Washerwoman's Dream

by Hilarie Lindsay

  She thought about the invitation as she stirred a pot of goat’s meat and potatoes for their evening meal, wondering if it was an impossible dream. There was the financial side. She would be paid, of course. And she had been promised money for the fare. But they would need clothes. She wondered if it was hot like India, or whether it was closer to the mountains and it snowed. She had no idea. She knew nothing about Afghanistan. They would have to be well dressed, as befitted the position. It meant withdrawing some of her savings. Her story on the hadj was proving popular with readers. She knew by the letters she received from Elizabeth Leigh of the Register. Now she thought she might be able to get a commission to send dispatches from Afghanistan about life in the royal court. Few people would have the opportunity to go to see for themselves.

  After they had eaten she put the two younger children to bed and told Yusef to come and sit by her in the cool of the evening outside their hut. She handed him a cup of sweet, milky tea, saying, ‘I want to talk to you. I know life has been hard on you without a father. Soon you’ll have to leave school, and then what will you do? Everyone is leaving ghantown. Before long we’ll be here on our own. I’ve tried to do the best for you but it’s hard.’ She paused, thinking about how hard she had to work. Some days her hands were red-raw from the washing soda, and in the afternoon when she heated the flatirons on the fuel stove, with the heat off the tin roof, she felt as if she was in hell. But she didn’t want to burden her son with that.

  She put her arm around him and he rested his head on her shoulder. ‘If we go to Afghanistan we’ll live in a palace like we did in Bombay. There’ll be plenty to eat and a garden to play in and you and Ray will be educated properly. You might even go to Oxford University, like Gandhi. Then you’ll amount to something in the world. In Afghanistan it will be like being with your own people.’

  She stopped speaking and gazed at her son. He was fighting to stay awake. She kissed him on the forehead and he opened his eyes. The eyes that gazed back at her were the eyes of Ali. ‘While my son lives, Ali will never die,’ she thought. Some woman would fall in love with those wonderful brown eyes, just as she had done.

  ‘We’ll go to Afghanistan. It’s what your father would have wished.’ She touched her son lightly on the head. ‘Run along to bed, otherwise you’ll never be up in time to go to school.’

  The boy rose. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘I think I understand … I’ll talk to Ray. We like it here. We’ve got friends at school and there’s lots to do — swimming in Hookey’s Hole, going rabbiting. But you’re a woman and you need something different, and Pansy, she needs looking after.’

  Long after he had gone to sleep Winifred sat under the stars, staring into the blackness, thinking about her life and what the future might hold. Allah had answered her prayers. He had offered her a way out, an escape.

  Her dreams carried her to England and Buckingham Palace, where she had once stood at the tradesmen’s entrance with her father. She could see herself being presented at court, wearing a velvet dress with a train and feathers in her hair, while Pansy stood by her side in white silk. It was with such dreams that Winifred accepted the invitation, sharing the news of her good fortune with the old Moslem men who were still in ghantown. If they wondered why she had been chosen for such a singular honour they did not question it.

  26

  BEBE ZATOON EN ROUTE TO AFGHANISTAN

  HAD WINIFRED BEEN AWARE OF the growing conflict in Afghanistan she may not have been so willing to undertake the journey. It was not until she was interviewed by Elizabeth Leigh on her way through Adelaide, and was shown the newspaper reports, that she became aware of the precarious position of the King and Queen of Afghanistan who were in open conflict with the religious leaders in Kabul.

  The first of these reports appeared in Melbourne’s Sun-News Pictorial on 5 December 1928, when the question of the king’s reforms was being discussed, particularly the decree that all men must wear European dress.

  The article concluded by stating:

  The Afghan King with his sweeping changes has set his country definitely on the lines of progress. He has already abolished a few barbaric customs, and others which must go the same way. His people, however, include no less than five distinct races and they are all intensely Mohammedan. They are fanatical where their religious customs are threatened and some of these the King has already abolished. Moreover, the Afghans are the most turbulent people in the world.

  Winifred admitted to feeling nervous but was confident that she could manage because she had survived the perilous journey to Mecca. But circumstances were not the same. The pilgrims may have been preyed upon by unscrupulous traders who tried to fleece them, but on the whole Mecca was a peaceful place where they were welcome. In Afghanistan, the home of fanatical Moslems, the king’s reforms were in direct conflict with the leaders of the church, whose power was threatened. A revolution was in progress.

  Winifred still had no real perception of the growing struggle for Home Rule in India, or that Afghanistan was seen as a danger to British interests in India. She had no idea that King Amanullah and his queen were being wooed by the British, hoping to cement closer ties and ward off intervention from Russia which was keen to get a foothold in India and share in the spoils that flowed to Britain.

  At the same time King Amanullah’s decree that his subjects should wear Western dress, and the Queen’s attempt to liberate the women of her country by appearing in public without a veil, had enraged the Moslem leaders in Afghanistan.

  By the time Winifred left Australia, King Amanullah and his family were under siege, with reports in the Sydney Morning Herald on 19 December 1929 that the king had ‘taken refuge in a fort … then returned to Kabul. He is now residing at the Palace.’ Another report in the same issue stated that the leaders of the tribesmen assured the British minister ‘that they had no hostile intentions towards the [British] Legation’, also that the Indian Government ‘would take all possible steps to protect British nationals’.

  It was a rough passage through the Indian Ocean with the children seasick, except for Rhamat, who went backwards and forwards to the upper deck to check on the weather. Winifred stayed below to look after Pansy, who cried each time the ship rolled. All Winifred could do was lie beside her in the bunk, holding her to make sure she didn’t fall out. Pansy was dozing when Rhamat came bursting into the cabin, his hair wild, his face wet from sea spray and said, ‘I’ve been up to check the lifeboats in case the ship sinks.’ Pansy woke with a start and began crying.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Winifred and she reached out and boxed Rhamat’s ears with all her strength.

  At the same time the ship shuddered as a wave hit it full on. The boy went flying across the cabin and hit his head on the wooden ladder beside the lower bunk, where Yusef was vomiting into a basin. He sat on the floor rubbing his head and snivelling, while his mother ignored him. In the end he climbed into the top bunk and lay there holding onto the side as the ship continued to roll.

  When the storm had abated Winifred took stock of their clothes in preparation for their entry into Bombay. She had shopped in Adelaide, buying herself a grey two-piece woollen suit, some cream silk blouses and a grey cloche hat. She was determined to make a good impression on her new employers. The shop assistant had pinned a bunch of artificial violets to her lapel, ‘for colour’, she had said, adding, ‘Madam looks very chic. May I suggest a jar of face cream for Madam’s complexion. You have lived in the tropics perhaps?’

  Winifred had bought the face cream, knowing she had neglected her appearance and wondering if it was too late to repair the damage. She had tried on a pair of grey kid shoes to match her new outfit but had resisted the temptation, buying instead a pair of sensible black shoes.

  The boys were neat in knickerbockers and long-sleeved white shirts, polished brown leather shoes, long socks and black ribbon bow ties. Winifred had made Pansy some pretty little dresses from ends of silk. When they wen
t ashore the child was wearing a white dress with puff sleeves and a Peter Pan collar embroidered with tiny pink roses. On her head was a straw hat with pink ribbons that tied under her chin and she wore black patent leather shoes with a strap and long white socks.

  Winifred felt very proud of her children as they stood on deck while the ship moved up the harbour into Bombay. She looked across to the spire of the cathedral, the outline of buildings, the Gateway to India at the Apollo Bunder. A surge of excitement went through her, as if she was coming home.

  The children felt it too, running from side to side. Below, the water was crowded with small boats, with vendors trying to attract the attention of the passengers. One man was holding up a handful of paper cobras on sticks. ‘Look, Mum. Can I have one?’ Rhamat pleaded, almost falling over the side and Winifred grabbed him by the back of his shirt. ‘If you fall overboard you can stay there. Just be thankful we’ve arrived safely.’

  She looked down at the sea wall, holding Pansy in her arms, averting the child’s head at the sight of the bloated body of a dead goat washing backwards and forwards among the driftwood, flowers and sodden paper. Yusef and Rhamat were holding their noses and saying ‘Pooh’, as they caught a whiff of the smell of rotting garbage mingled with the smell of spices.

  Winifred smelt it too, and thought of Gandhi and his untouchables. Beggars lined the sea wall. There were wizened old men with closed eyes being led by thin-faced young children; women holding diseased babies in their arms; coolies in white dhotis, their skin like leather from the sun as they stood between the shafts of small wooden barrows, hoping to earn a few rupees carting luggage to a waiting vehicle.

  They were met by Dr John da Silva, with whose parents they were to stay. The da Silva family lived in a magnificent mansion of three storeys, almost hidden from the road behind a high fence. Winifred’s first sight of it was when an attendant in white, wearing a red turban, flung open the heavy wrought-iron gates to allow the limousine to sweep up the short gravelled drive to the front door. Inside was a marble floor patterned in a black and white check design, and pillars that reached to the ceiling, from which ornate brass lamps with red glass panels hung. Winifred took it in with one glance and then smiled at the children, who were standing there gazing around in awe. ‘Your eyes will fall out if you keep looking like that,’ she said, while John da Silva laughed. ‘This house was built by a prince. When he died my grandfather bought it. We live rather simple lives here.’

  They were led up a carved wooden staircase to a room on the first floor which was furnished with charpoys with mosquito nets hanging from above. A ceiling fan was turning slowly. The ayah, wearing a red cotton sari, padded after them. She cupped her hand to her forehead and, bowing to Winifred, said softly, ‘Mem-sahib, I will look after the children while you rest.’

  Winifred was conscious of the children looking at her anxiously but she smiled and waved them away. ‘It’s all right. These people are our friends.’

  It was late afternoon when a servant called to escort Winifred to afternoon tea in the drawing room. Her hosts were there to greet her. Mrs da Silva was wearing a soft pink sari, while her husband wore a dark business suit and on his head a black fez.

  ‘Welcome to our home,’ Mrs da Silva said. ‘I hope you have everything you need,’ and guided her to a comfortable chair.

  A servant poured Winifred a cup of masala. It was sweet and milky and flavoured with cinnamon and she sipped it slowly to be polite. What she yearned for was a cup of strong black tea and she decided that before she left for Afghanistan she would send to the bazaar for a box of black tea and a spirit stove and teapot.

  The servant passed her a plate with a small fork on it and put a tiered stand by her side with a selection of cakes and bread and butter. He hovered for a moment until Mr da Silva said, ‘You may go. I’ll ring if we need anything,’ then he padded out on bare feet.

  Winifred helped herself to a slice of bread and butter and then looked up. Her hosts were regarding her gravely.

  ‘You have heard the news, Mrs Steger?’ Mr da Silva spoke first.

  Winifred stared at him. ‘What news?’

  ‘I thought your newspapers … It has all happened so suddenly. King Amanullah has been forced to flee the capital with his family. It’s all to do with his reforms. The mullahs have told him to put his queen from him. And of course he has refused.’ He rose and began to pace up and down, pausing to look out the window where large black birds were circling. ‘I think she has been foolish. She unveiled herself at a public meeting. What will happen to them no one knows.’

  As his words sank in Winifred could feel her hands trembling. She put her cup and saucer on a side table, trying not to show her agitation. Mr da Silva moved his chair closer and sat down facing Winifred. He was regarding her kindly and she tried to compose herself. ‘They said to tell you how sorry they are. They do not think it possible for you to go to Afghanistan. It is no longer safe. You are to stay in India as long as you wish. Enjoy yourself. Have a holiday.’

  Winifred could feel her pulse racing and a feeling of nausea swept over her. She had come to India with such high hopes — an education for her sons, and a life of comfort for herself and Pansy. She had uprooted herself for nothing. She was very close to tears.

  Mrs da Silva rang the bell and the servant returned. ‘Take our guest to her room. See that she has everything she needs.’ She turned to Winifred with a look of concern. ‘You are tired. It has been a great shock. Rest now. We will try to make your stay as pleasant as possible.’

  It was not until the next day that Winifred felt composed enough to leave her room, excusing herself when the servant came to call her to prayers. She was served a meal of dhal with curried vegetables and chapattis, followed by a dish of sliced mango and a pot of strong black tea. By the time the ayah had brought the children to bed she had gathered herself together, determined not to tell the children, hoping things might still work out.

  Pansy was already asleep and Winifred tucked her into bed, stroking the child’s soft cheek and kissing her. The boys were bubbling over with excitement, telling her of the peacocks in the garden and the little boy who spent the day waving a stick to shoo away the black birds that tried to eat the fish in the lotus pond. But finally she got them to sleep, wondering how long it would be before the novelty wore off and they got sick of being cooped up in the house.

  * * *

  The da Silvas were of Portuguese descent. Their paternal great-grandfather had come to India to trade in precious stones when Bombay had belonged to the Portuguese. He had married an Indian girl. The present Mr da Silva had inherited the family wealth and still carried on the family business. His son had branched out into medicine and practised as a doctor. He and his wife and children shared the family home.

  Mr da Silva was a respected member of the Khalifat. It was he who explained the intricacies of the political situation in Afghanistan after dinner the next evening, when they had dismissed the servants and were sitting in the courtyard drinking tea. Winifred was feeling refreshed. She relaxed in a rattan chair, breathing in the languid air perfumed with sandalwood which smouldered in a brazier to drive away mosquitoes. Behind the high wall the street noises were subdued but she could hear the screeching of peacocks in the garden and the chatter of birds from a giant peepul tree as they settled for the night. She felt at peace with herself. For the moment she was content, feeling that fate had placed her where she was. As to what happened next she would leave that in the hands of God.

  Mr da Silva’s voice brought her back to the present. Lulled by a good meal and the feeling of peace, she had dozed off. She opened her eyes and sat up straight.

  ‘It’s an explosive situation. Afghanistan lies between British-occupied India, Persia and Russia. Last century the Afghans fought the English. Skirmishes went on for years until a treaty was signed. England gave the Afghan rulers guns and money to help them remain independent.’ He rose and took a cigar from a box on the table a
nd lit it, then continued speaking, pacing up and down, his back to Winifred. ‘Forgive me for what I am about to say, but it is the truth. You are British and may find it hard to understand. All England really wanted was to conquer Afghanistan and use it as she has used my poor country. That is why she has wooed King Amanullah. But now the Afghan people are in revolt and there is no guarantee that Russia will not interfere.’

  ‘But what about the queen?’ Winifred asked.

  ‘She is trying to emulate the women she met in England and France. But it is too soon. My wife, like other educated Indian women, admires her.’

  ‘When will we know what is really happening?’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘It could be tomorrow. It could be weeks. We are concerned for the safety of the king. In the meantime you must regard this as your home. Go out. Meet people. Make the most of it while you are here.’

  At first Winifred and her children explored the areas where the wealthy Indians lived, and places where there were great public buildings built by the British, such as Victoria Station with its green dome, which looked like some majestic cathedral from the outside. ‘It’s just like being in London,’ Winifred told them. As they gained confidence they ventured further afield, travelling by tonga. Though they were approached by beggars who ran alongside holding out their hands, she did not give them money, remembering what had happened on the hadj when Karum Bux had been too generous. Instead, she averted her eyes and told the children not to stare.

  Sometimes they caught the bus that ran from the Afghan church to Crawford Markets. It was one of the boys’ favourite outings. In the fruit markets monkeys swung from the rafters, darting down to grab a bunch of bananas then pelting the stallholders and customers alike with the skin, or sometimes the fruit, until everyone joined in and pelted the monkeys back. Despite the smell of decaying fruit and vegetables and the swarms of flies, it was a happy place: a refuge from the congested and noisy streets with bullock waggons rumbling along with huge bales of cotton on their way to the mill, tongas weaving in and out and food vendors pushing their carts. Car horns tooted as the drivers tried to dodge horse-drawn vehicles, pedestrians, dabbawallahs pushing handcarts laden with tiffin boxes as they delivered hot meals from homes to offices, and the sacred cows that ambled along holding up the traffic.