“Stand up straight,” commanded my mother. “Since when have you had round shoulders?” But how could I tell her that if I straightened my shoulders my annoying breast buds would be embarrassingly prominent? How could I confess I didn’t like these changes to my body, that I wanted to remain my loose-limbed self without the restrictive garments that came with adolescence? How could I admit that after all the previous years of complaining, I now didn’t want these stupid, ladylike clothes!
The operative word was ladylike. Second-hand didn’t bother me. Being the youngest, I was accustomed to inheriting my sisters’ clothes while my dresses were often turned into something else or given to neighbourhood children. The concept of waste was alien to us. Aunt Tilly’s dresses were used one way or another. If we didn’t want them other people in town would benefit.
There was one big difference, though. We also got new clothes. Every birthday, Christmas and Easter saw us with an outfit of our own choosing. We had the dignity of choice. Some people were not so lucky. They had to put up with what came their way – other people’s discards, however luxurious, are still other people’s discards.
Luckily for us, our mother had instilled in us the value of use and reuse. A lot of items in our house had begun life as one thing, only to morph into something completely different, sometimes unrecognisably different. Cracked or broken pottery jars became drainage for pot plants, discarded kerosene oil tins were transformed into skilfully crafted doll’s houses, empty dalda tins were made over into expertly constructed, highly polished peg tables and all the time, imagination and the will to reuse were given full range.
This value (use and re-use) could be carried to absurd lengths with sometimes interesting outcomes, like when a cement road sign became part of a dry stone wall. During British times a number of placenames were anglicised in deference to vocal cords that couldn’t or wouldn’t pronounce local names. With independence some of those names were returned to their original forms, making a lot of road signs obsolete. Somehow one of them found their way to become part of the dry stone wall that surrounded our well.
The extraordinary part was that as the rest of the wall was maintained so was the sign, so it still looked as new as the day it had left the manufacturer’s workshop. I asked my father about this and his obscure answer was, “Why worry, it serves its purpose. Besides, it breaks the monotony of the fence.” And with this I had to be satisfied.
What I think happened was in previous years, when my father requested the wall be repainted, he didn’t expect his words to be taken so literally. Once it was done, he didn’t have the heart to object as he valued his workers’ obvious dedication to detail.
He also recognised that it was his responsibility to make himself clear and not assume what was obvious to him would also be obvious to anyone else. Since the wall, as it was, was fully functional and on our property rather than part of the boundary, he figured it was no one’s business except our own. There are bigger things in life.
My mother often remarked that Lorraine, Lily and I were comfortable with the idea of second and third lives – as she called it. “Why wouldn’t we be, Mum?” Lily laughed. “It makes sense.” And to show her wit, “There’s life in the old rag yet.”
“Just be prepared,” my mother continued, “that as you go through life people will see it as cheap. In this world of conspicuous consumption people use possessions to buy themselves a status that’s not intrinsic to them. They need props to counter their feelings of inferiority. So they’ll laugh at you and make disparaging remarks that will be difficult to answer. They’ll try and explain it away by ‘understanding’ that you come from a poor family, as though that’s a crime or something to be ashamed of. They’ll try and use it against you.” She shook her head in disbelief and disdain.
Her facial expression told us she had something or someone particular in mind. Whenever Lorraine or Lily appeared at a family occasion in the latest fashion everyone knew we’d received a parcel from Aunt Tilly. On occasion there’d been sotto voce remarks about dressing her daughters in hand-me-downs as though their father was a poor provider.
It was clearly an absurd statement but one, as my mother said, that was difficult to answer. “During the war,” she continued, “the government distributed a pamphlet that advised housewives to make do and mend. But now it’s our choice – to use and reuse. Remember that. We are confident about who we are. We don’t need to indulge in pretentious bourgeoisie swagger.” Ignoring disparaging remarks, my mother stuck to her principles and none of us were the worse for it.
CHAPTER 14
UNCLE CLAUDE’S TENSIONS
My methods of surveillance were both covert and overt. And very successful. I knew everything that happened in the house.
Or so I thought.
It was a weekday morning in June when I bounced into the drawing room at seven o’clock, intent on the wholly useless task of decorating the mantelpiece with vases of prickly stemmed sunflowers – the only blossoms to brave the summer heat. I wasn’t surprised to see Uncle Claude standing with his back to me as he studied the photographs on the mantel above the fireplace. He often popped in after early morning Mass.
“Hello Uncle Claude,” I sang. “Mummy’s in the pantry and Daddy’s in his rooms.” I was certain of their whereabouts because the rhythm and regularity of our lives marched inexorably on, regardless of season, sun or tide.
“Then you’d better go and join your mother.” There was a smile in Uncle Claude’s voice as he turned to face me but I froze in mid-movement. No one but my mother ever told me what to do, however pleasant their tone. Even my father worded his commands as polite requests – unless he was furious. I was both astounded and outraged but something in Uncle Claude’s voice brooked no argument. That didn’t stop me. Contracting my abdominal muscles to support an indrawn column of air, I was ready for confrontation when, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a man standing by the bay window, concentrating on the view of the garden.
Tomas Savio, an Indian Christian from Kerala in South India, was a pilot in the air force base a few miles out of town. I knew him by sight as I had often seen him at church. Being in his mid- to late-thirties his age group wasn’t compatible with my parents or sisters so he didn’t visit us. To my knowledge he had never been in our house before so I was astonished to see him in the drawing room that summer morning.
Though both men were standing at opposite ends of the room and appeared to be intent on what each was looking at, my spine tingled. As I looked uncertainly from one to the other, the meaning of Uncle Claude’s suggestion came home to me so to cover my confusion I called a greeting to Tomas and flew back to the verandah, en route to the pantry. I knew I wasn’t allowed to be alone with a man outside my immediate family – even if that man was my uncle. I certainly wasn’t allowed to be alone in a room with two men – regardless of who they were.
This social rule was for all our protection. If a man was never, ever, alone with a young girl there was less chance he could be accused of untoward behaviour or improper inclination. The responsibility was with him to ensure he was never caught in circumstances that could be open to misinterpretation.
The exact same standard applied to us girls. I knew I had to protect myself from scandalous rumours to maintain an unsullied reputation. All of us knew that, my parents included. On the rare occasion my father offered a lady a lift in his car, the only acceptable practice was for her to ride in the back seat. Gossip mongers in Kanpur maliciously enjoyed any opportunity to make two even numbers add up to five.
“Mu-um. Uncle Claude is in the drawing room with Tomas Savio,” I called out as I burst into the pantry. “Do you know what he wants?” My mother’s facial expression reminded me she never bought into inane conversations so I knew I had to relay the message to the appropriate person.
The shortcut to my parents’ rooms ensued going through the drawing room so instead I ran the long way around the house to call out loudly, “Da-ad, Uncle
Claude’s here,” and not stopping for an answer, raced back to the pantry. Fourteen-year-old girls can have boundless energy, even at seven in the morning on a hot summer’s day.
It was sufficiently unusual for Tomas Savio to accompany our uncle to our house so I knew something odd was afoot. My dilemma was deciding on the method I’d use to discover what was happening. On the pretext of helping my mother cook porridge I broached the subject. “Mummy, can I ask you something?”
“No! It will do you good to think things out for yourself instead of constantly badgering me.” The unusual sharpness of her words should have alerted me but my hunger to know was too strong. Since asking my mother hadn’t worked, Lorraine was my next best bet.
Her face flushed brick red, and it wasn’t from exertion. We were hurrying home after delivering vegetables to our great-aunt’s kitchens and were anxious to get indoors before the heat of the day.
Looking at her I wondered, Hmmmm! Perhaps you like Tomas Savio. Huddled together as we shared a sun umbrella, Lorraine was a trapped audience for my questions. I had just asked her if she knew why Uncle Claude and Tomas Savio had called on our father that morning.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled and wrenched the umbrella away from me.
Physical discomfort often blocks trivia from a person’s mind. “Ouch,” I yelled as the sun scorched my bare arms. But I recognised her tactic and knew better than to pursue an uncomfortable subject while I was vulnerable.
Wait! I’ll get you, was in my mind.
Her reticence served to strengthen my inkling that something was “up”.
First Mummy won’t tell me and now you.
I smarted with resentment because I had run out of people to ask. Intuitively I knew better than to approach my father. But I wasn’t clever enough to recognise the consequences of forcing the issue. At dinner that evening I saw an opportunity to publicly tease Lorraine.
“Tomas Savio is Lorraine’s boyfriend.” I announced in a sing-song voice. “They were…” Before I could go any further my father barked.
“You are not to talk like that, do you hear?” Toppling his chair as he flung out of the room he threw clipped tones over his shoulder at my mother. “Please have a word with your youngest daughter.”
Twin pits of burning charcoal that had originally been his eyes, plus the unusual vehemence of his exit had me sitting up straight.
What had I said now?
Lorraine too, looked at me with fury, not the annoyance I usually invoked when I harassed my sisters. My mother was no help. Her fierce concentration on her plate spoke volumes. I knew something bad was at stake.
Our father seldom reprimanded us. He was determined his daughters would remain unaccustomed to, or be intimidated by, male bully behaviour, either verbal or physical. Instead, he usually spoke with mild tone and precise word accompanied with consistent action. When our noise and boisterousness became extreme or our behaviours stretched boundaries, he removed himself to his library which adjoined the drawing room so he was able to be close to us but not immediately present. Simultaneously there and not there – there, because he couldn’t bear to be without us, and not there to distance himself from behaviours that he saw as unacceptable. Having been deprived of that irreplaceable commodity that is family life when he was a powerless child, first at boarding school from the tender age of seven, followed by long years of exile in the cold, miserable climate of England while he refined his professional skills, he now made sure he hung on to his most treasured asset – us.
Most times our mother managed us with a few well-chosen words, though sometimes looking to her for support was useless. She’d join my father and together they indicated that it was time to curtail our excesses. Withdrawing love, even a tiny amount, is a powerful control mechanism and open to abuse in human relationships where power imbalances abound. We were lucky our parents used that strategy judiciously and with the best of intentions.
That night I was genuinely perplexed with no idea of the gaffe I had committed. As the evening progressed the silence expanded like a painful boil that threatens to suppurate if not immediately lanced. But no one explained and my bewilderment and hurt escalated.
Standing in front of our dressing table while I brushed my hair before bed, I made sure I took up maximum space. Though the mirror was large enough for three girls to share with ease, my elaborate arm movements guaranteed it was difficult for anyone to stand beside me with any assurance of safety.
“Can you move, please?”
I moved. A fraction of an inch.
“Can you move a bit more, please?”
I became temporarily deaf.
Like most people, hurt and bewilderment rendered me powerless in the face of tensions I didn’t understand. Anger returned some of that power. Lorraine must have recognised that I was spoiling for a fight, and not wanting to aggravate the situation she quietly moved away. About fifteen minutes later, with the lights extinguished, I heard furtive movements in the bed beside me. Lily and I slept in separate single beds that were pushed up against each other so we could share a double mosquito net. Lorraine’s bed, with her own protective netting, was on the other side of mine.
“Move over,” came a hoarse whisper. “Let me in,” and Lorraine climbed into Lily’s bed. Shining her torch in my face she gave me no opportunity to pretend to be asleep.
Without preamble she got to the point. “Of course Daddy’s upset. You shouldn’t have talked about Tomas Savio.” She spoke in muted tones though we were a sufficient distance from our parents’ bedroom to be safe from disturbing them. “Daddy is angry that Uncle Claude brought Tomas Savio here. Now he’s forced to acknowledge they go about together. Otherwise he could ignore it.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I needed to show that I wasn’t ready to be conciliatory.
“Listen, stupid,” her voice was urgent. “Daddy doesn’t like Uncle Claude being so friendly with Tomas Savio. It’s not acceptable.”
“How do you know?”
“Bistie Gupta told me. Her father hosts Bridge nights and there’s where Uncle Claude meets Tomas. They’ve been playing Bridge every Tuesday evening and sometimes on Saturdays too.”
Bistie Gupta attended teacher training college with Lorraine and the two were fast friends. Being a year or two older, Bistie appeared far more worldly than my sheltered sister so Lorraine looked up to her and quoted her incessantly. Sensing my continued scepticism my eldest sister indulged in a prolonged, long-suffering sigh, the sort a person gives when forced to explain something simple to an obtuse younger sister.
“Tomas Savio is Uncle Claude’s special friend, and it’s wrong. Men are not allowed to have friends like that. That’s why Daddy won’t acknowledge it.
“But I have a special friend.” I was thinking of Peggy Biswas who, along with her family, had migrated to Canada a year earlier leaving behind a hole I was unable to fill. So why was it wrong for Uncle Claude to have a special friend?
Lorraine sighed again but this time it was with resignation and free of affectation. But not free from her usual fake superiority, born of a five-year seniority. There is nothing more patronising than the words, “you are too young to understand”, because there is no answer, no come back.
Leaning forward and unconsciously speaking faster, as though to outpace uncomfortable thoughts, Lorraine committed her characteristic sin. “You are too young to understand, but one day your best friend will most likely be a man. You will want to be with him…just like – er – Daddy wants to be with Mummy.” In the dim light I sensed her embarrassment and became increasingly confused.
My best friend being a boy was beyond my imagination. Mother Goose was still firmly entrenched in my mind so I knew for a fact that “frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails” were the main component of the male species of my generation.
I was also too naive to understand that every child is disinclined to contemplate, almost ashamed to acknowledge, that their parents have a sex life. But I knew
enough to realise that Lorraine was making herself be patient and gentle with me, that in her own way she was trying to assuage my hurt. Though we squabbled and quarrelled as siblings do the world over, though we argued incessantly and tried to out-answer each other, though I was often convinced I’d be better off as an only child, at that moment I loved my eldest sister.
We sat in companionable silence, enveloped by darkness and bound together by mutual support. My eyelids grew heavy as strong emotion is exhausting, and I sought the reviving effect of sleep. But before I could drop off Lorraine’s voice jerked me awake.
“It may explain why he is so nasty to Aunt Kitty, but,” and she brought my mother’s words to life, “that’s no excuse. Because he doesn’t like aspects of himself doesn’t mean he should take it out on his wife in front of all of us.” She collected her thoughts for a few moments before continuing. “But, we mustn’t discuss this with Mummy. It will only distress her.” Instinctively we knew that “distress” was a mild word should we be silly enough to talk with our father.
Lily, who had been listening quietly, took up the thread. “It isn’t as though Uncle Claude meets up with Tomas Savio, except at the Bridge evenings. There’re no clandestine meetings, wouldn’t be possible in a gossip-ridden town like this.” She spat out the last few words so I picked up her meaning immediately.
In a town like Kanpur where our community was small in numbers, there were no possibilities for secrets. Besides, we were a prominent family, so lived with the risk that any small action would be deliberately distorted out of proportion. We also knew that Uncle Claude loved and revered his brother and wouldn’t do anything to provoke dislike or contempt.
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