Staying On: A Novel (Phoenix Fiction)

by Paul Scott

  She would be sixty-seven next birthday. If Tusker died she would be lucky to have £1500 a year. For capital, there would be only the £2000 plus profits from the insurance. She would have enough to take her home, but what then? She dropped off, woke, tossed, turned. Presently she switched the light on to see the time. It was gone eleven. In the dark again still juggling with figures and possibilities she remained alert, for a while. Then she must have dozed. She was woken by voices and identified Tusker’s and Dr Mitra’s and Mrs Mitra’s. God forbid that they stayed. Presumably they’d brought him home and he’d invited them in. Within a few moments she was relieved to hear their goodnights, Tusker locking up after them, going to the kitchen to make his cocoa.

  Peace enveloped her. She turned on her side away from the light from the living-room and let her sleepy fingers find their way to the envelope that contained the only love letter she had had in all the years she had lived.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AT 7.15 ON THE MORNING of Monday April 24, Lucy finished her bed tea. Over at the hotel, Mr Bhoolabhoy heard Mrs Bhoolabhoy moan in Room 1. Fifteen minutes later Lucy tiptoed out of the bathroom, having dressed in there in order not to disturb Tusker who had had a restless night and was now asleep. She went to tell Ibrahim to delay Burra Sahib’s tea until 8.15, when she would be leaving for the Shiraz. While she was telling Ibrahim this and giving him the shopping list, Mr Bhoolabhoy, summoned by Minnie, was tiptoeing into Mrs Bhoolabhoy’s room. He too had spent a restless night, after a strangely puzzling and taxing day with Father Sebastian, Mr Thomas and Susy. Entering, he found Lila as he’d expected to find her: prostrate, moaning gently. They had not spoken since the row on Saturday.

  “Shall I send for Dr Rajendra, Lila?”

  The mouth shaped the word No.

  “Dr Taporewala, perhaps.” He moistened his lips. “What about Dr Battacharya?”

  She moaned again, then murmured, “You have written the letter?”

  “I am about to.”

  “Do it. Then bring it. I will sign it.”

  “There is no need for you to be bothered with trivial matters of detail, dear Lila. What am I here for?”

  “Sometimes this is a question I ask myself.”

  “Lila, it will have to be typed.”

  “Naturally.”

  “The machine will make a noise.”

  “One has one’s crosses.”

  A moment or so later, sitting in his cubbyhole, Mr Bhoolabhoy inserted a sheet of hotel notepaper plus carbon and flimsy in the old Remington and began: April 24, 1972. My Dear Colonel Smalley—

  From Dr Pandey’s room there came the sound of All India Radio. He ran out, opened Mr Pandey’s door, switched the radio off, indicating the state of Mrs Bhoolabhoy’s head. Then he went back to his office.

  Writing the letter would put the seal on his total and abject surrender to Lila. He knew he had already surrendered. But it was still a difficult letter to write. It was like composing a warrant for the execution of an old friend. To hack the halting sentences out he had to keep reminding himself that it was also like composing a warrant for his own life-long imprisonment. He and Tusker were both victims of a system. He would spend his remaining years like a little dog at Lila’s heels, panting after her all round India and perhaps beyond the black water, wagging his tail, until she decided it was time to have him put down. A merciful release? This morning it was one he almost welcomed.

  He should have been told about the organ. Yes. For years he had gone on and on about the organ. He had once tried himself to raise the money for its restoration. Mr Thomas knew this. Susy knew it. The sudden pealing of the organ yesterday which should have been a joy had been a shattering blow to his self-esteem. “We wanted it to be a surprise for you, Francis,” Father Sebastian said. “A little reward for all your past endeavours.” Past endeavours? “How kind,” he replied. And looked from one to the other and noted their smiles. Smiles of pity? Gradually the explanation of the organ’s otherwise miraculous resurrection had been unfolded. Father Sebastian had had a look at it. He knew something about organs. He suspected that things were not so bad as they had been allowed to seem. (Allowed?) He also knew of an expert technician, in Calcutta. The man had come up. He had stayed with Susy. Mr Thomas had let him into the church with the spare key. Within ten days he had worked the miracle and for days afterwards Susy had been practising.

  “We wanted to surprise you,” she said, echoing Father Sebastian. “But, oh, goodness, what we didn’t have to get up to. We thought you’d catch us at it any time. During day time Mr Thomas’s kids kept watch with orders to divert you if you put in an appearance while one of them went to warn Brother John in the organ loft. And at night when I practised Joseph kept watch to run and warn me, just in case you took it into your head to visit and see nobody had run away with the Church.” They laughed. Joseph had known, too, then. Only he had not known.

  “It must have cost a great deal of money,” was all he could say, but trying to look pleased, as happy for himself as they seemed to expect him to be.

  Susy said, “Father Sebastian is on a Grants committee for things like this.”

  “And not everybody,” the priest said, “is interested only in money these days. It was much a labour of love. Brother John said it was not technically difficult. He and his assistant soon had it fixed up. At Whitsun we hope he will come up again and give a recital.”

  “He played so beautifully,” Susy said. “Oh, I felt such a nincompoop in comparison. His Bach was out of this world. Miles better than poor old Mr Maybrick’s, who taught me when I was quite a little girl and could hardly reach.”

  I too am out of this world, Mr Bhoolabhoy thought; and thought it again as he typed, “Your very Sincerely.” I am no longer needed here. I do not know about organs. I cannot play organs. I take other people’s word for it when they say organs are u.s. I inquire gently year after year about restoring organs and say to people please may we not do something about this organ. But the only organ I know anything about is the one that has contributed to all my difficulties and does not need restoring but having a cloth put over it.

  It was eight o’clock: the old witching hour in the days when Smith’s was an hotel he was proud to manage.

  . . .

  “I shall be off in a few minutes,” Lucy told Ibrahim. “I’ve made another little list, because while we’re at it we may as well have in a few extra tins of stuff from Jalal-ud-Din’s. Here is the extra money, and do, Ibrahim, please get a tonga back, because you can’t possibly carry it all. If you find things more expensive than I’ve put down tell Jalad-ud-Din I’ll settle the balance during the week.”

  “Memsahib, what of drink?”

  “Well, yes, we’ll need more drink, but I think that is Burra Sahib’s responsibility. I’ll discuss it with him when I get back, round about 10.15 or 10.30. What I want you to do directly I’ve gone is give him his tea and then make his breakfast, and then go down to the bazaar. We can all meet up again at about 10.30 and have a little conference, and then Sahib can take Bloxsaw for a walk and buy the booze.”

  She checked her handbag. She had the money to pay Susy. She had the scarf to put round her newly set head in case there was a breeze when she came out of the Seraglio. She collected her things, went down the steps to the path – and paused.

  The canna lilies are in bloom again (she thought) such a strange flower. That was from Stage Door: that lovely scene when Katie Hepburn had just been told that Andrea Leeds had killed herself because she’d so badly wanted the part Katie was to play. She was told just before she made her entrance; and went on to a personal triumph no one had expected.

  “Ibrahim?” she called.

  “Memsahib?” He came down.

  “Shouldn’t these have been watered this morning? They look so terribly dry and parched poor things.”

  “I will tell mali, Memsahib.”

  He watched her go. She took the side path to the side entrance where the Shiraz loo
med. She paused again, bent and touched the petals of a potted petunia. Then he went indoors, put a kettle on, set up Smalley Sahib’s breakfast tray. At eight-thirty he took the bed tea in and opened the curtains. He went to the garage to let Bloxsaw out. The creature slunk to the verandah and lay down again. Then he cut bread for toast, put the water for Sahib’s boiled egg on to simmer in a pan. Simmer or boil over. Who could tell?

  . . .

  Ten minutes later Mr Bhoolabhoy was back in his cubby-hole with a flea in his ear and the letter to retype. He said to himself: I do not care. It is all up with me, too. Why should I bother myself about Colonel and Mrs Smalley?

  Dear Colonel Smalley,

  Beg to inform you this hotel and annexe currently subject of planning development under new company ownership and notice hereby given that as from July 1 next coming tenancy of Lodge only extendable on weekly basis with one week’s notice. I therefore advise you in good time to look for alternative accommodation in very near future. Meanwhile please accept this letter as notice to be prepared to quit on June 30 next coming.

  Yours faithfully,

  L. Bhoolabhoy. Prop.

  Even this short version took him a long time and several attempts to compose. By the time he’d got it right and had nothing more to do than make a clean top copy for Mrs Bhoolabhoy to sign, plus an extra carbon for Mr Pandey to take back to Ranpur on the midday train, it was nine o’clock.

  . . .

  “Sahib,” Ibrahim called, placing Tusker Sahib’s tray on the verandah table. “Breakfast.”

  Tusker Sahib, dressed but not yet shaven, was down in the garden, just below the verandah, looking at the canna lilies. Bloxsaw was meandering, dogging Tusker’s footsteps. “Oh, for God’s sake bugger off,” Tusker Sahib said, and pushed the creature with his foot. “Ibrahim!”

  “Sahib?”

  “The canna lilies haven’t been watered. Why the hell not?”

  “Memsahib asking same question, Sahib. Answer from mali is that pukka watercan this morning not available. He has found old watercan, but badly leaking. Now being repaired. Presently he will water canna lilies.”

  The Sahib clumped up on to the verandah. He had to kick the dog out of the way again. “You don’t need a watering can just to water a bed of lilies. There’s such a thing as a bucket or is there a hole in that too? And why isn’t the pukka watering can available?”

  Not wanting to get involved in a discussion about the availability or non-availability of tools or about whose mali was whose he said, “Perhaps leaking worse than old one. Sahib, breakfast.”

  “Well I’m not blind. Where’s Memsahib?”

  “Gone to hairdresser. Back 10.30. Sahib has all needed? Tea, toast, marmalade, four-minute egg. Times of India?”

  “Dak?”

  “No dak this morning yet, Sahib.”

  “Why not? Not even a bill? Never did enjoy breakfast when there’s no dak. Go and write me a letter you lazy sod. Better still get this damned dog off me and take him for walkies.”

  “Yes, Sahib. Soon I will do. Just now I shut Bloxsaw in garage.”

  “I said take him for a walk, now. You can get me a new stick of shaving soap in the bazaar while you’re at it. And hurry back.”

  “Yes, Sahib. I will do this. I will take Bloxsaw for a walk. But not in the bazaar, Sahib. He is not a well-trained dog. If not on lead he runs hither and thither after other dogs and gives trouble to all and sundry because thinking only of copulation.”

  “Then put him on the lead.”

  “Sahib, the point is that I cannot for the moment take Bloxsaw for a walk on or off the lead. To begin with there is the live chicken to bargain for and I would not put it past that shaitan of a dog to gobble it up on the way home.”

  “I asked you for a stick of bloody shaving soap not a live chicken!”

  “This is understood, Sahib. It is Memsahib who ordered the chicken.” He got the lists out of his pocket. “And all these many things. Many arms full, many baskets. Memsahib has said I must come back with them in a tonga. I do not see how I can buy all these things and come back with them in a tonga with the dog sitting at the front or trotting behind.”

  He smiled, assuming that Tusker Sahib would see the point and smile too. But the Sahib didn’t smile. He said, “Show me the list.”

  “Dinner for tonight, Sahib,” he reminded him. “Also stocking up for visitor from Yookay.”

  Tusker Sahib studied the list. He said, “Did Memsahib give you the money?”

  “Yes, Sahib.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Ibrahim did so.

  “You can forget all this. Just take Bloxsaw for his walk and buy my stick of shaving soap.” He poured himself a cup of tea. “Bus.”

  Bus. Meaning that’s all. Bugger off. Get lost. Scram.

  “Sahib?”

  “I said bus. And get this sodding dog from under my feet.”

  Shaitan, Ibrahim thought. Male isshovanist pig. Like his own brother-in-law. In Finsbury Park his sister had cried and begged him to bring her back to India with him that time the law caught up with him because he’d outstayed his welcome and his visa. His brother-in-law was a shit. Eight pounds a head from twelve tenants and only one loo, none daring to complain because from time to time there were more heads in the house than there should have been, some living in cupboards. His brother-in-law was a blackmailing swindling bastard who treated his wife like a servant. Englishmen like the Sahib were just as bad. As bad as Muslim bugger-fellows, Brahmin bugger-fellows, Western Punjabis, Banyas, Bengalis and Rajput princes. All bugger-fellows.

  “I said Bus!” Smalley Sahib repeated.

  “Ibrahim is not yet deaf, Colonel Sahib.”

  “Well sod off then, and take the bloody dog with you. And get my shaving stick.”

  “Sahib, it is a question of shopping first and walking dog afterwards. Also Memsahib is saying Colonel Sahib will take Bloxsaw for walk when going to get the booze.”

  As if cued by an invisible and ill-intentioned prompter the dog began to whine and pace up and down. Tusker Sahib shot out of his chair, grabbed the dog’s collar and dragged it down the steps and into the garage and there locked it in. When he got back he said, “You’re fired.”

  Ibrahim sighed and put his hands behind his back. “Yes, Sahib. But shopping for Memsahib first, then fired, then three weeks pay due.”

  The next bit amazed him. Tusker Sahib took his wallet from his trouser pocket, counted money, handed some notes and said, “Now get out. Go on get out. Pack your things and go.”

  Ibrahim did not take the money at once. “Why are you doing this to me, Colonel Sahib?” he asked. “What is a man to do who is told this thing by the mistress and another by the master? One moment it is imperative to go to the bazaar and bargain for chicken and have its throat slit and feathers plucked and get it dressed and by the will of Allah get it cooked and serve it cold with salad and hors d’oeuvres and anchovies on toast to follow and the next moment it is a question of shaving soap and taking the dog for a walk. Ibrahim can have coped with all these things but not all at once. Whose orders is he supposed to obey?”

  “If you’d ever been a soldier you wouldn’t ask that,” Tusker shouted. “The last order. Always the last. And you know what that is. Get out!”

  Ibrahim picked the money up from the table where Sahib had thrown it. It was best not to prolong these scenes. “May Ibrahim ask before he gets out how Memsahib will manage to arrange dinner for four this evening?”

  “No, Ibrahim may not ask. It’s no bloody business of Ibrahim’s. Who do you think you are? I’ve paid you off. Get off. Get out. Piss off.”

  Ibrahim went. He glanced at his watch. 9.15. He waited for a moment inside the bungalow in case the Sahib cried for help because the egg was off, but the only sound was that of Bloxsaw beginning to whine. He went out to find Joseph and tell him to pack his bags too. I do not want the garden to go jungly. I have no intention of letting it go jungly, Memsahib had said. In spi
te of being paid off on the spot for once, the business of reinstatement should not take long. “He is, after all, my mali,” Ibrahim murmured. “One out all out.”

  At the back of the bungalow he came face to face with Minnie. She gave him an envelope which was addressed to Smalley Sahib.

  “Much trouble,” she said.

  “Good. Good. For me also, my dove, much trouble. Sacked again.” He nibbled at her ear and tweaked her nipples and muttered his tale so that she laughed, pressed herself against his hardening organ and ran. A little stooped, he went back to the Burra Sahib.

  “A letter, Sahib. Just now come.”

  “I told you to get out! You’ve got your money, so go, now. Ek dam.”

  “From management,” Ibrahim said, putting the letter on the breakfast table. “Shall not trouble household further. Only performing last duty. The world collapses around one’s head. So it is written. Salaam Aleikum.”

  Bloxsaw was now banging the garage door. Ibrahim waited inside The Lodge for a few moments. Then he heard Burras Sahib shout, “The bitch! The bloody bitch!” and scrape his chair back to go and sort her out. Smiling, Ibrahim left by the back way, found mali behind the garage still at work on the watering can and said, “Leave that. We are dismissed. One out all out.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were squatting outside the Shiraz, with bed-rolls and token luggage, waiting for the Memsahib to emerge so that negotiations could begin.

  . . .

  Mr Bhoolabhoy backed away from the bed of crimson canna lilies where Tusker lay, dead eyes open, face purple, one hand stretched out, the letter clutched in it, so that the hand looked like something alien planted among the lilies and the letter like the white flesh of its unexpected, unplanned for flower. And Mr Bhoolabhoy ran wild. He ran wild through The Lodge and found it empty so ran out again to the garage where the howling creature he had been sent to complain about suddenly began pounding on the door. This terrified him. He backed away and turned, was again confronted by the body in the canna lily bed. He ran wild across the garden, back into the hotel, pushed into Lila’s room, pushed Minnie out, slammed the door and approached the bed on which his wife lay writhing like an enormous pink caterpillar. He gathered her into his arms.