A Proper Education for Girls (21 page)

“Do you really think she smokes it?” said Mrs. Ravelston.

“I see no reason to doubt the fact,” said Mrs. Birchwoode.

“Perhaps some other person—,” began Miss Forbes, who was Captain Forbes's sister and thus predisposed to view Lilian's case favorably.

“Like who? Mr. Hunter, perhaps? It may well have been him. After all, it's no secret that she allows his attentions, and we all know what sort of a fellow he is.”

“What sort of fellow is he?” asked Miss Forbes, who had seen Mr. Hunter riding across the
maidan
and had noted his physical attributes with interest.

“Oh, he's quite a dreadful fellow,” said Mrs. Toomey “He goes about the plains and mountains in search of weeds and seeds. He carries a knife in his belt and sleeps in a tent.”

“He chews betel,” added Mrs. Ravelston.

“And wanders the bazaar dressed as a cutthroat,” said Mrs. Birchwoode.

“Oh, yes. And as for his dancing,” said Mrs. Toomey, “I was quite black and blue from the knees down when he had finished with me. And it was only the polka!”

“And Mrs. Fraser sees quite a lot of him?”

“Oh, yes. They were already acquainted, back home of course, but, well, he visits her as often as he pleases. In the evening too, I hear.”

“Surely not,” said Mrs. Ravelston. “Have you seen him?”

“No, but you can be sure that he does.”

I
T WAS NOT
long before such rumors reached the ears of Mr. Vine and Dr. Mossly Clearly, they decided (independently of one another), it was of the utmost importance that Mrs. Fraser find a husband, and find one quickly.

“It is difficult for a single woman, even if she is a widowed lady like yourself, to remain above calumny and speculation,” said Mr. Vine. He eyed Lilian's starched black dress with approval and pressed his thin fingers together, as though resisting an urge to reach out and touch her. “And, indeed, as a relative newcomer to our modest up-country station, you may well find yourself curious about the natives, amused even, by their beliefs, their way of dress, their customs. In the same way that one is curious and amused by the animals in the zoological gardens, say, or the antics of a dancing bear. But one does not have to
become
one to satisfy that curiosity.” He sighed and shook his head. “You may not be aware of it, but there is much idle talk in a place like Kushpur. The ladies in particular have not enough to occupy themselves, and I fear they can be … unkind. They are already describing you as … how should I put it … a
bibi
. A native woman.”

Dr. Mossly was smiling shyly at Lilian from beneath his ginger eyebrows. “Oh yes,” he said. “A little
kedgeree
now and again, perhaps, but no hookah pipes, no
saris.”

“And, in order that you find as many diversions as possible to keep you
occupied
, might I suggest that you attend the Residency Ball with me,” said Mr. Vine. “I know how you ladies love dancing—” He smiled. “You do not have to decide right now. Please, take a little time to consider my proposal.”

Lilian nodded her thanks and looked out of the window. She had no intention of attending any ball with Mr. Vine, though she had not the heart to tell him this in front of Dr. Mossly, his rival in love. But Mr. Vine had more to say. He was hesitating, a look of uncertainly upon his face, his mouth open slightly, as though the sentence he was about to utter had yet to make it to the end of his tongue. It was not like the magistrate to struggle to make his thoughts known, thought Lilian. What fresh outrage was he preparing himself to reveal now? His face took on a resolute expression. Lilian steeled herself …

“In the meantime,” he said, his voice louder than it had been, “I have to be present at a Burra Din, tomorrow evening. At the
Kalee Ghat. It's only about a mile from Kushpur. The garrison will be there to keep the crowds in check and I am obliged to be in attendance … Perhaps you would care to accompany me? It should be a pleasant enough drive down there, and you might find it interesting.”

Lilian blinked. Had she heard him correctly? “Why yes,” she blurted. “You are most kind to ask me. But this is a native festival, is it not?”

“It is.”

“I see.” She smiled. How could she refuse him? “Thank you, Mr. Vine. I shall look forward to it.”

D
R.
M
OSSLY LOOKED
dejected. He wished he had made such an offer, though he could not understand why the magistrate had suddenly thought it appropriate to take Mrs. Fraser to such an event. He sighed. Dr. Mossly was slightly older than Mr. Vine, and whereas the magistrate's figure was tall and thin, with prominent knees and elbows and a bony sepulchral skull, the doctor was short and tubby, his entire body covered with a thick layer of blubber and sheathed in soft pink skin that gathered in quivering folds about his chin and squeezed softly over the neck of his collar. He knew his nose was bulbous to the point of absurdity, but he was a good catch for the widow of a missionary. He put his handkerchief to his face, covering his nose as though about to sneeze. It was a nervous habit he had picked up in his youth, a desire to conceal his least attractive feature. Mind you, he thought, eyeing Lilian around the edge of his handkerchief, when Mrs. Fraser had brought her deceased husband's clothes to the Missionary Society, the number of suits, jackets, boots, shoes, shirts, and grooming accessories Mr. Fraser had possessed had been far more plentiful, and of far better quality, than one generally expected to find in the closets of a man of his profession.
Perhaps she is not so badly off after all
, he mused, looking around the parlor with interest.
Perhaps she is not quite so in need of a husband as we think she is
. He caught sight of Mr. Vine's smiling
face in the mirror above the fireplace. How bristly the magistrate's nostrils were and how brown his teeth. He had never noticed these defects in his friend before, but now they seemed as plain as day. Surely such an attractive young woman as Lilian would not allow herself to be courted by such a stained and hirsute individual as the magistrate, even if he did offer to show her the native festivals? He blinked at her sadly from behind his handkerchief.

“There is also the subject of Mr. Hunter,” he said. “You know the fellow well?”

“A little,” said Lilian. “We share an interest in botany. I discuss my paintings with him.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Mr. Vine, eyeing the numerous rolled-up watercolors that were stacked about the parlor in loose pyramids. “Your paintings.”

L
ILIAN SAT DOWN
in a wing-backed chair and closed her eyes. The chair had been Selwyn's favorite. Indeed, it was the very chair he had been sitting in when the insects had swarmed in through the open window. But now it was her chair. She did not have to listen to the petitions of either of these tedious men if she didn't want to. She didn't have to ask anyone's permission to do anything. Moreover, now that Selwyn was dead, the money her father had given him on their marriage was hers—which was just the way it should have been in the first place. She would return to England to collect Alice as soon as she had sent off her last batch of paintings—and, of course, as soon as she had finished with Mr. Hunter. Another few weeks, she thought, should be quite enough time to lift him up as high as she possibly could … and then cast him down …

“The thing is,” said Dr. Mossly, interrupting her thoughts, “Mr. Hunter is a man of dubious sympathies. A man whose loyalty to the Company and its role here is questionable. Many of us fear that he has, in fact,
gone native
. It does you a disservice to be associated with him.”

“The fellow is quite the infidel too,” said Mr. Vine. “I for one
have never seen him in church.” He looked at Dr. Mossly for confirmation of this fact. Dr. Mossly nodded his agreement, his cheeks wobbling like jelly against his collar.

Lilian said nothing. Surely the matter was best left up to the individual's conscience, she thought, assuming Mr. Hunter had such a thing. Mr. Vine's voice droned about her ears, mingling with the sound of bees buzzing back and forth above the geraniums outside her windows. She stole a glance at the clock on the mantel. The native she had hired to teach her the
sitar
was due to arrive in less than half an hour. Beside the clock was a note from Mr. Hunter. It informed her that he would come over later in the afternoon with the Brahmin to help her with her Sanskrit, as she seemed to be making no progress with it on her own. It was concluded with endearments that would have left Mr. Vine speechless and sent Dr. Mossly delving for his most voluminous handkerchief.

All at once Lilian noticed that the room had fallen silent. She looked up at her guests. Dr. Mossly and Mr. Vine were staring down at her hungrily, so that she was reminded of two pariah dogs, one fat and one thin, drooling over a prospective meal. Lilian was dreading the journey to the Kalee Ghat. The prospect of being shut up in a hackery with the magistrate, who could talk for hours about the need to improve the local irrigation systems, or about the dire shortage of ice pits for the manufacture of this most important luxury, or the benefits for export of manufacturing opium on an industrial scale, or the need for more thermantidotes to be installed at the
kutcherry
(to name but a few of his favorite topics of conversation) was almost enough to put her off from going. But her curiosity got the better of her, and when Mr. Vine appeared in a carriage to take her there, she was waiting for him.

They passed through the European cantonment and on to the native town without incident. As they approached the temple, however, the road became increasingly busy and packed with people, so that it was soon almost impossible to proceed at anything more than a snail's pace. Lilian stared out of the window at the heaving multitude as she and the magistrate inched forward in their sweltering
carriage. The crowd was visibly excited; voices shouted and sang and laughed on all sides and the squall of music filled the air and Lilian caught a waft of
ghee
and onions on the breeze. Everyone was dressed in their most colorful attire—apart from Lilian who, in order not to upset Mr. Vine, was wearing in her black dress, and Mr. Vine himself, who tended to wear black anyway. Everyone was heading to the temple.

“What festival did you say this was?” asked Lilian, gazing out at a group of mendicants, whose bodies were smeared from head to foot in ashes, their hair clotted with mud and twisted around their heads. Apart from a shred of cloth hanging from their waists, they were naked. One of them was holding his arms above his head. It appeared that he had kept them in that position for so many years that they were now withered, and completely immovable. The nails of his clenched fists had penetrated the backs of his hands, to emerge on the other side like a pair of claws.

“We are going to the Churuk Pooja,” replied the magistrate. “The swinging by hooks.”

“Look at that!” cried Lilian, pointing to the
fakir
with the withered arms. “How dreadful!”

“Yes,” said the magistrate.

“Is it some sort of penance?”

“I believe it's to fulfill some vow or other to Vishna,” sighed Mr. Vine. “It's an act of great merit to endure so much pain. Dr. Mossly assures me that the arms become numb quite quickly, and that the pain soon ceases as a result. Some of these fellows hold up only one arm. This chap with both his arms up will be considered very holy, as he is almost completely dependent on others for food and help of any kind.”

“Goodness!” said Lilian. She could not help but feel slightly sick.

“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Fraser?” asked Mr. Vine, leaning forward eagerly. “Here, take my handkerchief.” He patted her hand. “Yes, the mendicants can be quite frightful. But you'll have
seen similar chaps in the bazaar. Not quite so appealing close up, are they?”

“No,” agreed Lilian, fanning her face with the magistrate's handkerchief. “It is certainly a very curious practice.”

Mr. Vine stared out of the window in silence. “I've been away from home for thirty-five years now,” he said at last. “I've been in Kushpur for ten of those years and seen the Churuk Pooja every year. One year there were quite a few deaths—one chap came loose … there was a stampede … some
bhaji
seller's booth was set alight … We were going to try to stop the event, to prevent such mishaps happening again, of course. The Brahmins agreed, and nodded and
salaamed
, but then the following year the thing went ahead as usual.” He shrugged. “We didn't bother mentioning it again. Now we just send the garrison in to make sure there isn't any trouble.” He sat forward, and Lilian noticed that he was looking at her keenly. “But this is a side of India, Mrs. Fraser, that you don't usually see sitting in your drawing room with Mrs. Birchwoode, isn't it?” he said. “Perhaps it's a side you don't
want
to see. Certainly, I think you'll find that the Churuk Pooja illustrates most convincingly the difference between ourselves and our Indian subjects.”

Lilian nodded. So that was why he had brought her there. She should have guessed.

Mr. Vine scanned the crowd, which seemed now to stretch as far as they could see on both sides of the hackery. “Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all,” he muttered.

But Lilian was leaning forward and pointing out of the window. Three tall posts, each crossed at the top by a long horizontal bamboo pole, could be seen projecting from the crowds. “What are those things?” she asked.

“Those? Those are the swinging posts. They're the reason why everyone is here today. Look, there goes one now—”

Sure enough, Lilian watched as a man was released by the crowds. He was attached by a rope to the end of the horizontal
bamboo pole, at the other end of which another rope was fastened to a horizontal pole that projected from the post at waist height. This lower pole was now turned around and around by a team of men, who ran faster and faster, like horses in a mill, until the hanging man was flying through the air, in a circle of about thirty feet in diameter, suspended on the end of the length of rope like a rag doll. In one hand he carried a bag, from which he threw flowers and sweetmeats to the baying mob below.