The Moneylenders of Shahpur

by Helen Forrester

  ‘Keep still, please, Sahib.’

  The barber stepped back in order to view his handiwork, and then said coyly to John, ‘I hear you’re considering marriage, too, Sahib.’

  ‘What?’ shouted John, sitting up in his chair so suddenly that he nearly lost an eye to the advancing scissors.

  The barber jumped backwards, scissors held engarde, his professional aplomb severely shaken. ‘I – I – er just heard a little word about it,’ he said, eyeing John nervously.

  John laughed at him and relaxed again into his basket chair.

  ‘Wherever did you hear it?’

  The barber took up his comb and combed furiously, while he considered his reply. He bent his head to look at the hairline he had trimmed. ‘I think that’ll do,’ he muttered, and whipped a hand mirror out of his shopping bag.

  John glanced at himself in the tiny mirror. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘No oil. Where did you hear it and who is to be the bride?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to be married, Sahib? I must say I thought it unlikely, in spite of other rumours to the contrary.’

  He looked down at John’s spare body and the hurt legs.

  John was irritated by the look. ‘Well? I want to know who I’m to marry – Miss Prasad?’

  The barber ventured a snigger at the mention of this prim, dedicated female. ‘No, no, Sahib. The English lady with the copper-coloured hair, Sahib. She’s often in the villages, working with Dr Ferozeshah. I don’t know her name.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Armstrong. Well, she’s a friend of mine. I wonder why anyone should think I’m about to marry her, though.’

  ‘It was your inquiry about the house which Dean Mehta rented temporarily for his daughter’s marriage. It’s to let again. A good house, Sahib, with its own well.’

  Despite being smothered in shaving soap, John sat bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘Look here,’ he almost shouted, ‘I haven’t made any inquiries about that house.’

  The barber tut-tutted and wiped soapsuds off John’s eyebrows.

  ‘The landlord himself told me, Sahib; I came straight from him to you. He said you had asked about repairs and rent, so naturally he assumed you were about to marry – the lady comes to see you regularly.’ The barber waved his razor in the air rather hopelessly. ‘It seemed quite natural, Sahib.’

  John sniffed. ‘I’ve made no inquiries and I don’t intend to get married just to please my neighbours. The man must be out of his mind.’

  ‘Just bend your head a little to the left, please, Sahib. That’s better.’ The fearsome razor swept gracefully round his neck. ‘Your skin is not what it might be, Sahib. The sun is very hard on white skins. Now, I have here …’

  ‘No,’ snapped John resolutely. ‘My old red hide is doing quite well, thank you. Married, indeed.’

  ‘Well, Ranjit said it would be quite soon.’

  ‘He did, did he? Hmm. I suppose it was he who actually saw the landlord?’

  ‘Of course, Sahib.’ The barber was by now completely bewildered, and silently tackled the cleaning of John’s ears, while John sat and fumed.

  The mirror was again produced and John looked at himself.

  For the first time for years he really considered what he looked like. Heavens, his face was seamed and weatherbeaten, and was that really grey hair at his temples? Surely, at thirty-four he should not be grey?

  The crushed barber saw his client’s fingers stray up over the offending skin and hair and hastened to pay a compliment.

  He smiled ingratiatingly and said, ‘Most distinguished-looking, Sahib.’

  ‘Humph,’ said John, nonetheless slightly comforted. ‘How much?’

  The barber was paid, packed his shopping bag and retreated down the path to the compound gate, promising to come again in two weeks’ time.

  ‘Ranjit!’ roared John, and, at the tone of voice, Ranjit appeared with the speed of a rabbit, hastily wiping his wet hands on his sweat cloth.

  ‘Just what have you been doing? That lunatic of a barber said you were inquiring about the house for rent down the road.’

  Ranjit swallowed, considered what he should say and only succeeded in looking very guilty.

  ‘Well, Sahib, it … er.’

  ‘The wretch suggested I was going to be married … now I’ll be bothered by everybody asking me if I am, blast it, and every tradesman in the district will try to sell me things. What on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘I happened to meet the landlord, Sahib, and I asked him – er, out of general interest, Sahib. You will remember that we were talking about the need for you to have a better house a little while ago?’

  John took a large breath and reminded himself that Ranjit was his most devoted friend.

  ‘And getting married?’

  This question in Ranjit’s opinion demanded a straight answer. It was obvious that his young master – John was permanently about eighteen in Ranjit’s mind – did not know what he was doing. Otherwise he would not ask such a silly question.

  ‘Sahib, even in England, if you favour a young woman with your interest and she eats with you and you sit close to her, doesn’t that mean that you’ll marry her?’

  Despite his indignation, John’s eyes began to twinkle. ‘It depends on your intentions.’

  ‘A man such as yourself could not possibly have any intentions, except marriage,’ declared Ranjit stalwartly, but wondering suddenly if Englishmen were, perhaps, a little like Indians in some respects.

  John’s temper had cooled. He took out his pipe and lit it, putting the dead match carefully back into the box, before he answered.

  ‘I’ve no intentions at all, Ranjit. You know that my legs are a mess. They don’t work very well and they are scarred. I’m also no longer young. I wouldn’t like to ask a woman to marry such an old crock.’

  Seeing that the storm had passed, Ranjit ventured to sit down on the top step. He rubbed the grey stubble on his chin, as he considered John’s last remark. He loved his master, as if he were his own son, and enjoyed serving a bachelor, but lately the Sahib had been fretful without reason. He had seen him watch the little Memsahib go down the path to the gate, and then turn back to his desk, to sit silently staring at the papers before him, unable to work.

  It was the law of all Hindu families that parents should marry off their children. Men and women should enjoy their spouses and only in age turn to asceticism. The Sahib had never known the joys of marriage and this was not normal.

  Few servants liked to serve a married couple – wives had a habit of poking their noses into every domestic detail – but Ranjit was prepared to do this, if it made his master content. He, therefore, cleared his throat, blew his nose, and went into battle.

  ‘Women, Sahib,’ he began, ‘are peculiar creatures. When they care for us, it is frequently because of our deficiencies and stupidities.’

  John blew a cloud of smoke, and laughed.

  Ranjit looked indignant. ‘You laugh, Sahib, because you have no experience. The little Memsahib …’

  The laugh died in John’s throat. ‘Well, what about her?’ he asked quite sharply.

  Determinedly, Ranjit plunged on. ‘The little Memsahib doesn’t see that you are a little older than some. She does not see your sick legs, though she will help you to cure them. She sees only you, Sahib.’

  John looked silently out over the shabby compound. Ranjit had the eyes of a vulture, missing nothing.

  At last he said, ‘Have you asked the lady for me, Ranjit?’

  ‘There is no need, Sahib. It is in every look she gives you.’

  ‘Do you like her, Ranjit?’

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’ He searched for words, pulling nervously at his little pigtail at the back of his head as if to stimulate the brains within. ‘More than other English ladies I have served.’

  ‘Ah, well, Ranjit. Cats can look at kings, and I suppose I can look at a pretty woman sometimes. Now I am going to think about this map I am to draw for Shri Lallubhai. Go away and make me
some dinner.’

  ‘Ji, hun,’ assented Ranjit, heaving himself to his feet and wondering if he had done any good at all with his attempt at matchmaking.

  Dusk came while John was still working on the map. Lacking a large table, he had pinned big sheets of paper to the walls of his room. Propped up by the end of his table, he stood in front of these, pencil in one hand and ruler in the other, while he roughed in the districts that he knew. He hoped that his assistant from the City Engineer’s Department would be able to add more details to his work.

  He had turned to pick up a fresh pencil and to switch on another light, when he thought he heard the compound gate click. He paused, took up his stick and went towards his open front door.

  It was much darker than he had realized, the stars already lay like brilliants on indigo velvet and the world was quiet with after-dinner hush.

  She saw him before he saw her, his spare figure silhouetted against the light of the lamp, and she came towards him like a drifting ghost.

  ‘Diana,’ he exclaimed.

  The sound of her first name made her pause, then she came swiftly up the steps, her arms full of rolls of paper, her face aglow.

  He took the rolls from her and tossed them on to his couch, then took her arm and drew her into the softly lit room. He did not let go of her arm, but stood looking down at her.

  ‘This is a pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘Ranjit said in the bazaar this morning that you wanted to show me the map, so I came as soon as I could and brought that stuff from the City Engineer.’ She pointed to the pile of papers, and then realized that he was still holding her bare arm. She faltered, and looked up at him a little beseechingly.

  ‘Ranjit is apt to be a trifle premature,’ he said rather grimly, and continued to hold her arm and look at her, until her pulses quickened and she dropped her own gaze, lest he realize how disconcerted she was.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, and led her to the couch. He moved the blueprints and sat down beside her. He had never done this before, and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He caught the look and she smiled at him. The tight, withdrawn expression on his face faded, but he continued to look at her as if he had never really seen her before. He knew suddenly that he wanted her like he had never wanted anything for years. Not only did he desperately want her in his bed, but he wanted her to be opposite him at breakfast, to listen to his hopes and fears – and even to his very bad jokes. He slowly let go of her arm. Dare he ask her?

  His eyes moved over the short, red-gold hair to the little, freckled triangle of skin under her throat, burned red by the sun, and he realized that she had on a different dress, the neckline of which plunged and curved delicately over full, white breasts. It was a dress meant for dinner dates and moonlit evenings, not for hard work on maps. He chuckled, and grinned at her engagingly.

  ‘Could you stay to dinner once more?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I don’t have enough company these days.’

  To his further amusement, she blushed furiously, scarlet running up to her hairline. She fingered her glass bangles nervously, before she answered.

  ‘Ranjit said you would expect me to stay to dinner whenever I came. He said you always asked people because you didn’t like eating by yourself.’ She said it teasingly, as if to belie the telltale blush.

  It will be a marvel if he hasn’t asked her to stay to breakfast as well, he thought, but he answered without hesitation, ‘Ranjit is quite right.’

  ‘Then I shall be delighted to stay.’

  John stood up and went to the window.

  A well burnished moon was rising. The University gardens would be a pretty haven tonight, he thought, and he turned back into the room, his mind made up.

  ‘Ranjit,’ he roared. ‘Make dinner for two. Armstrong Memsahib has come.’

  Ranjit came through the door from the back veranda. He had shaved and had on a clean shirt. He grinned toothlessly, as he announced, ‘Dinner is ready now, Sahib, and there is plenty for two.’

  ‘Ranjit, you are a genius.’

  And Ranjit viewed the rather self-conscious couple and replied contentedly, ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE MONEYLENDERS OF SHAHPUR

  Helen Forrester was born in Hoylake, Cheshire, the eldest of seven children. For many years, until she married, her home was Liverpool – a city that features prominently in her work. For the past forty years she has lived in Alberta, Canada.

  Helen Forrester is the author of four best-selling volumes of autobiography and a number of equally successful novels, the latest of which is Madame Barbara. In 1988 she was awarded an honorary D.Litt by the University of Liverpool in recognition of her achievements as an author. The University of Alberta conferred on her the same honour in 1993.

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  Fiction

  THURSDAY’S CHILD

  THE LATCHKEY KID

  LIVERPOOL DAISY

  THREE WOMEN OF LIVERPOOL

  THE MONEYLENDERS OF SHAHPUR

  YES, MAMA

  THE LEMON TREE

  THE LIVERPOOL BASQUE

  MOURNING DOVES

  MADAME BARBARA

  Non-fiction

  TWOPENCE TO CROSS THE MERSEY

  LIVERPOOL MISS

  BY THE WATERS OF LIVERPOOL

  LIME STREET AT TWO

  COPYRIGHT

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Previously published in paperback by HarperCollins 1994

  Fontana 1987

  www.harpercollins.co.uk.

  A hardcover edition also published by Collins 1987

  Copyright © Jamunadevi Bhatia 1987

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Epub Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN 9780007392179

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a novel. Its situations and characters are imaginary. No reference is made or intended to any person living or dead.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  http://www.harpercollins.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor

  Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

  http://www.harpercollins.ca

  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1

  Auckland, New Zealand />
  http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  London, W6 8JB, UK

  http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, NY 10022

  http://www.harpercollins.com