1977 (38 page)

“Get it?”

“The letter, you fool. If he is dead there is no need of the letter.”

Her moustache was pricked by sweat. A drop fell off, trickled down her chin and on to the

transparent material that covered her breasts but did not disguise the structure and colour of

the nipples. “Indeed I am lost,” he thought. “She will make me do it. I am not a Christian at

all. I am a Hindu and she is my goddess. Every orgasm is an offering to her, and every

erection a manifestation in me of Shiva-
lingam
.” He shut his eyes so that he could not see his

idol. He tried to conjure a different image. It would not come.

“Lila, I cannot rob the dead.”

There was a great disturbance. She was getting off the bed. Her massive thigh pushed him

sideways. “Fool! “ she shouted. She made for the door.

“Lila! Come back. Do not do it.”

But she had gone. He staggered up and followed her, then paused, struck by something like

a revelation. She was frightened! And that meant that she was a fool too. She was in a panic.

She had lost her grip on reality. At least three other people knew the letter had been sent.

Minnie who had taken it, Ibrahim who had received it, Mr Pandey who was waiting for a

copy of it. And the letter was only a notice to quit. It had killed Tusker but who could be

blamed for that?

Running after her he began to exult. “Now I’ve got something to hold over you!” he said.

“Scared were you? I’ll say. Got the wind up did you? Now who’s the fool, my love, my Lila,

my life?”

Rising from his second inspection of the body of the patient he had just called in to say

good morning to, Dr Mitra saw Mrs Bhoolabhoy flabbing towards him, and her little

husband trotting in her wake.

“Doctor Mitra, thank goodness,” she cried at him from some distance. Reaching him she

stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion. “My husband found him a moment ago and

panicked. He said he thought he was dead but perhaps he is only fainted and in need of

help.”

“I’m afraid he is dead.”

“Oh! Oh!” She doubled her fists and thumped her bosom as if about to beat it. Her

husband stood behind her, wringing his hands, staring at Tusker’s now empty hand.

“I’m afraid he was due for it,” Mitra said. “But he knew that, I think.” He stood up. The

letter was in his pocket.

Mrs Bhoolabhoy rounded on her husband and this time did beat her breast. “It is the shock

of the letter!” she moaned. “You should have brought it personally. You should have told

him days ago. You who were his friend! You should have broken things more gently. Oh! I

blame myself, I blame myself. It is no good leaving things to you.”

She bowed her head and waddled away, one hand clasped to her brow.

“Well, now Mr Bhoolabhoy. Would you help me get him into the house? There seems to

be no one in. When we’ve done that I’ll ring the hospital. Do you know where Mrs Smalley

is? We ought to get a message to her if we can.”

“It is not true!” Mr Bhoolabhoy suddenly cried.

Deliberately misunderstanding, Dr Mitra glanced down at the late Colonel Smalley and said,

“I’m afraid it is. Come, Mr Bhoolabhol. Give me a hand. We can’t leave him here.”

“There we are, Mrs Smalley. A cup of coffee and some magazines. The dryer’s not too hot,

is it?”

“It’s fine Susy. I’m so glad you can come this evening. I’m afraid it will be rather pot-luck.”

“Oh, pot-luck, good-luck, my mother always said. I’m really looking forward to it. Father

Sebastian is too.”

Lucy shut her eyes, the better to enjoy the caressing warmth of the drying-helmet. I should

not be ungenerous in my thoughts (she told herself) but of course in the end this is what it

comes to: that one is into the Indian-Christian scene and into the Eurasian scene. Perhaps it

will make a change.

She drank her coffee and noted in the mirror that the first of the smart young assistants

had arrived, which meant it was gone half-past nine. She looked down at the magazines on

her knee. Toole stared up at her in his Steve McQueen
persona
.
Paris-Match
: a paper left by a

tourist, presumably. She flipped through the pages, trying to read the captions. She had

never had any gift for languages. Her first French school book had been called
Le Livre Bleu
.

She could remember the first sentence. “On m’appelle Jet.” My name is Jet. Or Blackie.

Black cat. Lucky cat. The French mistress at the Girls’ High School was a Miss Hoad.

Known as Miss Toad, or Froggie. Nobody had liked her until she was ill. Mysteriously ill. A

hysterectomy, probably. Then all the girls sent flowers to the cottage hospital. Her own box

full had been culled from the vicarage garden. Syringa. Cabbage roses, white and crimson

and sweet smelling. A spike of delphinium. Lupin. A peony. June-July flowers. Rita

Chalmers’s parents had ordered a bunch from the florist. Everything Rita Chalmers did was

elegant. She had married a man whose parents had a Rolls. Lucy wondered whether Rita had

been happy. She had not thought of Rita Chalmers for years, nor of Miss Hoad, nor of the

box of flowers. She remembered how superstitious her mother was of dreams about flowers.

“If I dream of flowers,” Mumsie had said, “I inevitably have news afterwards of a death.”

She turned back to the front cover and met Mr McQueen’s not-looking eyes. Toole. Toole.

Are you still alive, Toole? If not, were you happy? Did you make a good life? Did either of

you ever regret, if you found one another? All I remember about you really is the back of

your neck. It seems that my love, my life, has never had its face to me and that I have always

been following behind, or so dazzled by sunlight that I could not see the face when it once

turned to me. Did you see the green bag, Tusker? Did it glitter in the sunshine that dazzled

me? How will you remember me? What is your image of me? Does it amount to anything at

all? You say I have been a good woman to you. But what does that mean? What does Luce

mean? Is it an endearment? Or just shorthand? I’m sorry. I mustn’t ask silly questions any

more. The years of asking questions are over. You have written me a love letter and I kept it

under my pillow all night long.

All night long.

“Mrs Smalley?”

She woke. “Oh, am I done already?” The drying-helmet was off her head. The first roller

was being taken out. Sleepily she felt the hank of freed hair with her finger tips. “Are you

sure, Susy? It still feels just a trifle too damp. I don’t want to catch cold.”

“You won’t catch cold, Mrs Smalley. You’ve had a stronger rinse than usual. It’s best not to

overheat. It’s a smashing colour.”

That wasn’t Susy’s voice. She focused on to the images in the mirror. It was Susy who was

taking the rollers out but it was Sashi, the young male stylist, who had spoken. He was

standing behind the chair. When Susy moved away to put the rollers to one side Lucy could

see, at the far end of the salon, two or three of the smart young lady assistants. They were

watching. How strange.

“I’ll comb Mrs Smalley out, Susy love,” Sashi said. “Bring another nice cup of coffee,

there’s a dear.” Susy went. In the mirror Lucy saw that when she got to the group of girls she

hesitated and one of them spoke to her and then seemed to help her out of the salon. The

young man was combing deftly. Very deftly. Beautifully, in fact. As he combed he did clever

things with his fingers and talked to her all the time. He had scarcely taken any notice of her

before.

“Is Susy unwell?” she asked.

“Susy? No, Susy’s fine. What beautiful hair, Mrs Smalley. We must do something different

with it one day.”

“Thank you. I think I’m too old to change, though.”

And I could not afford to change. I can only afford Susy. At cut rates. Before the Seraglio

Room’s busy day begins. Susy, bless her, does not have this superior young man’s undoubted

talent and touch. Which is making me strangely uneasy.

“There, Mrs Smalley. Will it do?” He held up a mirror for her to get a closer view.

“It will do very well if it will hold. Yes, very well. You
do
have a gift.”

He handed her a perfumed towel. “Please. Just while I spray.”

“Oh, I see.” She held it lightly against her face to protect her eyes. She heard the short

bursts of the aerosol; smelt the heavy scent, felt the frosty little zephyr-breaths on her head.

And then his fingers again, making some kind of final adjustment. She gave him the towel

back and looked at her image.

She was an old woman. An old woman with immaculately dressed hair the colour of very

pale violets and a blanched face whose every line and crack showed very clearly in the blaze

of the salon’s working lights. Old Mrs Smalley. Not Little Lucy Little. Old Mrs Smalley’s

eyes had no depth to them. The stronger colour of the hair did nothing for them. Her neck

was scrawny. The handsome young Indian was gazing down at his handiwork as if seeing

nothing but that. As handiwork it was good. Better than good. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was kind of you to look after me. Now I must be off because I

know you’re very busy people, which is why I come early. Perhaps Susy will let me have my

bill.”

She had her bag on her knee and opened it with her veined misshapen fingers. In it was the

letter from Tusker which she had meant to read again under the dryer.

“Oh any time will do for the bill, Mrs Smalley,” he said, busying himself at the bowl,

rinsing, wiping, setting things to rights for the next customer. Susy arrived, carrying a cup of

coffee. She put it down and the young man left. In the mirror she saw him chivvying the

girls away, out of the salon, so that in a moment she and Susy were left alone.

As THE DAYLIGHT began to go so too did her capacity to cope with people, with their

charitable instincts. The Lodge had been under a kind of siege. From somewhere she had

found the nervous energy to deal with it. Hour after hour people had turned up. The

telephone had rung. Someone had answered. It rang again. Again someone answered. The

table in the living-room became covered by chits delivered by hand by servants which

Ibrahim brought in.

He had had so many friends, really.

The Menektaras came. The Srinivasans. Dr Mitra had been there at the beginning but had

now come back with Mrs Mitra. Susy and Father Sebastian were in the kitchen making

coffee and tea. Mr Thomas handed it round. People said they would not stay but she said,

“Oh yes, please stay.” Some bunches of flowers arrived. She looked at the cards but never

quite took in the names and knew that anyway the flowers would have to go elsewhere to be

ready for tomorrow. The club secretary came, with the little old Parsee widow who ran the

Library.

“Oh,” Lucy told her. “I’m afraid we still have Mr Maybrick’s book. Long overdue. I’ll see it

gets back to you.”

“Come back with us, Lucy,” Coocoo Menektara said, as the daylight faded and people

began to leave. “Spend the night. As many nights as you wish.”

“Thank you, Coocoo, but really I’m quite all right, and I’d rather be here, if you

understand.”

Coocoo kissed her and said, “Ring if you change your mind. We’ll come and collect you.”

The Srinivasans said, “Come back with us.”

The Singhs (how nice they were) said, “Put up with us for a bit.”

The Mitras were the last to go. No, not quite the last. Father Sebastian and Susy and

Ibrahim were still busy in the kitchen.

Dr Mitra said, “Will you be all right? You’re welcome to stay with us.”

“I’d prefer to be here. Really I’m quite all right.”

“I’ve left just one pill on your bed-side table. Take it. Get some sleep. Susy says she’ll stay

with you if you want her.”

“I’ll be all right. Ibrahim will look after me. When Tusker was ill that time, he slept in the

living-room. Poor Ibrahim. He looks so tired. He’s been on his feet all day.”

“There is just one thing that troubles me, Father Sebastian.” She was alone with him in the

living-room. She had switched a fire on because she felt rather cold. Ibraham had gone to

get some logs to build a proper one. Susy was still in the kitchen, washing up. Father

Sebastian had brought her a bowl of hot soup and a glass of Gol-conda brandy. “Tusker had

this strange kind of passion for
place
. I mean he was happy here. After tomorrow, could the

ashes be kept for a while, not here, I mean in the crematorium chapel and then when it

could be arranged buried in the churchyard? He mentioned a south-west corner.”

He nodded but said nothing.

And later a little stone, she thought. With just one word on it. She smiled. Tusker. What a

funny name.

“Drink your brandy, please Mrs Smalley.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Yes, I shall stay until Wednesday.”

“What is tomorrow?”

“Tuesday.”