Hot Water Man (20 page)

‘From the churches. Awfully difficult to talk to because they knew they were right. We used to have these tedious teas.'

‘I see. Missionaries. The thing is, my wife can usually outargue me. She's had a good education.' He had once mentioned this – mildly, a touch humorously. If she had been a man, with a mother and Granny to support, she would have felt obliged to go straight into the equivalent of Cameron's. ‘I think she's more intelligent really.'

‘We had a poor little Welsh girl; she suffered dreadfully with the heat. And with us, no doubt. Couldn't teach for toffee. Miss Sopwith, probably from rather a good family. Perhaps they were the aeroplane people.
We
only called her Soppy, of course.'

‘You were brought up here?'

‘All over the place. Of course it was one country then. Papa's work took him everywhere – Delhi, Bombay. Summers we spent in the hills. Mama was a very intelligent woman, like your wife. You needed to be clever, believe me. Don't be fooled by what you hear, Ronald. It took a lot of skills to run a large house and all the servants. I'm sure your wife finds that.'

Unable to answer that truthfully, he nodded. The handle had stuck at last. He rummaged amongst the newspaper for the next piece. The paper lifted with his hands, it was so hot.

‘So tell me about this Women's Lib, Ronald.'

‘It's catching. It's infectious. Soon they'll be wearing badges saying “Women Against Everything”.' He laughed, gruntingly. He found a curved sliver. This cup must be in about eight pieces. He hesitated; he did not want to be disloyal. ‘About a year ago I won some money on my Premium Bonds so I organized a surprise – a romantic week in Venice. When I showed Christine the tickets – I'd put them in a box and tied it with red ribbon – she was thrilled of course, but then she looked affronted. Was her job so unimportant, she asked, that I'd presume her to take a week off, just like that, when I'd organized for my own time off beforehand?'

‘Ah, Venice. Morris wanted to take me there on our honeymoon. We had to settle for Kashmir.'

He pictured Iona on a boat, her head resting against a pillow while her bridegroom pointed out the names of the surrounding mountains. He would be expected to know such things. How easy for a husband, in those days. He himself would have known the names; that was simple.

A shadow fell. Iqbal padded in noiselessly and started to lay out the tea. Donald took this opportunity to stretch his legs; they were numb. He wandered over to the veranda. It was breezy out here. They knew how to build in those days, with their thick walls, high ceilings and galleries for ventilation. None of this gimcrack modern stuff; flimsy walls like Adamjee Plaza where one had to rely on air-conditioners and the chancy electricity supply. He was a romantic at heart. Even Mrs Gracie's clutter seemed more pleasing than Christine's. Christine's disorder seemed a wilful statement of her priorities. Mrs Gracie, on the other hand, seemed helpless amidst the debris of her own past.

He gazed through the broken fretwork. Down below, one part of the garden was still tended. During winter, no doubt, that bed would be full of the flowers his grandfather had described. The lawn was shaded by trees; they looked like elms except for the black pods hanging down. Through the branches he could see the clock tower of the cantonment station. The hands were missing now. He could almost hear the bugles blowing and his Granny lying awake while the trains shunted. In those days the clock worked. His grandparents had not honeymooned in Kashmir but in the Grand Hotel in Murree.
Only the best for little Dottie
, said Grandad, pointing to the photo in the album. In this house, for the first time since he had arrived, he felt near to him.

Tea was ready; he turned back. It was drinks hour really. He had lost track of the time, gluing together these frail old cups, piecing together the past. He sat down on the floor.

‘Did you live in this house when you were married?'

She nodded. ‘Now you're not to guess my age, Ronald. Some sugar? Dear Morris – when he was alive everything was spick and span. He had the highest standards.'

‘Was he in the army?'

‘Oh no. He became a judge, like Papa. He was a good deal older than me. He kept me in order. I was a wild young miss, Ronald. The servants spoiled me dreadfully when I was a child.'

He sipped the tea, trying to work out dates. There must have been some point when his grandfather and Mrs Gracie were both in Karachi. These circuit judges travelled; so did the army officers. But Grandad had mentioned her name.

He brushed glue on the third bit of cup. ‘It must have been marvellous, growing up here.'

‘Except for the clothes. We used to be laced into these horrible tight dresses, most unsuitable for the climate. I feel so envious when I see these young girls nowadays gadding about in their summer frocks.'

He wondered where Christine had been gadding about today in those baggy things.

‘But it was marvellous, Ronald. And as you grew up there were all those nice young officers. Always far too many to go round, of course. They used to ship out the frumps from England – the Fishing Fleet, they called it – to try and find them husbands.'

Donald paused, holding the piece in place: broken rose against stalk. ‘Actually my grandfather was in the army here.'

‘Dear boy, why didn't you tell me? What was his name?'

‘Herbert Manley.' He added modestly: ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Manley, he became.'

‘Manley . . . Manley . . .' She gazed at the half-mended teapot. ‘So many faces, Ronald. They all looked so handsone in their uniforms, but rather alike. They would ask you to dance with a small bow,' she bent her head, ‘. . . like this.' She pushed back the alice band, which had slipped forward.

There was a silence. The ceiling fan creaked. He imagined her brain, slowly working with the memories. ‘There was that Major Marnley, of course, I dimly remember him, but he was posted elsewhere.'

‘Marnley?'

‘He might have become a Lieutenant-Colonel after he married that English gel. There was a certain amount of fuss at the time, I seem to remember, but it all blew over. They all did it, of course; it was common knowledge.'

‘What, marry?'

‘Oh dear me no. You couldn't marry them.' She laughed. ‘But it was only natural. Us girls weren't supposed to know about that sort of thing, I mean I was only in my twenties, but what else could the poor chaps do? Not nearly enough English girls to go round.' She stopped to think, gazing at the broken bits of china. ‘Young men in their prime.'

There was a long silence. Donald held his breath. Perhaps she was just working out where the pieces went.

‘Maningtree. There was a Major Maningtree. But he was a bachelor. Besides, I believe he passed away with the dysentery. One day, Ronald, you should just take a look at the churchyard. So many graves and some of them so wee.'

Donald kept the third piece clamped against the others. He tried to keep his voice casual. ‘This Marnley. Was he transferred to – I think it was something to do with Pore?'

‘Something poor. Rags? Ragastan. No, it's Rajastan.'

‘P-O-R-E.'

‘
Cawnpore.
Silly me. How clever you are. Cawnpore. No reflection, I'm sure, on what happened. I'm sure it wasn't. Just to stop – well, complications. I presume the English girl didn't know, you see. It wouldn't do for them to meet in the street. Occasionally the native woman would make a bit of trouble – even come to the house.' She dabbed the glue. ‘Sometimes if there was an infant involved, as in that case. But by and large they knew their place. No doubt a little money changed hands. They behaved like gentlemen, Ronald. Even this Marnley, I'm sure, despite what they said.' She stopped, gazing at Donald. ‘Oh dear, I haven't put my silly foot in it have I? It's not your grandfather?'

‘Grandfather? Oh no.'

Donald was fumbling with the three pieces of his cup which seemed to have fallen apart. He had thought the handle was glued. He tried to press them together but his hands would not do what he wanted. He did not want the pieces to clatter together with his shaking. He put them down on the newspaper.

‘I can't tell you how delightful it is, Ronald, to have a young face around. It reminds me how life used to be one long party. One used to think: there he is, leading a thousand men. And here he is, bringing me a lemonade fizz. Now I'm just an old woman fighting for her existence.'

‘Existence?'

‘Her donkeys' existence, I should say. But my own too, Ronald. I live and breathe that place. You see I don't have many friends left now – nobody who could remember what it was like then. They're my babies. I was not blessed with children. Call me sentimental; everybody else does, I'm sure. Or else mad. Can this mad old lady rely on your support, if it comes to a fight?'

He could feel himself nodding; at least he thought he was. He gazed out at the slats, blurred by the evening sun. He felt congested.

He concentrated on his surroundings. The plaster walls were peeling.
You've always clung to the past
, Christine had said.

If he touched the walls the paint would fall in flakes, lying amongst the broken china. This sandstone looked solid but the whole house was crumbling. White ants too. In the shelves the books looked perfectly all right. Then you opened one and the pages had crumbled into dust.

He must not think of his grandfather; he must think of his manners. He smiled at Mrs Gracie. Suddenly her little-girl curls seemed odd, surrounding that wrinkled face. They must have chatted about this and that, he could not remember a word of it later. She seemed to notice no difference. He attempted to put his cup together again, with no success.

Minnie was scratched
all over, like she'd been pulled through barbed wire. Jewels of blood criss-crossed her cheek; her arms were scraped. She was wearing the pink pants suit she had worn last time he saw her; this however was untouched, not a spot of blood on it. For some reason this did not surprise him. She seemed undisturbed. Didn't he ask her if it hurt? He could not identify the place where she was standing. She was pulling off pieces of kitchen roll. Only gradually did he realize she was not mopping herself. One by one she was offering the pieces to him.

Her face, usually anxious, was calm and she was talking in a flat voice. He could not make out the words, as she pressed the cloth, sure, it was cloth now – as she pressed it against his cheek.

Duke was awake by now and pushing the sheet from his face. He was sweating. The room was black; the air-conditioner was humming on to itself. He sat up, breathing deeply. He never dreamed; leastways he never remembered them. He had never credited his imagination overmuch. But lately he had not been sleeping too well. Himself, Duke Hanson, who usually slept like a log.

He switched on the lamp. 2.35. The sheets were twisted half off the bed, as if he had been making violent love. He climbed to his feet. He felt both heavy and drained. He fetched his bathrobe and went down the stuffy stairway, switching on the lights as he went. He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk. Then he fetched himself a couple of coconut cookies. He was not hungry. Gul Khan kept the house well stocked; he looked after Duke as competently as a wife. Minnie had remarked on this before she left, she herself of course never having lived with a servant before. ‘I needn't worry about you,' she had said, ‘after I'm gone.'

Min is Minimal.
Someone had said this, one of these nights. Was it Minnie, scratched? Someone in some echoing, further dream. Some of these had featured Shamime, usually altered. He could visualize Shamime saying it teasingly, turning her head to avoid his face.
Min is Minimal.
Blowing out smoke as if exhaling, from her lungs, the stirred ghost of his wife.

He munched under the bright strip light. He tried to put Minnie back into this kitchen, right here beside him. He wished to God she had not gone away. Two weeks and it still did not get better; in fact it got worse. He had kept himself away from Shamime all this time, hoping for a cure. He would keep himself away for as long as it took. He would keep phoning Minnie. Last week she had told him the nurses were teasing her about the number of calls she received from Karachi. ‘And you've been married twenty-six years?' they said. ‘You lucky lady, you.' Minnie herself sounded pleased but surprised. ‘Honey, really I'm fine. It's all gone fine. It wasn't one bit as bad as I thought. Dear, don't worry yourself.'

She was back home now in West Boulevard. Chester was home for vacation and working at the gas station just two blocks away; evenings he was back. There were the neighbours coming round for coffee. In addition Duke Jnr's wife, Corinne, was at hand to make sure Minnie didn't overdo things. She would have her work cut out; Minnie was that active.

He could picture her in the home they had saved so many years to buy; comfortable enough, nothing fancy. He hoped she was in the lounge with her feet up. She told him she had bought a stack of paperbacks on Third World problems, so she would return better informed. The door slamming beyond the kitchen as Chester came in from the garage, staggering under the box of groceries. He could picture her in each of the rooms, sunlight coming through the windows. He could see her fetching the mail and leaning, arms flexed, on her electric blender as she fixed something for her lunch. He knew every inch of that house, he had decorated it himself over the years and put up every shelf. But they were not as usual, these pictures. They were not running through his veins, all homesick familiarity. Now they had become distanced and boxed, as in a TV screen; something he had to decide to switch on. He did switch them on, but painfully.

The freezer door dug into his back; he moved his position. Inside there lay Minnie's shopping: the steaks and packs of bacon she had bought from the Commissary. She had made him pecan pie, too, knowing his sweet tooth. He had touched none of these parcels, neatly labelled and furred with frost. He could not eat them. Instead Gul Khan cooked him something, or else he went to the Intercontinental and ate a tandoori. In fact by now he preferred Pakistani food, subtle and spicy, burning him, bringing tears to his eyes.