by Sara Banerji
But there, in the bedroom, was Babuchi again. “Oh, I still don’t want anything!” called Ben. And then, to cheer up the old man a little. “Well, I know. Make me some of your wonderful lemon flip …”
The rustling stopped momentarily, then went on again. This time Ben caught the smell of moth balls.
“Oh,” he muttered in aggravation, and got up. He went over to the door and looked into the bedroom about to say, “Babuchi, I think you should take a holiday.” He got as far as “I think,” and then stopped, staring.
Julia stood by the bed holding her mother’s straw hat. The tissue paper in which it had lain since her wedding was tossed upon the bed.
She stood poised, in a way that reminded him of a bird about to fly, her hand balanced lightly on the brim of the hat, and her white frock, that had been torn, seemed to twinkle with some sort of sparkling stuff, like mica grains in an ancient statue. Silly words came into Ben’s mind. “She looks as though she has been brushed by stars.”
He blinked, dazzled by a sudden light, and, looking out of the window, saw that the trees had become transformed into fountains. Light was frothing from their leaves to form glowing haloes. Low mists of light lay upon the tea bushes.
He heard a tapping sound behind him, and turning saw that the little elephants and the lamps and the books and the pictures on the walls, the vases of flowers, and his pens and papers all glowed too. And then they began to tilt and drift as though all the objects in the room, things made of leather and paper, plastic and iron, cloth and plaster had started to fidget.
And in the middle of this dancing creativity stood Julia like a still centre.
The little china goose, stuck together in many places, began to tumble from the mantelpiece. All Babuchi’s efforts would be for nothing. Julia turned her head and looked at the shattered china thing. She gently raised her hand. Suddenly, as though the ornament was made of feathers instead of china, it began to float. And landed unharmed among the tissue paper pieces on the bed.
“I brought it for your birthday,” said Ben stiffly.
Julia smiled and touched it with her fingertip. Then looking round the room, she raised her finger to her lips, and whispered, “Hush” as though addressing noisy children. The things in the room became still.
Perfume came pouring from the roses printed on the chintz, and sounds of laughter from the people painted in her mother’s picture. Happiness came cascading out of lights and mirrors, joy fell from the hanging light like a rain shower from the ceiling.
Julia put her mother’s hat gently on her head, so that her hair crackled and sparked, but did not hurt her. Through the little weavings in the straw poured golden grace that pierced her cheek with a thousand lacy lights.
“It is so pretty,” she said softly. “It seems a pity to keep it always wrapped up, and hidden from sight.” Her face was so deep in the shadow of the hat that Ben could not see her expression at all.
Ben stepped towards her. She put out her arms to him. Then suddenly she stopped, looked down, and said, “Oh! Ben! At last there’s a hole in your sock!”
She began to laugh. After a minute Ben found himself laughing too. Soon their faces became covered with tears as though they were crying as well. In the end they could hardly breathe so they had to hold on to each other or they would have fallen over.
“Have you got any grey wool?” asked Ben through his laughing.
“I will do it in purple, and green and silver. I will do it in carmine and pink and yellow. In gold and black and gander. It will be the most beautiful darn in the world, Ben Clockhouse!” said Julia.
“I have never seen a colour called ‘gander’,” said Ben.
“Oh? Haven’t you?” Julia looked surprised. “There are gander orchids up the hill. Shall we go and see them in spite of the rain?”
A Note on the Author
Sara Banerji was born in 1932 in Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, in England. One of her ancestors is Henry Fielding, the 18th century author who wrote The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling.
In 1939, when Banerji was 7, World War II began, and she was evacuated to various large and old country mansions. Her father, Basil Mostyn, fought in the war.
After the war was over, Banerji emigrated with her family to Southern Rhodesia. The family lived in a single mud rondavel with no electricity or running water.
Banerji later travelled all around Europe, visiting various places. She worked as an au pair and also attended art school in Austria. She has also worked as an artist, and has held exhibitions of her oil paintings in India. She also taught riding whilst in India, and has been a jockey. She is also a sculptress, and has previously been a waitress.
Banerji worked in a coffee bar in Oxford, where she met her future husband, Ranjit Banerji, who was an undergraduate from India. He was a customer in the coffee bar. They married and moved to India, where they lived for seventeen years. Banerji attempted to run a dairy farm, which was defeated by monsoons and heavy seasons of rain.
Discover books by Sara Banerji published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/SaraBanerji
Absolute Hush
Cobweb Walking
Shining Agnes
The Tea-Planter’s Daughter
The Wedding of Jayanthi Mandel
Writing on Skin
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1988 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.
Copyright © 1988 Sara Banerji
All rights reserved
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may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN 9781448208371
eISBN: 9781448208364
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