Staying On: A Novel (Phoenix Fiction)

by Paul Scott

  When they were outside he said, “Hang on.” Other people were hanging on too. “What for?” she asked. “Meet the fellow, of course.”

  Amazing! First coming to church, now hanging on to meet the minister. She moved from his side to speak to Captain and Mrs Singh whom she scarcely knew because they were new on station. They had met briefly, once at the Ladies’ Night in the mess, once at Coocoo and Tiny’s Holi party. She had not known they were Christians, and wondered whether they were convert or cradle, and whether Singh meant a Sikh or Rajput origin.

  When Father Sebastian came out he was in conversation with Susy. Mr Bhoolabhoy was nowhere to be seen. In fact she hadn’t noticed him in the church at all. Mr Thomas had handed the collecting bag round. She did not want to meet Father Sebastian in case he mentioned the photographs. She saw Susy introducing him to Tusker and turned away to continue her conversation with Captain and Mrs Singh but then heard Tusker calling her over, “Luce.”

  She had no option.

  “This is my wife,” Tusker said. “Just been telling him how much we enjoyed the service. Bit of life to it. Don’t come often. Thought I would. Next time might not be able to have a word.”

  “There’s always time for a word,” Father Sebastian said, smiling.

  “Not in the circumstances I’m thinking of,” Tusker said. “Staying with the Menektaras are you?”

  “No, Miss Williams is putting me up until tomorrow.”

  “Ah, back to Ranpur on the old midday, then. Coming up next week by any chance? Gather you’re going to be more frequent than old Ambedkar.”

  “Next week I’m in Nansera, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity. My birthday next week. Monday the 10th. Usually give a sort of party in the evening. You could have come along. When are you up next?”

  Susy said, “Father Sebastian can’t minister to us again until Sunday the 23rd, but you have a very full programme then, don’t you, Father?”

  “You’ve got to eat, though,” Tusker butted in. “Come and have a bite. If you can’t on the Sunday, stay over till Monday.”

  “I am already doing that because of such a full programme, but it is very kind of you.” He glanced at Lucy. “I should love to fix something, some time.”

  “No, fix it now. Have lunch on the Monday, that’s the 24th.”

  “I’m afraid I’m committed for lunch.”

  “Dinner then. We’re down at Smith’s. Billy-Boy knows where. Bhoolabhoy. Always call him Billy-Boy.”

  Father Sebastian hesitated, again looked at Lucy. She had no alternative. “Whenever is convenient to you, Mr Sebastian.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Smalley. Colonel Smalley. Dinner would be very nice.”

  “Good, good. That’s fixed then. Come along Luce, we’re holding up other people.”

  . . .

  “Old Billy-Boy’s pretty pissed off I reckon,” Tusker said as they walked home side by side. “He said little Susy went all chapel on them when his new Reverence turned up but now Billy can’t get an oar in. She won’t let him out of her sight. Where was Billy-Boy this morning? Sulking in the vestry, sodding furious because old Sebastian’s shacking up with Susy and not at Smith’s.”

  “Tusker!”

  “What? What’s wrong? Shacking up? Figure of speech. One presumes. Ha! Priests, though, never know what the buggers are up to.”

  Lucy came to a halt. For a few paces Tusker stalked on banging his stick into the road, then realizing he was alone turned round and said, “Come on, then, what are you waiting for? I’m damned hungry after all that tamasha.”

  She breathed in deeply and out slowly.

  “If you can call it all that tamasha, what in God’s name made you pester the poor man to come to dinner on the Twenty-fourth? You went on, Tusker. You went on and on and on, you left him no excuse. Now you talk about him like this. But I’ve got to arrange dinner for him. And he didn’t want to come, not on that day. But you pestered him so much he thought you needed help of some kind. I could see it. The way his expression changed. The way he suddenly stopped thinking you were just being polite but tiresome and a bit of an old bore and started thinking, This Man Needs Me.”

  “Well I do, don’t I?”

  He turned away and stumped on down the road leaving her to follow. The view from the back was that of an old man, thin, frail, intolerable to live with, intolerable to think of as one day not being there because then she would have nothing to live for herself. Where Church road intersected with Club road, and there was traffic, he paused, waited for her to catch up, so that they could cross the road safely together.

  . . .

  And after Easter there was Tusker’s birthday. It fell on the Monday. He was 71. Not a great age at home. He’d sent no invitations, but there were cards from the Menektaras, the Srinivasans, the Mitras, and from Billy-Boy. These arrived by hand. When Ibrahim brought their tea that morning he hung a wet and ripely scented garland of flowers round Tusker’s neck, and a smaller one round hers.

  Lucy gave him a card too and a Parker ballpoint to go with his Parker pen. She’d ordered it weeks ago from Gulab Singh’s, who did clocks, watches and jewelry as well as medicines and toiletries.

  They had a birthday peck. When he went out to the verandah to have breakfast Minnie was there and gave him a garland too. He went back inside again. His egg got cold. She wondered whether he was crying in the loo again, so did not go near but jollied Minnie and Ibrahim along by handing out baksheesh to distribute to the servants at Smith’s and between himself and Minnie – and mali. She suspected that the bunch of marigolds on the breakfast table were put there on his behalf.

  Eating her own egg she thought of his first birthday in Mudpore, which fell just before they were leaving. The Maharajah had sent a bowl of fruit, hidden within which was a gold watch for him and a gold bracelet for her, both of which had to be sent back to the dewan with apologies.

  While Tusker was still in the loo the dak came. There were one or two more cards for Tusker, a batch of bills, and one letter. The letter was for her. She went into the kitchen to read it. It came from Delhi and was dated four days earlier.

  “Dear Mrs Smalley, Mrs Perron kindly gave me your address and telephone number and told me that you and Colonel Smalley had been kind enough to offer me some of your time if I come up to Pankot. I arrived in Delhi a few days ago and fly to Ranpur on the 24th. I have a commitment there on the 25th and then a short break until the 30th when I have to be in Calcutta, so I could fit in a visit between those dates. I’ll ring you from Ranpur to let you know which day I could come up. I hope to spend a day or two and have the pleasure of meeting you both. Sarah said that there are two hotels and that if I have any trouble about booking from Ranpur you might be so kind as to help me, since you are at Smith’s, which I must say sounds more appealing than the Shiraz. Meanwhile I much look forward to meeting you both. I have with me some packages Sarah asked me to bring for you. Yours sincerely, David Turner.”

  . . .

  “Anything in the dak other than these cards?” Tusker asked.

  She hesitated. “Only bills, Tusker.”

  “Bugger the bills.”

  “Bugger the bills indeed. Especially on your birthday.”

  “Luce?”

  “Yes, Tusker, dear?”

  “Mountain View Room? For lunch? Just you and me?”

  Her silly old heart could still turn over when he talked to her like that.

  “Oh, Tusker, what a treat. But what if there are people there who wonder why they’ve not been invited to a buffet?”

  “They’ll have to lump it. What’s on tonight?”

  “On?”

  “At the flicks. It’s Monday. You always go on Monday. Thought I’d come.”

  “What about Billy-Boy?”

  “He’ll have to lump it too.”

  “But don’t pictures bore you? I don’t want you to be bored. We could have a quiet lunch here and go to the Mountain View room tonight.”

  “I do
n’t want a quiet lunch. And I want to go to the flicks.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. After all it’s your day.”

  She got Ibrahim to cycle down to the cinema and book two seats for whatever was on. She took Bloxsaw for a walk. She booked a corner table at the Mountain View room. When she got back Tusker was on his knees using a little fork on the bed of canna lilies. Mali was cutting edges in another part of the garden. How strange. He looked up at her. “Hello, Luce. Had a good day?”

  “It’s not lunch time yet,” she said fondly.

  “Well, I know that. I meant a nice day so far.”

  “It’s been lovely so far. Has yours?”

  “This fork’s no bloody good.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t know there was a fork in the kitchen.”

  “It’s the one I used to have when I did the pots. It used to be all right. It’s no bloody good now.”

  “Don’t overdo it. It’s very hot in the sun. Come inside and I’ll pour you a nice glass of beer.”

  In the living-room she paused, holding her throat with both hands.

  . . .

  At the cinema that night he fell asleep but woke up now and again and said Ha! because the audience was saying Ha! Ha! Ha! as if trying to persuade her he was enjoying himself. She was glad it was a comic film. She had seen it before. Doris Day and James Garner. The one where Doris Day makes a career in advertising against her husband’s wishes and the sponsors show their appreciation by digging up their garden and building a swimming pool in about eight hours flat as a surprise present, but James Garner is the one that gets the surprise when he drives in at night into what he thinks is his driveway and drives straight into the pool and sinks, very slowly, looking more surprised than any man you’ve ever seen. Tusker loved that bit. He chuckled all the way home. He said he must persuade Billy-Boy to build a pool in the hotel compound one day when old Ma Bhoolabhoy was out playing bridge so that when her tonga brought her back at night the whole thing would tip in with a bloody great splash.

  The next day he was his grumpy old self again.

  . . .

  And after Tusker’s birthday there was Monday April 17, an ordinary Monday with Mr Bhoolabhoy and Tusker being convivial while Lucy went to the pictures and saw Hello Dolly for the umpteenth time and for the rest of the week couldn’t get the tune out of her head and went round singing it.

  “Oh, goodbye, Dolly,” Tusker growled because she was humming it as she got ready to go to church on Sunday April 23rd. “Don’t forget to remind Father Sebastian about dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, Tusker. What time shall I say?”

  “7.30’s usual.”

  “7.30 here, for a drink. Then what? Perhaps he doesn’t drink.”

  “Not known a priest yet who didn’t drink like a fish. What d’you mean, then what?”

  “Do we eat here or take him over to Smith’s?”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  “When you’ve thought about it you’ll remember to tell me, won’t you? Today, preferably. I shan’t be available most of tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you yesterday. I’m having my hair done.”

  “What for? Father Sebastian?”

  She smiled. “Not just for Father Sebastian, Tusker. Have a nice morning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  SUNDAY APRIL 23rd was a disastrous day for Mr Bhoolabhoy and Saturday had been hell. On Saturday Lila had laid hands on him. She had pushed him and shouted at him, in front of Prabhu and Cook and Minnie.

  There had been a call from the lawyer in Ranpur. Mr Bhoolabhoy answered it because there was only one telephone at Smith’s and it was in the Manager’s cubby-hole. Not even Lila’s room had an extension. She hated the telephone. When she had to use it she shouted as though the call had come through from the North Pole. Wedged into the space available she shouted into it to the lawyer, while Mr Bhoolabhoy waited outside. All the lawyer had told him was that Mr Pandey would be coming up on the afternoon flight with urgent documents that had to be dealt with over the weekend. He had then asked to speak personally to Lila.

  Whatever the lawyer was saying to her was arousing her to a terrifying pitch of fury. Her jowls shook. Her moustache bristled. “Crooks!” she kept shouting. Otherwise she shouted in Punjabi. Then she banged the phone down, forced her immense body out of the cubby-hole and shouted, “Fool! Fool!”

  And pushed him.

  Pushed him.

  In full view of the servants.

  The physical shock was great. The humiliation unbearable. “Why do you push me?” he shouted at her as she waddled her way back to her room.

  “Because you are a fool!” she shouted back. She banged the door. From within she yelled for Minnie who ran in, hand clapped to mouth as usual in that ridiculous common way. Mr Bhoolabhoy went into his cubby-hole and banged its door. The glass-panes shook. Minnie came out. She stood in front of the cubby-hole. He raised the window.

  “Yes?”

  “Ownership wanting.”

  He banged the window down and pretended to busy himself. He took his time. But no amount of time would heal his shame and fury. She had never pushed him. Never. When he at last went into her room he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, knees wide apart to accommodate her belly. Her head was bowed. Her elbows, resting on her knees, supported the weight. Slowly she looked up at him.

  “Goodwill,” she said. “Goodwill! Goodwill you were saying!”

  “What of goodwill?”

  “You might ask! What indeed of goodwill? Whose idea was this goodwill? I ask this. Whose idea was it? Who raised the question of this thing called goodwill? And what is the result? Instead of better terms, worse terms. That is the result of your meddling. Fool! Fool!”

  “You call your husband a fool?”

  “I call him a fool. He is a fool.”

  “If I am a fool, then you too are a fool. All I asked was whether goodwill had been taken into consideration in arranging terms. It is quite clear. You did not take it into consideration. And they were laughing at you. Then because you are greedy you tried to renegotiate. And they laugh louder. You did not sign the contract, you sent it back for revision. So now there is a new contract, isn’t it? Not such a good contract. Why do you blame me? You are a greedy woman. I will not accept blame. When have you ever consulted me? Your greed only is to blame. In the consortium you will be in good company. You are all greedy people. You enjoy trying to do each other down. But what do I care? I will have nothing to do with it. I am only Management. It is my misfortune to be married to a greedy woman who is Ownership and who humiliates her husband in front of servants by pushing him. I will not be pushed.”

  “I am pushing you now. Okay? I am giving you notice. One month’s notice according to contract.”

  “You cannot give your husband notice, Lila.”

  “This is true. To husbands only divorce can be given. To managers giving notice is as easy as falling off a log.”

  “This I should like to see,” he cried. “And what do I care? In a month or two there will be nothing to manage. You are getting rid of it. So I care as little for job as that English hippie who was here a few weeks ago sleeping rough in the bazaar. Only he was a fool too. He was thinking of India as a spiritual place. From all over the world they come, ringing their bells and smoking pot and getting into Hinduism. But then they have never seen a man pushed by his fat greedy wife who is going to pull everything down and put up concrete just like in the West.”

  He was nearly at fainting point. He turned to go.

  “Come here.”

  “I have things to do.”

  “This is what I mean. You are still Management even if Management under notice. So you have things to do. You will write for instance to the Smalley man warning to quit. You will write saying that it will be impossible to grant a further year’s tenancy of Lodge when current
letter agreement expires. You will advise him to look for other accommodation. You will say that from July 1 tenancy can only be on weekly basis with one week’s notice because ownership is developing the site.”

  “Pulling it down.”

  “When I say developing I mean developing. During process of development they can always move into Shiraz.”

  “You are joking of course. How can they afford Shiraz?”

  “What they can afford or not afford does not interest me. It is no concern of mine. When they ruled the roost our concerns did not enter their heads. It is tit for tat.” She slapped her bosom, in emphasis.

  “I will not send such a letter to my old friend.”

  “I am ordering Management to send it. I am ordering Management to write it. I will sign it. I will see that it is sent.”

  “Such a letter will give him another attack.”

  “Am I responsible for the state of his health?” she shouted. “He is a fool too. Only a fool could have failed to see the point of the letter last year. He has had time to make different arrangements. I can give him no more time. I cannot sign the new contract until such a letter has been sent to the Smalley man. The new contract guarantees no encumbrances in regard to tenants. That is your fault, not mine. They would have had to go anyway but it is your fault such a letter must be sent now.”

  “What is to happen, Lila?” Mr Bhoolabhoy asked, quietly. He saw that he was in an impossible position. “What are your plans for The Lodge?”

  “They are not concerning you. And they are not my plans. They are consortium plans. I do not think these plans involve any development that will give you employment. So perhaps you can count yourself lucky to have married what you call a greedy woman who will be rich. Although not as rich as she might have been if she hadn’t married a fool. You will write the letter today so that I can show a copy of it to Mr Pandey when he arrives.”