‘What a bloody waste this Burma campaign is turning out to be,’ Michael Fraser said deliberately. ‘Thousands of England’s best and brightest sacrificed to a stupid, thankless war.’
‘We don’t want the Japanese to have India, sir,’ Driscoll said.
‘Well, why not, do you think they’ll be any worse than us? And who are we to deny it to them anyway? Didn’t we acquire an Empire for exactly the same reasons that prompted the madman who started this war . . .’
The public anguish of the quiet man, the one who has always minded his own business, is both disquieting and strangely compelling. Belinda put a hand on her husband’s arm.
‘If you think about it, all this started because poor bloody Hitler wanted to be just like us. What the fool didn’t realize is that the age of Empire is over. It galls me that a fine lad like Joe should have died in a hell-hole called Kohima, for an idea that is no longer important.’
He glared at them all as if daring them to challenge him. No one said anything; the outburst had taken them all by surprise. Finally, the planter from Peermade said, ‘But sir, Kohima is simply part of the larger war. Do you mean to say we should have let the Krauts walk all over us?’
‘Not at all, we should certainly have gone to the aid of our neighbours and defended Britain to the last man. It’s this role as the world’s guardian that I object to.’
‘It’s our responsibility, sir. We govern a quarter of the world.’
‘But do they want us to guard them, never mind govern them? Do you think Joe’s sacrifice means anything here, except to people like us? The vast majority of Indians would much rather be free. What difference does it make to them whether the colonial ruler is British, German or Japanese? Sorry, Cannon. I’m just making a general point . . .’
Any further perceptions Michael might have wished to share were drowned by the clatter of teaspoons on saucers and the Reverend Ayrton’s deep baritone. When he had secured their attention, he announced that the annual tennis week that was due to start in four days’ time would henceforth commemorate Joe. The Stevensons had donated two trophies, one for the men and one for the ladies, both of which would be called the Joe Wilson Cup. Details of the tournament would be posted on the noticeboard of the Pulimed Club.
86
Fever shook Freddie Hamilton and he groaned. It had been over two years since he had contracted malaria, but every time he began shivering and shaking with an attack it was as though he was experiencing it for the first time: the chill that burned though to his vitals and sapped his strength, the weakness that made it an ordeal even to visit the bathroom. At such times all he could do was thank God for his butler, Kumaran. The rascal took every opportunity to swindle him out of chakrams and cash, but he cared for him as he would for a baby when he was knocked flat by the fever. Kumaran came into the room just then with a handful of quinine tablets and Freddie indicated to him that he wanted to visit the bathroom. The butler helped him out of bed and supported him across the room. Freddie hung on to the doorjamb of the bathroom, trying not to collapse. ‘Thank you, Kumaran, I’ll call for you when I’m done.’ The butler shuffled off and Freddie somehow made it to the commode. But he should be okay by the evening, he thought. It was astonishing how dramatically you recovered from malaria – once you had taken the medicine. Freddie had often felt the old-time planters were crazy to establish estates in the malarial belt. If he had been a planter here before the advent of quinine, he was sure he’d have sucked on a shotgun a long time ago.
Back in bed, he found himself thinking of Joe Wilson, as he had, over and over again, since Michael Fraser had brought him news of his friend’s death. The fever lent a surreal glow to his imagination as he tried to recreate Joe’s final moments. It must have been hellish, but it would have brought out the best in Joe. Under the neighing and screaming of shells he must have rallied his men. Michael had sketched out the scene of the battle, the darkness, the shattered bungalow, the tennis court, the bunkers, the planes roaring overhead, and his imagination had supplied the rest, the screams and groans of dying men, the heat, the smoke, the harsh chatter of Brens, the great glow of flames, the grunting and cursing of men. A time for heroes. A time for Joe. Indeed, his death was of a piece with his life. Joe had scripted the perfect exit. The image broke and faded under the renewed onslaught of the fever and Freddie drifted into an uneasy sleep.
By afternoon he was better, but he doubted whether he would be well enough for work the next day. He hated this phase of any illness, when you were not sick enough to have lost all interest in everything and not well enough to rejoin the living. Then he heard the faint mutter of a motorcycle and perked up. Michael had said that Kannan would drop in after church. That would be him now.
The English planter valued a house with a view, which is why every bungalow on the estates was perched on an elevation. Freddie’s house was an extreme example, situated on a hill and reached by a steep road that was a nightmare to negotiate during the monsoon. There was a blind corner that turned at almost a right angle just short of the house. There was only one way to get through without mishap – by motoring with infinite slowness up the slope and round the corner. Kannan, like every other young planter, was irritated by the crawl up the hill to Freddie’s house. But he didn’t mind today for he was still preoccupied with Michael’s outburst at church. Michael’s anger had been more than disquieting. It had, in some way, permanently altered the way in which he regarded the white man and his world. For a brief moment he had seen despair, inadequacy, uncertainty, where there had always been strength, composure and authority, and it hadn’t been a pleasant sight.
Kannan was taking a long time to turn up, Freddie thought, and then he realized that he must be driving more slowly than usual because Helen was with him. He was pleased at the prospect of seeing her again. Lucky fellow, Kannan. What a trophy! He wondered what it would be like to be married. For a start it would mean being looked after by someone other than Kumaran when he fell sick. But where was he going to find a bride? The war had stopped the Fishing Fleet and it looked like India would be lost anyway. If not in five years, then in ten. And what Englishwoman would want to live here if she couldn’t queen around like that awful Mrs Stevenson? Christ, he thought with some alarm, what if he ended up with someone like Matilda Stevenson? Maybe all he needed was a woman. The resourceful Kumaran could organize a plucker, as he had always done before. Freddie never asked about his method. He had no idea if the women were married or single. He simply paid the money the butler asked for and took his pleasure. The face of a pretty young plucker he’d had his eye on for some time swam into his mind, as did images of firm breasts, huge black nipples, pretty eyes. Did he prefer black nipples to pink ones? It had been so long since he had slept with a white woman. Christ, what the hell was he thinking? This fever really fixed you; it unstoppered the poisons in your mind.
Kannan walked into his room just then and Freddie managed a smile. He was genuinely pleased to see him and had often wondered if they could develop the sort of friendship Joe and he had shared. Would the colour of their skin and the absence of any shared history be an insurmountable barrier, a retardant that would advance their friendship thus far and no more? He hoped not. He sensed that Mrs Stevenson didn’t approve of their relationship but that didn’t bother him too much. Good planters were thin on the ground, and he doubted that she would be able to prevail upon her husband to get rid of him.
‘You look awful,’ Kannan said, by way of greeting.
‘No worse than you, old chap. And at least I’ll get to look better when this boring fever passes. Christ, what was God thinking of when he created mosquitoes?’
‘Freddie, I’m really sorry about what happened.’
‘Yes, what a waste. We’ll all be the poorer now that Joe’s gone. You never knew him, did you? You would have liked him, he won people over so easily.’
They continued to talk about Joe, or rather Freddie talked and Kannan listened – the laughter, t
he crazy bachelor stunts, the wild death-defying rides through the tea, hunts for boar and junglefowl, all-night bridge and brandy sessions . . .
‘Joe could light up any room, bring people alive. Yes, he was a good sort, the best. All this, and a hero too. How many heroes do you know, Cannon?’
It was an unexpected question, and he didn’t know how to answer it.
‘What sort of hero do you mean?’
‘Well, you know, people who possess such great gifts that they seem to be able to do things without worrying about their own lives or fortunes, as weedy little people like us do?’
Kannan thought for a while. Kumaran came in with tea and biscuits.
‘I had an uncle who died fighting you chaps, and my grandfather died in a battle long ago. I didn’t know either of them, but I guess they would qualify as heroes . . .’
‘Joe was certainly cast in the heroic mould. You could have added him to your pantheon. Where’s Helen?’
‘Couldn’t come. She had some work to do,’ Kannan said lamely.
Something of his discomfort must have shown on his face, because Freddie asked, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said slowly.
‘Aha, the well-known perils of married life.’
They laughed together.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ Kannan asked, picking up a book, The Man-Eaters of Kumaon, from the bedside table.
‘Oh, Michael brought it when he came to visit. Apparently it’s a big bestseller. He had it mailed from Bombay.’
‘Has he written anything else?’
‘I don’t think so. Cracking stuff. He goes after a man-eating tigress which has killed four hundred and thirty-six people, and only just escapes being killed himself.’
‘I’ll ask Michael if I can borrow it after you.’
‘Yep, put in your claim quickly. I’m sure there’s going to be a long queue. Every bloody planter here thinks he’s God’s gift to shikar.’
‘Have you ever taken a shot at a tiger?’
‘None left,’ Freddie said with a grimace. ‘That’s the problem with the planting life today, you know. When I was growing up, there was an exotic figure in my life, a distant uncle who owned a tea estate in the High Wavys. I used to look forward to his visits home. Tigers, panthers, elephants, a day scarcely seemed to pass when my uncle wasn’t fighting for his life. Ripping Boy’s Own stuff. It really fired my imagination, I can tell you that!’
‘And nothing since you’ve been here?’
‘Not really. There’s no big game any more, not unless you count the occasional elephant. But somehow I’ve never warmed to the idea of shooting elephants. It’s prohibited anyway. But there was that time when Joe and I saw a black panther that Harrison had shot. Remember Harrison? That maverick planter I told you about who went native, God knows how many years ago, and virtually dropped out of sight?’
Kannan said, ‘Harrison?’
‘Come on, I’m sure I’ve told you about him. Best shikari the hills had ever seen, until toddy claimed him. Anyway, he’d been called in to shoot a panther that had been prowling around the old bungalow at Empress. Last time I saw him, incidentally, wonder what he’s doing now . . . but listen, this story is about the panther, not Harrison . . . I remember that the dead beast looked pretty pathetic, a tangle of legs and a disproportionately large head. It’s only when I took a closer look that I began to have an idea of its terrible power, you know, teeth, great yellow eyes.’
‘I remember reading somewhere that the grunting of a charging leopard can stop an elephant in its tracks.’
‘Wouldn’t that be grand to see? A black panther charging out of the black night, only to be stopped at the last possible moment by the crack of Freddie’s rifle that takes it right between the eyes . . .’
‘How on earth are you going to shoot a springing black panther on a pitch-dark night?’ Kannan asked, smiling.
‘Oh, between the whites of the brute’s eyes I expect, or should it be the yellows . . .’
‘Bet you’d be shaking so much your quivering would put the poor panther off its aim.’
‘Speak for yourself. The Hamiltons of Lincolnshire are known for their nerve,’ Freddie said with a laugh. ‘What a pitiful time we’re having of it,’ he went on after a while. ‘No tigers, no leopards, nothing that gives you the thrill of going after a dangerous animal . . .’
‘Wild boars are dangerous . . . the first time I shot one I couldn’t get over how sharp its tusks were. And Michael was telling me about the poacher who was gored by a boar a few years ago. He died, Freddie, bled to death, he was too far from civilization to get medical help.’
‘But they’re pigs, Cannon. Swine. Nothing ennobling about them. This wasn’t what I was after, if truth be told, when I signed up for the glorious life of the estates.’
‘Well, you could always be at war.’
Freddie flushed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kannan said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ Their conversation dried up. Kannan felt awful. How could he have been so insensitive? It had slipped out, and he had certainly meant nothing by it. Freddie’s voice jerked him out of his remorse.
‘You know, I know this sounds disrespectful, but when I think of Joe blazing through his life so fast, just eating it up, it seems right that he went so quickly. He would have made a miserable old man. I can’t see him at seventy, white-haired, wrinkled, a garrulous old drunk . . .’
Freddie seemed to go off to sleep after that, so Kannan got up to go.
‘Thanks for coming, Cannon,’ Freddie muttered sleepily. ‘Really appreciate it. We’ll get together, tomorrow, the day after, when I’m better.’
Kannan was almost at the door when he remembered.
‘Oh, Freddie, I forgot to tell you, the annual tennis week will henceforth be played in honour of Joe. There’s to be a Joe Wilson Cup and everything.’
‘Good. Now all we need to do is win it for Joe!’
87
There’s nothing quite like playing tennis in the hills. The ball travels through the air with great clarity and when it is struck it sings off the racquet with tremendous velocity, the sound and the action resonating through the cold, thin air. That summer, the thwock-thwock of tennis balls took on a greater urgency as the planters prepared for the Joe Wilson Cup.
The women’s matches were played first. Agnes Webster of Chenganoor Estate, who had taken part in Wimbledon before the war, easily outclassed her opponents to capture the ladies’ trophy. The redoubtable Mrs Webster had no obvious counterpart in the men’s draw. The majority of the younger Assistants and Superintendents were overseas with their regiments, and of those who remained there weren’t more than a dozen fit enough or proficient enough to wield a racquet. Sensing her tournament losing much of its gloss, Mrs Stevenson persuaded her husband to contribute a crate of hoarded Famous Grouse to the spoils that the victor would take away. Eight more planters entered the fray, but most of them were so decrepit or unskilled that it made no difference to the eventual quarter-final line-up.
Kannan was astonished to find himself in the last eight. He hadn’t touched a tennis racquet until a year ago, but under the tutelage of his Superintendent, who was a keen if erratic player, he had become fairly good at the game. He had acquired a decent first serve, covered the court well, and made up for a non-existent backhand with his best shot, a running forehand drive that curved wickedly away from his opponent. The two men he had faced during his run-up to the quarter-finals were planters in their fifties, with neither the stamina nor the strokes to hinder his progress. His third opponent hadn’t even bothered to show up. A walkover.
Today would be different, Kannan knew, as Freddie and he walked towards the courts from the clubhouse. His opponent was no pushover. He had never seen Hemming play, he was an owner-planter from the far north of the Periyar district, but Freddie had filled him in.
‘Looks and plays like Big Bill Tilden,’ he had yelled in Kannan’s ear as they
motorcycled towards the club. ‘Same high serving action and penetrating ground strokes.’ The great American was Freddie’s ideal. Kannan preferred the fighting Englishman, Fred Perry. While their games couldn’t live up to those of their heroes, the young Assistants mimicked their every other action – the way they held their racquets, the way they shook hands, their positions on court after they had executed a shot. If passion alone could have improved their on-court skills, Hamilton and Dorai would soon have been champions. But, as things stood, they were no more than enthusiastic club players, with Kannan having the edge over Freddie simply because the latter was the most unco-ordinated athlete the district had ever seen.
‘You can win this tournament, my friend,’ Freddie said as they got to the courts. Through the high wire mesh that enclosed the playing area they could see the first two matches getting under way. Robert Cameron vs. Stuart Webb and Alec Cameron vs. Graham Court. The sun was pleasantly warm on their shoulders, and the tea fields pooled gold and green all around the playing area.
‘You’re mad,’ Kannan said. ‘Have you forgotten the dreaded Camerons? And Hemming?’
‘You’ll beat them. They’re all old enough to be your grandfather.’
‘But they’ll wipe the court with me.’
‘Don’t worry. If all else fails, I’ll throw rocks at them at critical moments.’ To Kannan’s disgust, Freddie started whistling. He felt nervous, almost nauseous, as the tension gathered in him.
He watched the Cameron brothers walk to their serving marks, their slow, smooth swagger subconsciously reflecting the arrogance of players who ruled the court. They swatted the ball a couple of times across the net to their opponents, their racquets travelling in lively controlled arcs that Kannan had practised a thousand times on his own but could rarely replicate. Within moments, both brothers had settled into a lovely rhythm, as they swung the ball to their opponents on the far side.
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 42