by Rumer Godden
The night round had been the last straw. It meant Ted had to sit up late and the hours seemed endless. Scattergold Hall, usually overflowing with life, was silent, empty. The servants had taken the opportunity of an evening off and gone to their quarters. The gates were shut. Ted had taken John’s electric torch – even though there was moonlight he needed to look deep into each stall – and faithfully he went from one to the next, all around the square, stepping softly, careful not to disturb the sleeping grooms and horses. When he came to Dark Invader, the Invader was too lazy even to raise his head or give his customary whinny and, with Sadiq’s charpoy across the stall’s front, Ted could not reach to pat and fondle him. ‘Real old canoodler he is,’ Ted had often said. Now, ‘“Used to be” is nearer the mark,’ Ted said bitterly and, what he had not felt for a long time, jealousy came back and, added to it, hurt. Ted passed on to the next horse but the smart of the hurt went on and, when he went back to his solitary room, he sat at his table, his head in his hands.
Somewhere a drum was being beaten and voices were chanting in a nasal whine, utterly alien. There was a smell of dust and of pungent cooking, of hookah smoke and a waft of unbearable sweetness from that flower, Queen of the Night. He could hear Dahlia’s soft voice saying its name after John – Dahlia’s voice, not Ella’s – and such desolation and longing fell on Ted that he shuddered. It was then that he remembered Mr Leventine’s whisky.
Mr Leventine had come when the parade was over and the owners and their friends had gone. ‘I ’spect to them cocktail dos,’ Ted had told him.
Mr Leventine had been put out not to find John there. ‘I don’t have to tell him my every movement,’ John would have said. ‘He may have bought Dark Invader, but he hasn’t bought me.’ John would have been disarmed though, because a Father Christmas Mr Leventine had brought wonderful presents. The Minerva was loaded.
Sadiq was presented with a gold watch, Ali with one in silver. ‘A nice distinction,’ John said afterwards. There were toys for the children, large dolls and teddy bears, clockwork trains, boxes of soldiers and air-guns. ‘For Gawd’s sake, don’t give them those, sir,’ begged Ted.
‘Not?’ Mr Leventine was sad. He liked air-guns. ‘Not?’
‘No, sir.’ Ted was firm.
Large boxes of chocolates were handed out for everyone. For Dahlia there was a bouquet of orchids and a case of champagne: for John a case of whisky, ‘the very best Scotch,’ Ted said reverently. ‘What a pity the family’s out, sir. Never mind. It will be all the more surprise.’ He helped Mr Leventine, the chauffeur and the car attendant to arrange the gifts in the sitting-room, the toys and chocolate boxes piled around the cases, Dahlia’s orchids on top, set off by an enormous card printed in gold with a photograph of Dark Invader. Ted had one too and, with it, an English racing saddle. Nothing could have pleased Ted more; every jockey of prestige had his own saddle, but Ted’s was one John had bought for him in Dhurrumtollah Street. This was by a leading English maker. ‘As if you hadn’t done enough for me, sir! Too generous you are by half!’ and Mr Leventine was filled with an extraordinary glow. No-one had called him generous before – ‘How could they?’ Bunny would have said – and, ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ Mr Leventine told Ted and, to his astonishment, found that it was true.
The glow had faded; in fact, as he lay sleepless, Mr Leventine was remembering all the money he had needlessly spent and chided himself for it. His usual astuteness seemed to have deserted him. He was more accustomed to say, ‘Done with you,’ ‘It’s a bargain,’ or ‘Raise you five,’ than ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ and, ‘Casimir Alaric Bruce,’ Mr Leventine addressed himself – his mother used to call him by all his names when she was severely displeased – ‘You are becoming soft and silly. Be yourself.’
Still he tossed and turned and then a chill small wind seemed to come into his bedroom. ‘A warning?’ asked Mr Leventine.
Suddenly he sat up, pressed down the imaginary switch, got out of bed, lifted the net and, in his black satin pyjamas, with a twined monogram, C.A.B.L., embroidered in orange on the pocket, padded into the library and hastily put Dark Invader’s trophies back in their original order on the mantelpiece.
A case of whisky.
Ted remembered what Michael Traherne had said when he had seen Ted and Dark Invader on board the City of London and gone down to Ted’s cabin to say goodbye. ‘Life on board ship can be very boring, and very tempting,’ Michael had said. ‘But, Ted, if there’s the least sign of trouble,’ and Ted knew Michael meant ‘his trouble’, ‘you will be put ashore at Malta, Naples, Port Said, Colombo or wherever, and left to make your own way home. More than that, another lad – and we can’t guarantee what sort of lad – will have to take over Darkie.’
Ted had not protested, sworn off, done any of the things most of the men would have done but had stood straighter and looked at Michael with his blue eyes hard. ‘I haven’t touched a drop, sir, since the day you put me on the Invader. Nor will I,’ but he was not on board ship now, and he had lost Dark Invader. Ted forgot their new partnership, even more intimate than the companionship of horse and lad; a companionship of work. He forgot how the crowds now could not think of them apart. He only knew that his Invader had not whinnied to him, that Sadiq was between them. ‘Should have been glad he was so healthily asleep,’ he told himself, ‘and that Mr Saddick looks after him so well.’ It did not stop the jealousy, nor the ache of loneliness and suddenly Ted was angry. Mr Quillan shouldn’t have put all this on him. It was too much responsibility. He was too old for the crowds shouting ‘Darkie, Darkie,’ while Mr Quillan poured instructions into his ear. Mr Leventine was suddenly too overwhelming, expected too much. Sadiq was a usurper and everyone had gone off leaving him, Ted, in this empty house and that child had been rude about Ella – Ella who now seemed further away than ever – and all the time the drum went on and on. ‘That damned drum!’ Ted shouted it aloud but there was no-one to hear him; in fact, his own voice came back to him in an echo from the garden’s high wall – ‘Drum… drum’.
Ted got up, went into the sitting-room, opened John’s case, carefully lifting the orchids aside, and took out a bottle of whisky. ‘Just for a nip… just one. Mr Quillan wouldn’t grudge me that.’
Some time later, he had no idea how much later, a thought struck Ted. ‘Haven’t done the stable night round. Mus’ do that. Promished.’ He stumbled up and again took the torch but, from sitting on the cold verandah his hands were numb and he could hardly hold it. His teeth chattered and he shook with cold. ‘Better have another drink to warm me,’ but the bottle was empty. Ted cursed and almost tumbled down the steps. The moonlight was brilliant on the lawn and track, but the shadows were dark as fallen trees on pools, which Ted thought they really were and, trying to avoid them, he seemed to be going zigzag; nor could he keep the quiet stealth. Twice he dropped the torch, swore loudly, and heads began to lift on the charpoys. When he came to Dark Invader his anger overcame him and he shook Sadiq. ‘Out of my way, you heathen. Lemme see my hoss.’
At first Sadiq could not take it in. In his shirt, barefooted, his brown-yellow eyes blurred with sleep, he looked a different man without his turban and, ‘Who are you?’ bellowed Ted. ‘How did you get in here?’ and, ‘Thief!’ he shouted. ‘Thief!’ Clumsily he shook the top rail of the stall, trying to get it down and Sadiq sprang to life. His muscular arm seized Ted. ‘Sahib! Ted Sahib… Sahib! No!’
For a moment Ted sobered. Then, ‘Mind your own bloody business.’
Holding him, Sadiq tried to summon his English. ‘Sahib, this no good. No… no, Sahib. I no like. Quillan Sahib no like. No good him.’ He motioned at Dark Invader who had woken up and was watching puzzled. ‘Night round been done… bed now, Sahib. You ride tomorrow – please, Ted Sahib.’
‘Oh, go to hell!’ Ted shook off Sadiq and turned back, but not to his verandah – to the house where he took out another bottle. He could not open it and, back on his verandah, smashed the neck against a verandah pos
t; nor could he pour the whisky out into his glass but managed to put the bottle on the table where it stood running whisky while Ted fell into his chair. The drum was beating in his head now; the flower scent was overpowering. Ted was sick, then collapsed across the table.
It was Sadiq, touching Ted as if with a pair of tongs, the end of his turban wound over his mouth and nose to keep out the stench of vomit and, to a Muslim, the abominable smell of alcohol, who put Ted to bed.
Three o’clock. Half past three. Four o’clock. The Sisters Ursule and Jane, Gulab, Solomon and the cart had not come in. Since midnight Mother Morag had been up; twice she had sent Dil Bahadur down the road to see – he had been as far as Chowringhee – no sign, and for the last hour she had been walking up and down, up and down. Sister Barbara and Sister Emmanuel whose turn it was to help unload, puzzled at not being called, had risen themselves and were with her; presently Sister Ignatius, who seemed to know by instinct when anything was wrong, had appeared. ‘What can have happened?’
‘Something.’ Mother Morag dared say no more.
‘An accident?’
‘The police would have come.’
‘Solomon?’ asked Sister Ignatius.
‘It can’t be Solomon,’ said Sister Barbara, ‘he’s so reliable.’
‘No-one can be reliable for ever.’
At last they heard the sound of wheels – the gates had long been open – and, with the wheels, a hubbub: murmurs, talking, shouted orders, the babel of a crowd. When, with the Sisters, she hurried to the courtyard, Mother Morag had need of all her calm. Both Sisters, Jane and Ursule, were walking, their faces pallid with sweat, their coifs fallen back, cloaks and habits bedraggled. With them was a band of coolies, those men who, in India, always seem to spring from the ground when there is something to be done, a few annas to be earned, as did small boys – there were a dozen or more small boys – all of them were helping to hold up the shafts of the cart, and the shafts were holding up Solomon, whom Gulab held by the bridle, trying to support his head. Carefully the men eased the cart into the courtyard, unbuckled the harness and lowered the shafts.
‘Mother, he fell just past Dhurrumtollah,’ Sister Jane tried to keep her voice even, but it came in distressed gasps. ‘We thought he had just slipped – the police helped to get him up and Gulab walked beside him. Then again, outside Firpo’s, when we came out with the canisters – it seemed he couldn’t move. We thought we shouldn’t try to collect any more.’ Sister Jane’s voice was stilled by a sob and Sister Ursule went on. ‘We were nearly at the end in any case – but, Mon Dieu! to get him home!’
‘It was so cruel, but we thought it best to get help.’ Sister Jane was really crying now. ‘Oh Mother!’
Solomon was standing curiously rigid, his tail at an extraordinary high angle: his lips were drawn back showing the yellowed teeth and flecks of froth came between them. ‘Aie! Aie!’ the pitying voices sounded as the men pressed round. Dil Bahadur had to take his cane to hold them back. When she made her way through, Mother Morag saw with horror that the old horse was twitching with curious spasms, sweat broke out on his shoulders and neck and as she went swiftly to him she saw he could not bend it as Gulab tried to unbuckle the bridle. To the Sisters’ astonishment she went round in front of the old horse and gave him a sharp tap on the forehead. ‘Mother! To punish him now!’ but Mother Morag had seen what she had guessed she must see, an immediate flash across the eyeball. She tapped again, it came again and, ‘Unmistakable,’ said Mother Morag. ‘Sister Barbara, ring Captain Mack and tell him to come at once.’
‘Yes. Tetanus,’ said Captain Mack. ‘Poor old boy. I had thought it would be old age.’
The sight of tetanus is not pretty and sharply Mother Morag sent the, by now, thoroughly roused Community inside.
‘Sister Jane, Sister Ursule must both have a wash and some good strong tea. Sister Emmanuel, will you see to that? Plenty of sugar. For Gulab too.’
‘And I think you should go in yourself, Reverend Mother,’ said Captain Mack.
‘I’ll stay.’ Mother Morag had one hand on Solomon’s neck.
‘Stand away from him.’
There was a short sharp noise in the courtyard, a ring of iron on stone and the sound of something soft and heavy falling. Gulab burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs. Dil Bahadur led him away through the now silent coolies and boys. ‘Sister will bring him some tea,’ Mother Morag told Dil Bahadur.
It was she who helped Captain Mack cover the still heap with a tarpaulin the Captain fetched from his car. ‘I’ll arrange the rest,’ he told her.
‘Thank you.’ She knew, with him, she had no need to say more than that and, as his car drove away, she called the Sisters. ‘I think it would be good if we all helped to unload the cart.’
‘Unload! After this?’ The Sisters were shocked.
‘Of course. We’re not going to let Solomon’s last effort go to waste, but Sister Ursule and Sister Jane must go to bed.’
‘Please no, Mother. We couldn’t sleep just yet.’
The coolies who had lingered for the drama came to help with the unloading and, with so many people, the work was quickly done and it was then that Sister Mary Fanny said timidly, ‘Would it be very silly, Mother, if we went into the chapel and said a prayer?’
‘For Solomon?’ Mother Morag smiled down at her Sister. ‘I don’t think it would be at all silly. Come – and, child, fetch Gulab and Dil Bahadur.’
‘A Hindu in our chapel! And I don’t know what denomination Dil Bahadur is… ’ Sister Ignatius was of the old narrow school. ‘Thank God for bigotry,’ she often said. ‘It keeps our faith pure,’ but, ‘I think it would help Gulab,’ said Mother Morag and, indeed, Sister Mary Fanny found the old man sobbing, face downward in the straw of Solomon’s bedding. Dil Bahadur could not come because the crowd had not dispersed but, ‘They say they pray too,’ said Dil Bahadur.
‘Hindu prayers!’ sniffed Sister Ignatius.
‘Prayers,’ Mother Morag corrected her. ‘Sister, those men who are so poor would not take an anna for what they did for us and Solomon tonight – and don’t you think we shall need all the prayers we can get?’
It was while they were in the chapel that they heard the iron wheels of a heavy cart backing into the courtyard, then the grinding of a winch and the sound of wheels departing. There was a fresh burst of weeping from some of the Sisters, from Gulab too. Mother Morag gave the ‘knock’. ‘Bed everyone,’ she said, ‘and this morning, meditation will be after Mass, so you will have half an hour’s extra sleep.’
As there was now no more to be seen in the courtyard, the crowd dispersed. Dil Bahadur took Gulab into his gatehouse and shut the door. The Sisters had left the chapel but Mother Morag stayed on.
In all her sadness, shock and pain, as Superior she had to ask herself the question, ‘How, how are we going to replace Solomon?’ The Convent’s small money savings had disappeared in the high price of rice. There was nothing to spare. ‘I shall have to apply to the General Fund,’ murmured Mother Morag, something the Sisters of Poverty tried their utmost not to do. ‘It has so many calls on it.’ Each house tried to live by donations and by its own ‘collecting’, but how could they collect without a Solomon? They could hire a tikka gharry, but that would be expensive and the poor half-starved waifs of animals who drew them could never stand up to the night round. ‘We need a strong well-trained horse with good blood in him, but the cost of that would be perhaps several hundred rupees.’ Mother Morag shut her eyes.
She felt a rustle beside her. It was Sister Ursule. ‘Mother, please allow me. I could not sleep.’ Then Sister Ignatius came; Sister Mary Fanny stole in; Sister Timothea, though it was her night off; Sister Emmanuel, Barbara, Jane, Claudine – the whole Community – and, as if moved by a single thought, they began a novena, the prayer of the Church for a special – and, perhaps, desperate – intention and, ‘God doesn’t think like men and when one belongs to Him, one must not worry.’ Mother Morag was ashamed of herself
.
The Sisters were not the only ones who prayed. When, at dawn, Mother Morag came out into the courtyard, she saw that the dark stain where Solomon had lain was touched with whitewash and there were marigolds strewn over it. It had become a holy place. As she watched, a woman in the poorest of saris came, bringing more flowers and an offering of a small saucer of rice.
‘Mother, that surely can’t be right – in a Convent?’
‘I don’t know if it’s right, but I do know it is love and respect,’ and Mother Morag told Dil Bahadur to keep the gates open.
The bandar-log were the first to visit Ted – they had decided to forgive him. When the old Chrysler arrived at Scattergold Hall, they were tumbled out pell-mell and John drove straight away. The stables were empty of horses so, thinking Ted was with them down on the racecourse, the children went in to breakfast but, like true bandars, they were always the first to pick up an alarm – in this case the underground gossip of the stable and kitchens – and soon they were at the annex. On the verandah table was the early morning tray of tea, toast and bananas, put down by an appalled Ahmed; beside it was the broken-necked bottle of whisky, still three-quarters full, another empty bottle rolled on the ground. They went in to look at Ted, stealing silently up to his bed, half-fascinated, half-repelled. He was lying on his back and snoring; his clothes were on the floor where Sadiq had thrown them. With their small prehensile fingers, the children tried to open Ted’s eyes, but he only rolled his head and grunted and a small boy began to cry with fear. Back on the verandah, they wiped their fingers in the whisky spilt on the table, tasted, spat it out and, for once defeated, fled in a troop to tell Dahlia.