Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  The sadness was interrupted by a clip-clopping sound, like heavy horse hoofs on a hard road but, How can anything clip-clop on sand? thought Mary. Then she saw a small brown shape with a white nose: a donkey had come up on the verandah.

  ‘Bumble, Bumble. There’s a donkey on the verandah.’

  ‘A donkey! Get it out at once,’ but Mary had seen why it clopped: the donkey’s hoofs had never been trimmed or cut so that they turned up like Turkish slippers.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Mary. ‘Oh, poor thing. Bumble, come and look.’

  Long ago when in Rome, the small Mary had had an Italian nurse, Giovanna. Darling Giovanna, thought Mary as she remembered now how Giovanna had told her that because Jesus Christ sat on a donkey colt for his entrance into Jerusalem – it was somehow mixed, in Mary’s otherwise pagan mind, with palms – ‘Ever since,’ Giovanna had said, ‘all donkeys bear stripes like a cross on their backs.’ Mary had not known if the story were true but she had always honoured donkeys and here, on this one’s back, was the striped cross, plain to see. ‘Bumble, look. Do come and look. Poor little thing.’

  A laugh came from behind a white painted wickerwork partition. ‘He isn’t poor. He’s a perfect little pest.’

  The laugh, the voice were musical and deep for a woman but it was a woman who appeared on the garden path below the verandah. In the gathering dusk Mary could not see her plainly but had the impression of someone tall, thin as the wrapped skirt of her dress showed – an elegant dress – of dark hair pulled back into a coil at the nape of the neck. Mary could not see her face. ‘A pest?’ she said. ‘He’s sweet.’

  ‘He’s not at all sweet. No one has ever been able to shoe him or even catch him. Yet he likes people. He’s here all the time. He comes up the side steps.’

  ‘That he won’t.’ Blaise appeared in the doorway but, ‘What’s his name?’ asked Mary.

  ‘He hasn’t a name. He’s one of Auntie Sanni’s pensioners.’

  ‘Auntie Sanni? Do you mean Mrs McIndoe?’

  ‘Auntie Sanni to us. You’ll see.’ The woman – lady, Mary corrected herself – paused looking at them, taking them in. ‘How do you do? I am Mrs Manning, Olga Manning. I have a sitting room. Come round and have a drink and I’ll tell you all about everything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Blaise said quickly, ‘but we have to change for dinner or we’ll be late. Come along, Mary.’ Mary gave a defiant little shrug, went down the steps, round the partition to Olga Manning’s sitting room. The donkey clopped after her.

  ‘Tonight is the inaugural meeting of our campaign.’ Dr Coomaraswamy, Mr Srinivasan behind him, had come out on the house verandah for a drink before the gong sounded for dinner and found Sir John and Lady Fisher already there.

  ‘Our inaugural meeting,’ repeated Mr Srinivasan.

  ‘Would you not come, Sir John, and give us your blessing?’

  ‘My dear man,’ Sir John laid his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder, ‘the last thing I feel like is a political meeting.’

  ‘That is a pity. I am to make my inaugural speech.’ Dr Coomaraswamy smiled at the thought: he loved oratory. ‘I must make it exactly explicit. This is a rural district—’

  ‘The people are extremely rural,’ put in Mr Srinivasan.

  ‘So that everything has to be explained, but everything, in Telegu as well as Tamil. Fortunately I, myself, am multilingual.’ Dr Coomaraswamy visibly swelled. ‘In European languages as well . . . I shall begin . . .’

  ‘Does Dr Coomaraswamy have to make his inaugural speech twice?’ Kuku asked audibly. Fortunately the Doctor was called to the telephone.

  ‘Constantly he is called to the telephone.’ Mr Srinivasan scurried after him.

  ‘Same dear old Coomaraswamy,’ said Sir John when they had gone. ‘But I should have been interested to hear young Krishnan.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Lady Fisher.

  ‘Where is your candidate?’ Sir John asked when Dr Coomaraswamy and his echo came back. ‘Where is Krishnan?’

  There was a pause. The Doctor and Mr Srinivasan looked at one another with a slight unease, then, ‘Krishnan Bhanj has chosen to remain at our headquarters in Ghandara.’

  ‘In Ghandara,’ confirmed Mr Srinivasan and Dr Coomaraswamy gave a sigh, such a sigh that, clearly, it came from the depths of his being. ‘I confess to you, Sir John, I am profoundly disturbed. We do not understand at all what Krishnan is doing.’

  ‘Or not doing,’ Mr Srinivasan said piteously.

  ‘Yet I have to accede as if there were some mystery force. For instance, only last week I allowed him, from party funds, to spend ten thousand rupees on umbrellas.’

  ‘Umbrellas?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘To be distributed,’ explained Mr Srinivasan.

  ‘In Konak?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘No, not in Konak. That I could have understood but Krishnan ordered as far away as possible, actually in Bihar. It has something to do with the mission of our young women but now he asks a further twenty-five thousand rupees which he needs to carry this project out. It looks as if’, Dr Coomaraswamy was still more glum, ‘I myself will have to supply that.’

  ‘But an umbrella’, said Sir John, ‘is the symbol of Padmina Retty’s Shelter Party.’

  ‘I have told Krishnan that. Besides, of course, he knows it perfectly well.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sir John.

  The knoll to the left of Patna Hall was an unexpectedly high mound, topped by palm trees whose fronds rattled in the wind; a small path went up to where, under them, Auntie Sanni had put a seat. Every evening, when she had bathed and washed her hair, she would put on another clean, freshly ironed Mother Hubbard dress, also her pearl necklace, the pearls real and beautifully matched, take her palm leaf fan from Hannah, who had attended her, and then come out on the wide verandah where Colonel McIndoe, dressed too for dinner in linen trousers, a cummerbund and jacket, waited for her. He would make an arm, she would put her hand in it and slowly, because of her weight, they would walk up to the knoll. ‘Walk! She lumbers,’ said Kuku.

  From the knoll they could survey all that was Auntie Sanni’s: the hotel, the demesne and the beach – she had to acknowledge she could not own the sea.

  On the other side of the hotel, in the grove, the trees were dark against the white sand. The fishermen had shrines under the casuarinas and sometimes lit dipas there. They made the pricks of light Mary had seen.

  Below, Patna Hall itself was lit into brightness, its lights, like a necklace, going down to the shore. A red light shone from the roof where braziers had been lit to make the barbecue for the cohorts – Sir John had nicknamed them ‘the disciples’. Auntie Sanni could see smoke going up, pale in the dimness of the young moon and a sudden flame when the braziers were fanned. An answering glow came from the gatehouse where Shyama was cooking, Thambi keeping watch but, tonight, there was another glow, red and living from the mango grove. ‘Someone has lit a fire there,’ said Auntie Sanni. She looked towards the village where a drum was being beaten. ‘Something is in the air,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  It was always a proud moment for Samuel when he sounded the gong for dinner.

  Though dinner might go on being served until ten or eleven, the gong for the residents was rung punctually at eight. ‘That is late for Americans,’ Kuku had pointed out. ‘In the Taj Hotel they begin serving dinner at half past six.’

  ‘If they come to Patna Hall’, said Auntie Sanni, ‘they must do as we do.’

  At five to eight, Samuel turned on the dining-room lights so that the starched white of the tablecloths was reflected in the polished dark red of the floor, which reflected, too, the white clothes of the waiters with their cummerbunds and turban bands of red and gold. The wine waiter, Ganga, an Ooriyah who served only wine and drinks, not food, was further distinguished by gold buttons and epaulettes. ‘We have a wine waiter,’ Samuel had told Kuku. ‘He will fetch the drinks. There is no need for you to come from the bar.’ Kuku still came, the end of her e
vening sari flowing as she moved between the tables, outdoing Ganga. Like Samuel, this was the best time of the day for Kuku.

  At eight, everything was ready, the waiters at their stations, every table set, napkins fluted in the glasses, silver glittering, fresh flowers on every table. Soup was waiting in the hot cases where the small braziers shone red; final touches were being given in the kitchens. A small army of dishwashers was ready to run with hot food between kitchen and pantry. Samuel made a quick round of dining room, pantry, kitchens, pantry, dining room; then he sounded the gong.

  The tables began to fill; Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan had darted in as soon as the first gong beat sounded. After them Auntie Sanni and Colonel McIndoe led the way; their table was nearest the verandah, Sir John and Lady Fisher’s opposite. Professor Aaron and his ladies took their already familiar places at the two round tables; smaller tables at the back were for Mr Menzies, Mrs Manning and, a little secluded, a honeymoon table for the Brownes. Dr Coomaraswamy’s table was midway between the Fishers and Auntie Sanni. ‘Too close,’ she said to the Colonel, ‘I don’t like politics in my dining room. Those two hardly waited for the gong!’ She frowned: they were not eating, they were gobbling.

  ‘Yes. Yes. We are in a hurry,’ Dr Coomaraswamy told Samuel. ‘We have to get to Ghandara. Tonight is our inaugural meeting.’

  He was excited, talking volubly but, ‘Eat. Eat,’ begged Mr Srinivasan. Auntie Sanni turned her eyes away.

  For the Brownes she had ordered a bottle of white wine; Samuel had it ready in a silver bucket. The flowers on the table were like a bouquet; the head malt had sent an underling inland to gather orchids so that even Kuku was satisfied. ‘Though, of course, there isn’t a florist even in Ghandara,’ she had complained. Samuel was eagerly hovering but Blaise Browne came into the dining room alone.

  He did not notice the flowers, ignored the white wine and nodded curtly to Samuel. The soup was brought and left to grow cold. It was not until ten minutes later that Auntie Sanni saw him stand up – ‘He has good manners,’ she said softly to Colonel McIndoe – as the young wife came in, following Mrs Manning. ‘Oh dear!’ said Auntie Sanni.

  The soft brown hair fell forward as the girl bent to look at and touch the flowers. Then she saw the white wine. ‘Bumble! You ordered wine! How exciting and how sweet of you,’ the clear young voice sounded across the room.

  ‘Nothing to do with me. Mary, sit down.’

  ‘Are you cross?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Of course I’m cross. Think what it looks like.’

  ‘Looks like?’

  ‘Our first night here, a honeymoon couple, and I have to appear in the dining room alone.’

  ‘You should have come to Mrs Manning.’ Mary refused to be upset.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Lady Fisher looked across the room. ‘So that’s Rory Scott’s Mary.’

  ‘Didn’t he call her Merry?’ Sir John was looking too. ‘I thought she was still at school.’

  ‘Schools,’ corrected Lady Fisher. ‘I seem to remember there were several – Rory was always moving on so that Mary never settled. No wonder he had trouble. Well, a girl without a mother . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Sir John had seen the tilt of the head beside Blaise, the turned shoulder. ‘I can guess she’s a handful, a plain little piece.’

  ‘Not when she smiles.’ Mary had smiled across at Auntie Sanni. ‘Not with those eyes. She has her mother’s eyes. Do you remember how Anne’s bewitched Rory?’

  But Sir John was frowning. ‘Surely she’s young to be married?’

  ‘She must be . . . let me see . . . eighteen.’

  ‘Still too young. He’s old Archie Browne’s son, you remember them in Istanbul.’

  ‘Yes. The boy was born there. I remember the fuss. So this is the wonderful Blaise! What a nest of diplomats we are! But, John, you must admit he’s very good-looking.’

  ‘So was his mother, in a florid way. Archie’s a good chap, if humdrum,’ which for Lady Fisher confirmed again what she already knew, that Sir John did not care for Mrs Browne but he was looking again across the room.

  ‘It’s what they call a good match,’ said Lady Fisher.

  ‘Except that it isn’t a match. I can guess that girl isn’t ordinary, any more than her father,’ by which Lady Fisher knew that Sir John did care for Rory’s Mary.

  The cultural ladies were looking too. ‘Charming, quite charming, though not what you’d call a beauty,’ they murmured. ‘These English girls have such complexions!’

  ‘She looks quite dewy.’ Dr Lovat sounded almost dreamy.

  ‘Dewy?’

  ‘As if the dew was still on her,’ explained Mrs van den Mar.

  ‘Can’t we drink the wine?’ Mary was saying, but Samuel had already taken matters in hand. A waiter had removed the cold soup, another slipped hot plates in front of each of them while Samuel proffered a dish from which rose a delectable smell, ‘Koftas, Sahib. Little fish balls of fresh crayfish. Very good. I think Sahib hungry,’ he said, deftly serving Blaise, while Ganga filled the wineglasses; the pop when he had opened the wine set off clapping from the other tables. ‘From Miss Sanni, best wishes,’ said Samuel.

  ‘We should drink to her,’ Mary raised her glass, ‘and to them all.’ Flushed, she stood up and drank to the dining room; Blaise had to follow. A pleased hum answered them. After the koftas came partridges, plump, each sitting on its square of toast, with a piquant bread sauce, gravy, fresh vegetables. Blaise began visibly to be appeased. The old butler is right, thought Mary, men are better when they have been fed.

  Lady Fisher could have told her that.

  At first Olga Manning had watched the Brownes’ table with a hint of malicious amusement in her eyes, which changed to a curious sadness. When she had finished – she ate far too quickly and too little – she got up and went out; she went so fast the gauze of her sleeves brushed the backs of chairs and the potted palms. She stopped at the verandah bar, ordered a double whisky and, avoiding any talk with Kuku, took it into the drawing room which was not being used that night as the cultural ladies were going out.

  Every year at the outset of his tour, Professor Aaron’s group was invited to a reception at the old palace of Konak. ‘Not that the Maharajah is there,’ Professor Aaron explained. He had stood up to brief the ladies while they still sat at dinner. ‘He lives in the South of France now. Here he has to be plain Mr Konak but he keeps his titles abroad. It is his steward who will entertain us.’

  The palace, built on a steep slope of the Ghandari Hills, was falling into disrepair, ‘But you can still imagine its life.’ Professor Aaron tried to conjure it up: ‘Though there is a grand staircase, there are ramps between different levels so that the court ladies could be transported in miniature rickshaws. One or two rickshaws are still there. They are inlaid with mother-of-pearl.’

  ‘That sounds utterly romantic,’ cried Mrs Glover.

  ‘But we won’t be transported in rickshaws.’ Mrs Schlumberger was ready to object. ‘Does that mean we’ll have to walk? I can’t manage uphill.’

  ‘You can always spend a quiet evening here.’ Mrs van den Mar stemmed the complaint.

  ‘And there might well be elephants.’ Dr Lovat was an experienced traveller.

  ‘True, the gateways were built high to let elephants through,’ said Professor Aaron, ‘but I’m afraid there are no elephants now.’ If the ladies were disappointed they did not show it; they had not come to India to see elephants but Mary, who had been listening, sighed.

  ‘I expect the Raja’s private court will be lit for you.’ The Professor was still trying to beguile. ‘That’s where the dancing girls danced for their lord alone.’ Mary seemed to hear the strange Indian music, the tinkling of anklet bells. ‘The courtyard is so high that at night it is said to be roofed with stars.’

  ‘Oh, I should like to go,’ said Mary but, ‘Has the palace any architectural interest?’ asked Miss Pritt. ‘Should we bring our notebooks?’

  �
�Perhaps I wouldn’t like to go,’ said Mary.

  In the big empty drawing room next door, Olga Manning began to play.

  ‘Now what’s happening?’ asked Sir John.

  A young man in flowing white had come hurriedly into the dining room.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Lady Fisher wondered.

  ‘A boy called Sharma. Coomaraswamy introduced him to me. The Party’s district agent.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like a district agent,’ said Lady Fisher. ‘More like a dusky angel.’

  ‘A messenger from the gods,’ Sir John suggested. ‘But I think he has only come to tell them the Party’s coach is ready.’

  Dr Coomaraswamy reluctantly put down his knife and fork. Mr Srinivasan took a last mouthful; he was still chewing as he went after the Doctor and Sharma.

  In a moment or two, Mr Menzies followed them. ‘He must be in politics,’ said Lady Fisher.

  ‘Or journalism.’ Sir John did not seem quite at ease. ‘I can’t imagine that a journalist of any prominence would find this campaign of importance. Yet I seem to have heard . . .’

  ‘I don’t like middle-aged men who try to look like girls.’ Lady Fisher had noted the hair ribbon.

  She and Sir John were used to long-haired men. Their own son, Timothy, ‘Looks like one of the apostles,’ said Sir John.

  ‘But he’s young and the beard fits it.’ Lady Fisher smiled. ‘But this . . .’

  ‘Not very attractive, certainly, and – bold,’ was the word that came to Sir John from the way Mr Menzies had given orders to the waiters and spoke across the room to the cultural ladies. He was a short man, barely reaching to Sir John’s shoulder yet, ‘I can guess he’s potent.’ Sir John still felt an unease.

  ‘They haven’t waited for the trifle.’ Samuel was grieved for Dr Coomaraswamy and Mr Srinivasan.