalist in the States
man – very erudite – who went mad from time to time. Ranjan Sen, that’s the one! I’ve moved to the Telegraph – I’m reading it as I sit here – impatiently. One thing I’ve noticed is that its Letters to the Editor is more plebeian than the Statesman’s. I guess that’s to be expected. These are not literate times, are they, baba? Bad times. Sometimes Irani said something I felt I had to respond to. As you know. I sent you a cutting once – quite right. Mostly in agreement, but I also did write to register protest. They published my letters in full, baba. They’d put them on the top. I’m not a man of great achievements, but at least my voice was heard. My friends would read the letter and call me. There were times when I’d have a difference of opinion with Jyoti Basu. Let me add, Amit, that Jyoti babu and I liked each other. He’d drop in for dinner. He came unannounced once. He adored Chinese food. We ordered from Jimmy’s Kitchen. Talked late into the night. The marvellous Uma was unfazed. She had a thing or two to say about politics – not necessarily what Jyoti babu liked to hear.

  *

  What are you up to this morning? Done with breakfast? Omelette? You don’t have eggs?

  I’m not disturbing you, am I, baba? Do come for tea again. Thursday maybe? You aren’t off anywhere, are you? You’re always travelling, baba …

  *

  Once you told me, Travel is an education. What did you mean, baba? I couldn’t grasp what you were saying. I want to. You hate travelling, you said. I find the notion extraordinary. I would love to take a flight. To Spain. Where my brother lives. To Paris. I haven’t seen England in over forty years. I miss strawberries. You’re lucky, baba. Very lucky. Are you busy next Thursday?

  *

  Ideas come to me for stories. I don’t think I’ll have the gumption to write them, baba. You must be very disciplined. Do you write every morning? Extraordinarily disciplined. Me – I have nothing to do! But I have seen the world. A long time ago, but I think I’ve seen a dashed sight more than the people who come over for tea. Don’t laugh, baba, but I’ve begun to make notes in a diary. For stories. Do you do that, baba? Of course, when I say ‘write’ or ‘make notes’, you know what I mean. I dictate to Uma. Like I did the letter I sent you about your novel. The words are mine – but that’s Uma’s handwriting. This morning she wrote two letters – one to the Telegraph, the other to a woman called Jacqueline who lives in Somerset – a friend of a friend’s, who came to see us two years ago. We’ve written to each other since.

  *

  Jacqueline’s great-grandfather died in Calcutta. McDermott or McDimmot. A lot of Scotsmen in Calcutta in those days. Building schools and colleges – jolly intrepid fellows! – succumbing to the heat. Did Tagore first hear ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in Calcutta or in London? Fascinating, baba. So she wants to visit the country again. Never been to Calcutta. I’ve asked her to tea. She said she’d bring me some cheese. Stilton. I love cheese, baba. It’s the one thing you don’t get here. Eating Amul is like biting into a salted eraser. Ha ha ha ha! Uma and I love things that – that smell a little.

  *

  You’re right, Amit. I hear most things are available now – on the market. Though Uma says Johnson’s has the most reasonable prices. You know – cheese, sausages, HP Sauce. No, I don’t care for HP Sauce. Inexplicable predilection. Stranger than Marmite, which I spread on my toast once in Cambridge. Someone smuggled it into hall as a joke. An experiment. You’ve never tasted it? It looks like chawanprash, tastes nutritious. Uma says Johnson’s charges less than the malls. Have you been to a mall, baba? What, every other day? They sound incredible. Johnson’s is in the last aisle of New Market. I adore New Market. I haven’t been in years. Uma goes every week. You’re right, I could go. There are no steps. The stick would help – and Uma can hold me. But I can’t sustain it. The trip to the drawing room to the bedroom to the porch at the back is sufficient.

  You get Kalimpong cheese in the shops next to Johnson’s. And Bondel cheese too – overly salted, rough brown discs, baba, white on the inside. Charming. Smoked, you know. We went to Bondel long ago. Outing to a lunch hosted by a friend. Manager at Dunlop. The dust and fumes we inhaled! It comes back to me when I eat the cheese. That Bondel smoke.

  *

  The house we live in – you say you like it. It isn’t beautiful, but, yes – it has character. It didn’t exist when I was growing up. This bit was the lawn of the mansion you see across the wall. Have a look when you come next. Yes, it belongs to the Nepalese High Commissioner. A man called Khatri.

  It has an enormous lift, baba. Slow and ponderous. I spent half my childhood in it. Going up and down. Top floor was my uncle’s; first floor my father’s. Sir Purnendu and Sir Bikash. Adroit men. A little too taken with the Raj, Bikash jethu. But serious men. Unlike their progeny – I include myself. Mostly duffers, our lot.

  This house came up in 1940. When you’re here again, please look at the picture of the man by the door to our bedroom. You can’t miss it. Just turn your head left before you enter. My grandfather. He built the house next door.

  *

  My aunts played tennis on the lawn. But Bikash jethu’s wife was a simple soul – made superlative chhanar tarkari and uchhe begun. All the joys of a Bengali household we were in danger of losing, she brought back. Renukadevi Bandhopadhyay. From a zamindari family settled in Balasore. Very graciously Bengali, though I did wonder if she could speak Oriya. She was shy, never held a tennis racquet. Sang kirtans in the evening – beautiful voice, baba.

  *

  Baba, you’re sure that chicken tetrazzini isn’t an Italian dish? You think it may be a Bengali invention? I can’t say if we used to eat it at Firpo’s – but at Sky Room, regularly. And those long glasses in which they served prawn cocktail. Strictly speaking it was shrimp, not prawn – but delectable. You had to be in possession of a long spoon to dip into the glass and salvage the dregs of Marie Rose sauce – or you had to be a crane.

  *

  Ha ha ha. You know the story. The fox invited the crane home for dinner and served soup in a bowl. He lapped it up in a leisurely way while the poor crane watched. Then the crane asked the fox to come over so that he could have his revenge. Birds are vengeful, baba. I’m transfixed by their animosity to each other when I’m on the porch. It was the fox’s turn to go hungry when crane served soup in a long jug.

  You had to be a crane to do justice to the prawn cocktail, baba. Or you needed the thin spoon. Or you went hungry.

  *

  Is there a chance the Sky Room might reopen? Amit? You discovered it in the Eighties, didn’t you? Such a cocoon. It’s been fifteen years since its doors closed, but that duffer Arvind Sharma – keeps inviting himself over for tea – said it’s going to open under new management.

  You think that’s – ha ha ha! Too funny, baba. You’re right. You’re right! As likely as Netaji coming back and taking charge! Isn’t that what we all want?

  I see. Yes, I heard it was boarded up for years with a notice from the trade union. And that’s gone. I see. Part of a new showroom. I see.

  *

  I have before me The Namesake – and Atonement by Ian McEwan. What do you think of Jhumpa Lahiri, baba? Not the person. I suppose you’ve met her? I see – in London and Calcutta. Striking woman. Those eyes! Uma and I would love to ask her to tea. I thought the style in the stories was quite – lucid. Lucid, yes. No, I can’t believe you’ve stopped reading books! I’m a nobody – I sometimes read two or three books at a time. Stopped reading fiction! Why, baba? Ian McEwan? The Cement Garden? I must make a note of it. Uma’s going to the club. She’ll get it from the library. St Mawr? I have read Women in Love – decades ago! Will you tell us about Lawrence when you come for tea next? When can you come for tea?

  *

  Lawrence Durrell. I read him twenty, thirty years ago. Acute sense of the foreign, baba. I felt I was in Egypt. I could hear the muezzin clearly. Of course, I can hear the muezzin. Four times a day. In the dawn I’m fast asleep. But from Lower Circular Road the mosques in Beck Bagan are audible. In th
e winter especially. Paul Bowles? Never heard of him.

  *

  Amit, we saw a film on TV. The Hours. Is it Virginia Woolf? Oh! I see. I see. How interesting!

  What’s your opinion? Of Virginia Woolf, I mean. Unhappy woman, wasn’t she? Baba, can you tell me exactly what stream of consciousness is? Is it just free-flowing thoughts?

  *

  I got polio soon after I came back. Must have been ’54. Don’t know how. Put my right leg out of action more or less. Then my right arm. Which is why I can’t really write without Uma. She’s my amanuensis. Is that the word? Amanuensis.

  My father took my brother and me on a tour before I returned to Cambridge. European tour. Vienna. Cable cars. The Alps. Pâté de foie gras. I love pâté. Then came back. With a Third from Trinity. Hated Economics, you see. Next year, fell ill.

  *

  The last time I went out was three years ago. I know you’d like to have me over for dinner, baba. It’s the steps. I can’t climb up the stairs. It’s why I’ve stopped going to the club. Five steps at the entrance. I became a spectacle! The bearers lifted me up in the wheelchair. Mortifying.

  So Uma goes to the club twice a week. Brings back a recherché something. Chicken pantheras.

  *

  I would love to be in Cambridge again. St John’s Street. Gonville and Caius. The girls on bicycles. I wasted my time drinking with the boys. Too shy to say a word to a girl. Once we drove to Grantchester.