The Best of Ruskin Bond (11 page)

‘Nonsense! He doesn’t live in this part of the garden. He lives in the roots of the banyan tree.’

‘But that’s where the snake lives,’ I said.

‘You mean the snake who was a prince. Well, that’s who I’m looking for!’

‘A snake who was a prince!’ I gaped at the Rani.

She made a gesture of impatience with her butterfly hands, and said, ‘Tut, you’re only a child, you can’t
understand.
The prince lives in the roots of the banyan tree, but he comes out early every morning. Have you seen him?’

‘No. But I saw a mongoose.’

The Rani became frightened. ‘Oh dear, is there a mongoose in the garden? He might kill the prince!’

‘How can a mongoose kill a prince?’ I asked.

‘You don’t understand, Master Bond. Princes, when they die, are born again as snakes.’

‘All
princes?’

‘No, only those who die before they can marry.’

‘Did your prince die before he could marry you?’

‘Yes. And he returned to this garden in the form of a beautiful snake.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I hope it wasn’t the snake the water-carrier killed last week.’

‘He killed a snake!’ The Rani looked horrified. She was quivering all over. ‘It might have been the prince!’

‘It was a brown snake,’ I said.

‘Oh, then it wasn’t him.’ She looked very relieved. ‘Brown snakes are only ministers and people like that. It has to be a green snake to be a prince.’

‘I haven’t seen any green snakes here.’

‘There’s one living in the roots of the banyan tree. You won’t kill it, will you?’

‘Not if it’s really a prince.’

‘And you won’t let others kill it?’

‘I’ll tell Ayah.’

‘Good. You’re on my side. But be careful of the gardener. Keep him away from the banyan tree. He’s always killing snakes. I don’t trust him at all.’

She came nearer and, leaning forward a little, looked into my eyes.

‘Blue eyes—I trust them. But don’t trust green eyes. And yellow eyes are evil.’

‘I’ve never seen yellow eyes.’

“That’s because you’re pure,’ she said, and turned away and hurried across the lawn as though she had just remembered a very urgent appointment.

The sun was up, slanting through the branches of the banyan tree, and Ayah’s voice could be heard calling me for breakfast.

‘Dukhi,’ I said, when I found him in the garden later that day. ‘Dukhi, don’t kill the snake in the banyan tree.’

‘A snake in the banyan tree!’ he exclaimed, seizing his hoe.

‘No, no!’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen it. But the Rani says there’s one. She says it was a prince in its former life, and that we shouldn’t kill it.’

‘Oh,’ said Dukhi, smiling to himself. ‘The Rani says so. All right, you tell her we won’t kill it.’

‘Is it true that she was in love with a prince but that he died before she could marry him?’

‘Something like that,’ said Dukhi. ‘It was a long time ago—before I came here.’

‘My father says it wasn’t a prince, but a commoner. Are you a commoner, Dukhi?’

‘A commoner? What’s that, chhota sahib?’

‘I’m not sure. Someone very poor, I suppose.’

‘Then I must be a commoner,’ said Dukhi.

‘Were
you
in love with the Rani?’ I asked.

Dukhi was so startled that he dropped his hoe and lost his balance; the first time I’d seen him lose his poise while squatting on his haunches.

‘Don’t say such things, chhota sahib!’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll get me into trouble.’

‘Then it must be true.’

Dukhi threw up his hands in mock despair and started collecting his implements.

‘It’s true, it’s true!’ I cried, dancing round him, and then I ran indoors to Ayah and said, ‘Ayah, Dukhi was in love with the Rani!’

Ayah gave a shriek of laughter, then looked very serious and put her finger against my lips.

‘Don’t say such things,’ she said. ‘Dukhi is of a very low caste. People won’t like it if they hear what you say. And besides, the Rani told you her prince died and turned into a snake. Well, Dukhi hasn’t become a snake as yet, has he?’

True, Dukhi didn’t look as though he could be anything but a gardener; but I wasn’t satisfied with his denials or with Ayah’s attempts to still my tongue. Hadn’t Dukhi sent the Rani a nosegay?

*

When my father came home, he looked quite pleased with himself.

‘What have you brought for me?’ was the first question I asked.

He had brought me some new books, a dart-board, and a train set; and in my excitement over examining these gifts, I forgot to ask about the result of his trip.

It was during tiffin that he told me what had happened—and what was going to happen.

‘We’ll be going away soon,’ he said. ‘I’ve joined the Royal Air Force. I’ll have to work in Delhi.’

‘Oh! Will you be in the war, Dad? Will you fly a plane?’

‘No, I’m too old to be flying planes. I’ll be forty years old in July. The RAF, will be giving me what they call intelligence work—decoding secret messages and things like that and I don’t suppose I’ll be able to tell you much about it.’

This didn’t sound as exciting as flying planes; but it sounded important and rather mysterious.

‘Well, I hope it’s interesting,’ I said. ‘Is Delhi a good place to live in?’

‘I’m not sure. It will be very hot by the middle of April. And you won’t be able to stay with me, Ruskin—not at first, anyway, not until I can get married quarters and then, only if your mother returns. . . . Meanwhile, you’ll stay with your grandmother in Dehra.’ He must have seen the disappointment in my face because he quickly added: ‘Of course I’ll come to see you often. Dehra isn’t far from Delhi—only a night’s train journey.’

But I was dismayed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to stay with my grandmother, but I had grown so used to sharing my father’s life and even watching him at work, that the thought of being separated from him was unbearable.

‘Not as bad as going to boarding-school,’ he said. ‘And that’s the only alternative.’

‘Not boarding-school,’ I said quickly, ‘I’ll run away from boarding-school.’

‘Well, you won’t want to run away from your grandmother. She’s very fond of you. And if you come with me to Delhi, you’ll be alone all day in a stuffy little hut, while I’m away at work. Sometimes I may have to go on tour—then what happens?’

‘I don’t mind being on my own.’ And this was true: I had already grown accustomed to having my own room and my own trunk and my own bookshelf and I felt as though I was about to lose these things.

‘Will Ayah come too?’ I asked.

My father looked thoughtful. ‘Would you like that?’

‘Ayah must come,’ I said firmly. ‘Otherwise I’ll run away.’

‘I’ll have to ask her,’ said my father.

Ayah, it turned out, was quite ready to come with us: in fact, she was indignant that Father should have considered leaving her behind. She had brought me up since my mother went away, and she wasn’t going to hand over charge to any upstart aunt or governess. She was pleased and excited at the prospect of the move, and this helped to raise my spirits.

‘What is Dehra like?’ I asked my father.

‘It’s a green place,’ he said. ‘It lies in a valley in the foothills of the Himalayas, and it’s surrounded by forests. There are lots of trees in Dehra.’

‘Does Grandmother’s house have trees?’

‘Yes. There’s a big jackfruit tree in the garden. Your grandmother planted it when I was a boy. And there’s an old banyan tree, which is good to climb. And there are fruit trees, lichis, mangoes, papayas.’

‘Are there any books?’

‘Grandmother’s books won’t interest you. But I’ll be bringing you books from Delhi, whenever I come to see you.’

I was beginning to look forward to the move. Changing houses had always been fun. Changing towns ought to be fun, too.

A few days before we left, I went to say goodbye to the Rani.

‘I’m going away,’ I said.

‘How lovely!’ said the Rani. ‘I wish I could go away!’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘They won’t let me. They’re afraid to let me out of the palace.’

‘What are they afraid of, Your Highness?’

‘That I might run away. Run away, far far away, to the land where the leopards are learning to pray.’

Gosh, I thought, she’s really quite crazy . . . But then she was silent, and started smoking a small hookah.

She drew on the hookah, looked at me, and asked: ‘Where is your mother?’

‘I haven’t one.’

‘Everyone has a mother. Did yours die?’

‘No. She went away.’

She drew on her hookah again and then said, very sweetly, ‘Don’t go away . . .’

‘I must,’ I said. ‘It’s because of the war.’

‘What war? Is there a war on? You see, no one tells me anything.’

‘It’s between us and Hitler,’ I said.

‘And who is Hitler?’

‘He’s a German.’

‘I knew a German once, Dr Schreinherr, he had beautiful hands.’

‘Was he an artist?’

‘He was a dentist.’

The Rani got up from her couch and accompanied me out on to the balcony. When we looked down at the garden, we could see Dukhi weeding a flower-bed. Both of us gazed down at him in silence, and I wondered what the Rani would say if I asked her if she had ever been in love with the palace gardener. Ayah had told me it would be an insulting question; so I held my peace. But as I walked slowly down the spiral staircase, the Rani’s voice came after me.

‘Thank him,’ she said. ‘Thank him for the beautiful rose.’

T
his is not a love story; but it is a story about love. You will know what I mean.

When I was living and working in London I knew a Vietnamese girl called Phuong. She studied at the Polytechnic. During the summer vacations she joined a group of students—some of them English, most of them French, German, Indian and African—picking raspberries for a few pounds a week, and drinking in some real English country air. Late one summer, on her return from a farm, she introduced me to Ulla, a sixteen-year-old Danish girl who had come over to England for a similar holiday.

‘Please look after Ulla for a few days,’ said Phuong. ‘She doesn’t know anyone in London.’

‘But I want to look after you,’ I protested. I had been infatuated with Phuong for some time; but, though she was rather fond of me, she did not reciprocate my advances, and it was possible that she had conceived of Ulla as a device to get rid of me for a little while.

‘This is Ulla,’ said Phuong, thrusting a blonde child into my arms. ‘Bye, and don’t get up to any mischief!’

Phuong disappeared, and I was left alone with Ulla at the entrance to the Charing Cross Underground Station. She grinned at me, and I smiled back rather nervously. She had blue eyes and a smooth, tanned skin. She was small for a Scandinavian girl, reaching only to my shoulders, and her figure was slim and boyish. She was carrying a small travelling-bag. It gave me an excuse to do something.

‘We’d better leave your bag somewhere,’ I said, taking it from her.

And after depositing it in the left-luggage office, we were back on the pavement, grinning at each other.

‘Well, Ulla,’ I said. ‘How many days do you have in London.’

‘Only two. Then I go back to Copenhagen.’

‘Good. Well, what would you like to do?’

‘Eat. I’m hungry.’

I wasn’t hungry; but there’s nothing like a meal to help two strangers grow acquainted. We went to a small and not very expensive Indian restaurant off Fitzroy Square, and burnt our tongues on an orange-coloured Hyderabad chicken curry. We had to cool off with a Tamil Koykotay before we could talk.

‘What do you do in Copenhagen?’ I asked.

‘I go to school. I’m joining the University next year.’

‘And your parents?’

‘They have a bookshop.’

‘Then you must have done a lot of reading.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t read much. I can’t sit in one place for long. I like swimming and tennis and going to the theatre.’

‘But you have to sit in a theatre.’

‘Yes, but that’s different.’

‘It’s not sitting that you mind, but sitting and reading.’

‘Yes, you are right. But most Danish girls like reading—they read more books than English girls.’

‘You are probably right,’ I said.

As I was out of a job just then, and had time on my hands, we were able to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and while away the afternoon in a coffee-bar, before going on to a theatre. Ulla was wearing tight jeans and an abbreviated duffle coat, and as she had brought little else with her, she wore this outfit to the theatre. It created quite a stir in the foyer, but Ulla was completely unconscious of the stares she received. She enjoyed the play, laughed loudly in all the wrong places, and clapped her hands when no one else did.

The lunch and the theatre had lightened my wallet, and dinner consisted of baked beans on toast in a small snack-bar. After picking up Ulla’s bag, I offered to take her back to Phuong’s place.

‘Why there?’ she said. ‘Phuong must have gone to bed.’

‘Yes, but aren’t you staying with her?’

‘Oh, no. She did not ask me.’

‘Then where are you staying? Where have you kept the rest of your things?’

‘Nowhere. This is all I brought with me,’ she said, indicating the travel-bag.

‘Well, you can’t sleep on a park bench,’ I said. ‘Shall I get you a room in a hotel?’

‘I don’t think so. I have only the money to return to Copenhagen.’ She looked crestfallen for a few moments; then she brightened, and slipped her arm through mine. ‘I know, I’ll stay with you. Don’t mind?’

‘No, but my landlady—’ I began; then stopped; it would have been a lie. My landlady, a generous, broad-minded soul, would not have minded in the least.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind.’

When we reached my room in Swiss Cottage, Ulla threw off her coat and opened the window wide. It was a warm summer’s night, and the scent of honeysuckle came through the open window. She kicked her shoes off, and walked about the room barefooted. Her toenails were painted a bright pink. She slipped out of her blouse and jeans, and stood before the mirror in her lace pants. A lot of sunbathing had made her quite brown, but her small breasts were white.

She slipped into bed and said, ‘Aren’t you coming?’

I crept in beside her and lay very still, while she chattered on about the play and the friends she made in the country. I switched off the bed-lamp and she fell silent. Then she said, ‘Well, I’m sleepy. Goodnight!’ And turning over, she immediately fell asleep.

I lay awake beside her, conscious of the growing warmth of her body. She was breathing easily and quietly. Her long, golden hair touched my cheek. I kissed her gently on the lobe of the ear, but she was fast asleep. So I counted eight hundred and sixty-two Scandinavian sheep, and managed to fall asleep.

Ulla woke fresh and frolicsome. The sun streamed in through the window, and she stood naked in its warmth, performing calisthenics. I busied myself with the breakfast. Ulla ate three eggs and a lot of bacon, and drank two cups of coffee. I couldn’t help admiring her appetite.

‘And what shall we do today?’ she asked, her blue eyes shining. They were the bright blue eyes of a Siamese kitten.

‘I’m supposed to visit the Employment Exchange,’ I said.

‘But that is bad. Can’t you go tomorrow—after I have left?’

‘If you like.’

‘I like.’

And she gave me a swift, unsettling kiss on the lips.

We climbed Primrose Hill and watched boys flying kites. We lay in the sun and chewed blades of grass, and then we visited the Zoo, where Ulla fed the monkeys. She consumed innumerable ices. We lunched at a small Greek restaurant, and I forgot to phone Phuong, and in the evening we walked all the way home through scruffy Camden Town, drank beer, ate a fine, greasy dinner of fish and chips, and went to bed early—Ulla had to catch the boat-train next morning.

‘It has been a good day,’ she said.

‘I’d like to do it again tomorrow.’

‘But I must go tomorrow.’

‘But you must go.’

She turned her head on the pillow and looked wonderingly into my eyes, as though she were searching for something. I don’t know if she found what she was looking for; but she smiled, and kissed me softly on the lips.

‘Thanks for everything,’ she said.

She was fresh and clean, like the earth after spring rain.

I took her fingers and kissed them, one by one. I kissed her breasts, her throat, her forehead; and, making her close her eyes, I kissed her eyelids.

We lay in each other’s arms for a long time, savouring the warmth and texture of each other’s bodies. Though we were both very young and inexperienced, we found ourselves imbued with a tender patience, as though there lay before us not just this one passing night, but all the nights of a lifetime, all eternity.

There was a great joy in our loving, and afterwards we fell asleep in each other’s arms like two children who have been playing in the open all day.

The sun woke me next morning. I opened my eyes to see Ulla’s slim, bare leg dangling over the side of the bed. I smiled at her painted toes. Her hair pressed against my face, and the sunshine fell on it, making each hair a strand of burnished gold.

The station and the train were crowded, and we held hands and grinned at each other, too shy to kiss.

‘Give my love to Phuong,’ she said.

‘I will.’

We made no promises—of writing, or of meeting again. Somehow our relationship seemed complete and whole, as though it had been destined to blossom for those two days. A courting and a marriage and a living together had been compressed, perfectly, into one summer night. . . .

I passed the day in a glow of happiness; I thought Ulla was still with me; and it was only at night, when I put my hand out for hers, and did not find it, that I knew she had gone.

But I kept the window open all through the summer, and the scent of the honeysuckle was with me every night.