“Won’t the owner mind we’re on his land, Simon?”
“I think we’re okay to walk. Come, I’ll take Oscar.”
“It’s so peaceful.”
The sun was out, and unlike in town, it blazed bright. Meterling took off her shoes and socks to feel the cold, damp earth. It was packed tight, dormant.
“What do you see in the distance, Meti?”
“A house.”
“Your house.”
“My house?”
“Your house. Why wait any longer?”
“I don’t know. It holds so much story, you understand … past lives. Archer’s life, Susan’s—yours, too.”
“Only for the holidays, really. Shall we take a look? Dispel some ghosts?”
“Don’t joke, Simon. I feel as if I’ve received something I was not meant to have.”
They stood in the fields, her three fields. She wondered what the gardens looked like. Squeezing Simon’s hand, she wondered if it was time after all to look. A slight wind stirred the grass around them. She would not plant rye, she reminded herself with a start.
They returned to the car to drive up the gravel road to the house. It really was a manor, run-down, with boarded-up windows. Large stone Ali Baba pots holding overgrown boxwood and autumn leaves and pine needles flanked the shallow steps to the door, whose knocker was an incongruous elephant’s head.
“Ganesha,” mused Simon, as he tried the key he drew from his pocket.
The old house had good bones, built in 1770, a classic Georgian with eccentric touches added in the 1900s. One such touch was the Corinthian columns that acted as decorative balconies over the second-storey windows; another was the cupola, added as an afterthought, with a widow’s walk that looked out over the fields.
Sheets had been thrown over most of the furniture, and the uncovered ones were hideously threadbare. Mice must nest amid the stuffing, thought Meterling, gingerly making her way through the rooms. A staircase, thick with dust, led upstairs, but Simon cautioned her against exploring it, citing safety. Nevertheless, giving him the baby, Meterling went up. Bedrooms and bathrooms and studies, each filled with a scent of damp and discard. The windows caught her attention, large ones that provided views of the fields, of the trees and sky. She could imagine us—that is, Sanjay, Rasi, and me—lounging about during country rainstorms, reading on the window seats, Pibs curled up against our feet.
The staircase felt solid as she descended, the wood thick with dust and grime.
“A place for dreaming, for dreams,” she said.
“I’m surprised no one’s squatting in it,” said Simon. “It’s been empty for years. There were tenants for a while, but not for a decade at least. Hard to believe, isn’t it? It’s like a mirage, really.”
“ ‘Squatting’?”
“Living illegally.”
“I wouldn’t blame them. This big old house needs people in it.”
“What do you think?”
“It would take an awful lot of work.”
“You could have a garden. You could invite Mina and the other kids to come stay over their holidays.”
“You’ve thought about it.”
“It’s here, and it’s yours. It’s the one thing immigrants never have, land and property. It’s what leads to all the feelings of inadequacy and trespass.”
“What about your job?”
“I could commute. I could even stay in London four days—”
“While I am a kind of house widow, your paramour in the country, hidden from view while you batch it up in the city?”
“Meterling!”
“I’m sorry.” She flushed. “I want to live with you, Simon, not in a big, drafty house that’s full of ghosts.”
“Of course we’ll live together. You can sell the house, get rid of it.”
“I wonder if we could exorcise the ghosts?”
“What?”
“If we do keep it, I mean, do you think we could get a priest to come and bless the house?”
“Why not? I knew an Indian family who bought a house and had a ceremony with a cow. A farmer lent them a cow.”
“The cow represents prosperity, so you need it at a house blessing. There are farmers around, it seems.”
“So what do you think? We could easily borrow a cow.”
“I don’t know. Simon, I think I see—”
But at that moment, Oscar began to cry lustily, and if Meterling were to confess to Simon that she was visited by Archer’s ghost, it would have to wait for another day.
Traffic caught them. What they had missed on their way in held them fiercely on their way back. Well, traffic—you may as well enjoy it, there is nothing to be done about it. Simon was one of those rare men who were unbothered by waiting, because, he said, it was out of their control. If one was going to be delayed, then so be it. Meterling was glad she had packed apples and cheese, and had tea in a thermos. They unfastened their seat belts and listened to the odd bursts of car horns.
Oscar began to fuss, and Meterling quickly got into the backseat to change him.
“Simon, did you ever think this is the way it would be, back when you were twenty-one?”
“You mean nappies and traffic and you?”
“Oscar and traffic and me.”
“You do know ‘nappies’ is code for Oscar? In fact, maybe we should change his name. Nappies Forster. Or better, Diapers Forster—that’s a billionaire’s name for you. He could support us in style in our old age.”
Getting no reply from Meterling, Simon added, “It couldn’t have turned out better, for me, because I’m in this, all of it, Oscar and traffic and you.”
The cars began to move again. In the other lane, they saw a row of policemen sweep away the glass slowly from the scene of an accident. They reached London in three and a half hours.
35
Some days in town, Meterling and Oscar dropped in at Lyle & Assam’s Cafetiere. Mostly, they sold fine cigars, but a sign advertising Italian coffee led her in the first day, stroller and all. It didn’t smell like cigars inside, exactly, more of wood. Behind glass cases were the cigars, from Brazil, Colombia, Mexico, everywhere but Cuba. Beautiful wooden boxes lined with more wood held the smokes, while the discarded boxes were scattered about. Ever since childhood, Meterling loved cigar boxes. Grandfather had a supply of them, and she would run her hand over the smooth wood and the fragile paper labels, imprinted with names like “Royale Jamaica” and “Arturo Fuente y Cia.” She used to store shells and treasures in them, later pencils. While Grandfather had a rare smoke, she’d sit by him, a pencil in her mouth, imitating him and keeping out of sight of Grandmother.
An Iranian man with a curious tilt of his head and a kind smile looked at her and Oscar from behind the counter.
“You have coffee?” she asked, hesitantly, thinking that maybe the sign was a code for something else. She had not yet got used to the advertisements for prostitutes in the friendly red telephone boxes. What did “coffee” stand for? Hashish? Arms?
It meant cappuccino, in a small porcelain cup, with cinnamon. Gratefully, she warmed her hands and throat, as the man came around to coo at Oscar. This was Assam, a thin man whose business partner was named Lyle. Lyle was American, and was largely MIA, a silent partner, being an alpine skier whose father financed the store’s start with money from his dry goods stores in Peoria, Illinois. Assam ran the business, Lyle visited six times a year, and they were the best of friends.
They could not afford to call the place simply Assam’s, he said. “Half the people walking by already think the store is a front for arms traders,” he said as Meterling blushed.
“Not you? Come on, you’re Indian.”
Island, she corrected, thus beginning a lasting friendship, her first in London.
Lately, though, Assam had become more voluble in his speech, bemoaning the lack of clientele, speaking of closing the shop.
“This country eats you alive, Mrs. Forster. Sometimes I just want to get out
.”
“But why?”
He didn’t reply, and she did not know what to say except cheerful things that rang false.
“Assam-ji, why don’t you come to dinner this weekend with the family?”
He smiled ruefully. “We’re going to visit my wife’s parents in Northumberland. But you must throw a party, Mrs. Forster. It is Diwali, after all, and it will lift your spirits. We like to entertain and eat, we Easterners, and if we don’t, we will wilt like flowers.”
She finished her coffee and paid, checking on Oscar and readying to leave the store.
“Don’t wilt like a flower, Mrs. Forster!”
36
She would give a dinner party. It would give her something to do. She left a message with the receptionist for Dr. Morgan to call her. A simple Diwali supper (for it was in four days), she decided, four at the table, for Dr. Morgan had a ring on her finger, not counting Oscar. When the doctor accepted her invitation, Meterling began to plan. She went over a dozen menus in her head, knowing she was overdoing it. Whenever this much overwrought thought went into cooking and planning, the meal was bound to come out unspectacularly. So, she switched to ironing the red cloth napkins from the Sarasti factory on Pi, and then the tablecloth. She polished the silver Simon’s mother had given them, and checked the glasses. Her mother-in-law had also given her candlesticks—what was she thinking? A supper for four? She had to invite Simon’s parents—why hadn’t he said anything?—and she would invite Susan, too. If Susan brought a date, that meant eight at dinner, not counting Oscar, who would be fed beforehand. Eight! Why not? Plus Assam and his family … but no, they were going out of town, to visit Niloo’s family. A party! Well, what had she been doing, after all, getting acclimated in this new land, but to throw a glittering dinner in appreciation? Semi-glittering. Casual, really. But it was Diwali, so semi-glittering it was.
Did she have enough matching napkins? She found herself getting excited and at the same time slightly ashamed. No, not enough, but she could mix the red with the gold vine-patterned ones Rasi and I had given her. We had selected them because they were bright and bold and big, just like our aunt. Only foreigners bought napkins; we rinsed our fingers and mouth at the sink after eating, but foreigners must not have enough sinks. We worried about our aunt going off to a country without enough sinks and bought her napkins to take with her. If we could have, we’d have rolled ourselves right up in the red-and-gold vine cloth and gone too.
“She needs to be protected,” I said.
“Uncle Simon will protect her,” said Rasi.
I wasn’t sure. Uncle Simon was too thin to be a warrior, I felt, too soft and easygoing. If our aunt needed protection from baffling foreign ways, would he be able to cope? Uncle Archer seemed a better choice, it occurred to me; he was so solid, so capable. Aunt Meterling needed Uncle Archer to help her out in London, we decided; but of course, Uncle Archer was dead.
There was enough silverware, Aunt Meterling decided, but the glasses would be an assortment of juice jars and wine tumblers, some plain, and others featuring bold bubbled surfaces. Simon had brought boxes of odds and ends as well as books from his old flat, and she burrowed through them.
“You could always borrow some from Mum,” Simon had said.
But Meterling refused, wanting somehow to do this herself. If she asked her mother-in-law, she’d get beautiful napkins and advice.
“I can give you plenty of advice,” said a voice, but when she turned around, she didn’t see any sign of Archer. Had her toes tingled? She wasn’t sure. Shivering slightly, she rubbed her arms.
A simple pulao, following a delicate lemon rasam, with Brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes in a curry stir fry, red moong dal, spinach and potatoes, naan or parathas for Simon’s father, who much preferred it to rice; and for dessert, in addition to the Indian shop sweets, a tea cake.
Now, she had things to do. Since it was Diwali, she needed to purchase new clothes. She made her way to the Indian shops where she felt like she was in Delhi, entire streets full of desi shops, selling everything from dishes to food to clothing. Hindi, Gujarati, and the occasional Malayalam filled the air in quick streams, as shoppers haggled over the prices and the quality of wares. She looked at rolls of sari material in one cart, but went into the store opposite, which sold good Mysore silk. She could have been back on Pi. The store was quiet, and saris were stacked neatly against walls in vivid colors. A plump matron eyed her height warily at first, but came forward quickly. Soon she was suggesting colors and silks, tissue versus heavier cloths. There were even old-fashioned prints, borders that seemed ancient, handloomed and outrageously expensive, even for London. These beauties were displayed behind glass. Meterling fingered a pale-pink georgette sari and thought how nice Nalani would look in it. For herself, she turned to a muted blue with a border done in silver thread. She had the option of buying a readymade choli or being measured for a blouse that would be ready in two days.
“Two days?” asked Meterling, surprised at how quickly it could be done.
“This is London,” shrugged the proprietor, apologizing for the delay.
But the days of tailors stitching up a blouse in an hour for their clients were nearly gone, even on Pi. Grandmother used to make her own, on an old Singer, her feet rhythmically pedaling as her hands fed the cloth. Meterling, followed by every other grandchild, used to thread the needle for her. In school, they had learned to sew, embroidering handkerchiefs with tiny rosettes, and unraveling the hems to tie them up neatly for a pretty edging. Nalani used to say that was the best thing about the convent school she’d attended: everyone could hem perfectly.
Meterling got measured, protesting that the front should not be so low cut as to upset her in-laws, and the back needed to be more than two inches.
“Then, madam, you will have an unfashionable choli,” said the tailor.
As she and Oscar made their way to the bus, she noticed a small sign: S. D. Shakur, Ayurvedic Doctor and Specialist—Walk-in Consults Available. Taking a breath, she walked in. She found herself in a small, musty room without a receptionist, although there was a desk facing the door. To one side was an electric kettle, with paper cups, tea bags, instant coffee packets as well as sugar and powdered milk. She was tempted to make herself a cup when she noticed another door off to the side. She knocked, but received no answer. They must have left the outer door unlocked by accident, and she sighed, preparing to leave, when a slight man entered the office. He looked surprised to see her.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Dr. Shakur.”
“I am he. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I—”
“Well, you are lucky. My three o’clock canceled—come on in.”
My aunt was about to protest she was already “in” but instead followed him, rather bravely, through the side door, which he left open. She doubted he had a “three o’clock.” She sat down on a wooden chair and he filled in a few lines on a chart at his desk.
“So, what seems to be the matter?”
“I have a friend.”
“Ah.”
“She lost her husband, but remarried. Now she imagines”—she began, shifting Oscar to her other shoulder—“that she can see the ghost of … I’m sorry—it sounds ridiculous.”
“Your friend sees the ghost of her dead husband?”
My aunt nodded.
“How did he die?”
Meterling told him.
“He died without fulfilling his life’s desires. He cannot rest because he was neither burnt nor old enough to die. I suspect what he wants is not your friend, Mrs. Forster, but her child.”
“I—”
“But don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Forster; ghosts seldom get what they want. That’s why they are unhappy. Now, I need you to return so I can do a complete history, medical, physical, including temperament calculations.”
“I could ask my friend.”
“Yes, by all means, come back, Mrs.
Forster.”
Two days later, when she picked up the blouse, she saw the tailor’s decisions about the back were correct, and was grateful that the front was more modest than fashionable. She picked up a nice shirt as well as a kurta for Simon and a little kurta for Oscar. She looked for Dr. Shakur’s office. She went in.
This time, a receptionist in a green sari and cardigan greeted her, and offered her a cup of tea. My aunt sipped from a cracked cup with a painted rose, and waited. Oscar waited as well in his sling pouch. The receptionist smiled at Oscar and then went back to work. Presently, Dr. Shakur ushered them in. The receptionist, who was a nurse or perhaps a doctor as well, took her blood pressure, her height and weight, and listened to her heart behind a screen. Oscar was placed in a cloth baby hammock that was hung from the ceiling, as on Pi. When she was done, she closed up the screen, and Dr. Shakur took my aunt’s wrist and listened to her pulse. There was no mention of her “friend.”
“Where do you live now?”
My aunt told him.
“Where are you from originally?” He questioned her about her diet, her preferences for temperatures, her bowel movements, and her sleep patterns and any resultant dreams. Aunt Meterling told him about her nightmares.
He took notes, and then told her that her humors were out of sorts.
“This is why you are having these kinds of dreams. You do not want the Bhuta to interfere with your present life, so even before you met it, you tried to kill it. That is good.”
“I didn’t try to kill him—I just didn’t help him survive, in the dreams.”
“I want you to eat ghee every morning, and refrain from any food after seven o’clock in the evening. You need to eat cooling foods, no chilies, spices, no caffeine, everything room temperature so the Agni will be soothed. You understand? The Bhuta is bothering you because it is angry it is not having a life with you. Do not encourage it. Do not engage with it. If it wants to speak, don’t respond.”
Dr. Shakur gave her some tiny moist pills in a packet.
As Sweet as Honey Page 15