Zemindar (41 page)

‘Indeed! I have never observed it.’

‘Now don’t take offence, for goodness sake! You still tend to treat me as a child, and I’m not. I … I’ve done things, experienced things, and feelings, that you know nothing about, and when I show you I am not a child any longer, you get annoyed. And that’s something too: I expect I’ve always found it so easy to like, really like, Oliver because he has always treated me as … well as a woman. And I
am
!’

‘Oh Lord!’ I said inelegantly.

For a while we were silent, each occupied with her own thoughts.

The morning was warm and still. Rajah, the patriarch of the peacocks, stretched his neck, uttered his ugly cry and then set off in pursuit of one of his hens pecking peacefully further away on the lawn. A couple of hoopoes, disturbed by his impetuous progress, hopped a couple of feet into the air and returned to earth with their crests fanned out in alarm. A dove called in the neem trees edging the lawn, and the axle of a Persian well creaked and squealed monotonously.

‘What does Charles think of his chances here in Hassanganj?’ I asked curiously.

‘Oh, Charles! Of course he sees it as inevitable—because he wants it. Especially now that he is accompanying Oliver on his visits to the villages and so on. Haven’t you noticed how he tries to talk knowledgeably about things he comes across—and makes such a fool of himself? Perhaps if he made his interest in the estate a little less obvious, or anyway the reason for his interest, he’d have a better chance. But I expect Oliver is really laughing up his sleeve at him all the time. It humiliates me so. Charles is so … unintelligent about things!’

‘But do you think he would really like to live out here, for good, I mean? How would he like the life and the work, if he knew there was no alternative?’

‘I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me much about it. I expect he’d be happy enough so long as Oliver was around to … well, show him the ropes … hold his hand, more or less. But I can’t imagine him out here running this huge place on his own. Can you?’

‘I believe it would suit him better than your father’s business.’

‘Undoubtedly. But could he manage it?’

‘Perhaps you underestimate him?’

‘Oh, you’ve always seen more in Charles than there really is!’

‘Perhaps you don’t see enough?’

‘I’ve seen more than enough! Believe me, I’ve seen much more than enough!’ And with that Emily bundled up her sewing, got to her feet with an effort, and went inside as hurriedly as her condition would permit.

It was towards the end of March that Oliver announced he would be away from Hassanganj for three days collecting rents in outlying villages and inspecting the progress of a new road he was building.

‘Would you care to come, Charles?’ he asked. ‘We’ll be roughing it, of course. Hard riding all day, hard sleeping all night. No comforts and no company but mine.’

‘By Jove, I’d like nothing better! A chance to really get to grips with things,’ answered Charles with a show of enthusiasm that I suddenly saw was a little too patent.

‘Good!’ said Oliver, one eyebrow twitching very slightly. ‘Bring the minimum—but don’t forget your gun. It will be your job to supply the stewpot at night. And be ready to leave at six.’

‘Tomorrow? It’s nearly eleven now!’

‘Tomorrow! Your preparations should not take long.’

I got up early to pour the tea for the men’s
chota hazri
, and was just in time to watch the departure of the camping equipment, laden on two bullock-carts and accompanied by the usual retinue of
chaprassis
, gun-bearers, cooks, bearers, water-carriers and grass-cutters.

Toddy-Bob had checked the gear twice over: tents, folding beds, chairs and tables, crockery, cutlery and cookware, big storm lanterns, guns and ammunition, bedding rolls, pitchers and bowls, and (for Oliver) a small, three-drawer military chest to serve as dresser, desk and strong-box.

An elaborate idea of ‘no comforts’ I thought to myself as the carts lumbered away.

There still remained a dozen men in the Hassanganj livery, mounted, armed and with swords in their belts, waiting for Oliver and Charles to set off. They were the bodyguard and would accompany Oliver, the newly collected rents, and Ishmial (who carried the money) wherever they went—a disquieting reminder to me of Rohilla raiders,
dacoits
and the uncertain temper of the times. Toddy-Bob, to his evident disgust, was to remain behind and take charge of the ladies’ comfort.

‘If there is anything you need, just let Tod know,’ instructed Oliver as he swung to the saddle. ‘And, by the way, later in the morning he will deliver a little surprise to Emily, a governess cart I came across in the coachhouse the other day. It’s being cleaned up and painted, and Tod has found a pony for it. Just something to pass the time, while Charles is away.’ And he looked directly at me in a manner I did not like.

‘How nice! She’ll be delighted. Have a good journey,’ I said coldly, and went indoors without bothering to wave them away.

That was the first really hot morning of the summer. Emily and I tried to sew on the verandah as usual, but our palms got sticky with sweat and the thread so tangled and the material so grubby that we soon gave it up. While Kate had been with us, we had sometimes taken our work out to the fernery, but the heat brought out snakes and Oliver warned that such damp and shady spots were especially attractive to the horrid creatures. Characteristically, he had not warned us against using the fernery; only told us what to expect if we did. So we had stopped going there.

The governess cart was duly delivered and Emily was duly pleased.

‘Beast’s too big for it really, ma’am. Ought to ’ave one of them little Shetlers, the shaggy ones, but they don’t do so good out ’ere—too ’ot!’ said Toddy-Bob as we examined the neat little white-painted equipage.

‘Oh, not at all! She’s a dear little mare. She’ll do just perfectly. Bring it around this evening, Toddy. I’ll try it then. It’s too hot to be out just now.’

‘Yes’m,’ said Toddy without emotion, and led the mare away.

‘He couldn’t be more thoughtful and kind,’ Emily said softly, a faraway expression in her eyes. ‘He must have realized walking has become too much of an effort for me now, especially in the heat. He said nothing, just did something. That’s so like him!’

After that, each morning after breakfast and again in the late afternoon Emily took a drive in her new toy. She named the mare Olive. I looked forward to my host’s expression on his learning this.

The following three days were difficult ones for me, thrown together with Emily and alone with her in the vast, silent house. Apart from Mount Bellew and our family, there was almost no topic of conversation we could touch on that did not endanger the inner comfort of one or the other. The heat exhausted Emily and she slept a lot, while I wandered between the verandah and the library looking for a book that would keep my mind engaged. It was not boredom I suffered from so much as restlessness, a thorough dissatisfaction with my own company, an unformed but insistent need for something I could not name. It was a mood new to me. I put it down to the heat and the silence in the house, and did my best not to give in to it, but I was relieved when the afternoon of the third day at last arrived.

When we had taken our tea, Emily went off in her governess cart with Toddy-Bob walking sedately beside her. I fetched my sketching block and pencils and set out to walk to a distant part of the park where stood a fine group of trees which I wanted to ‘catch’ wearing their long evening shadows.

My way led me behind the house, past the stables and servants’ quarters and to the east of the walled vegetable garden. Here the park opened out and, because of its comparative distance from the house, was rather more unkept than other parts of the grounds. I had not often come this way before—other reaches afforded pleasanter prospects and easier walking—but had once observed a tall building just visible among the trees that formed the boundary of the park. I had mentioned it to Oliver, asking him what it was. ‘That,’ he had answered briefly, ‘oh, that’s all that is left of the old hunting lodge, the Nawab’s hunting lodge. Probably used it as a watchtower, though they might have kept their hawks in it.’

Now, glimpsing it in the distance, I decided to have a closer look at the place and then return to my trees, by which time the light would be just what I needed. To my left, as I walked on through the unscythed grass, stood the icehouses in their grove of sheltering shade trees. Actually they were three deep pits, thickly thatched, where ice, formed in shallow earthenware saucers during the cold months of the year, was stored for use in the hot weather. It was an ingenious and remarkably efficient system, and I thought admiringly of the Moguls, those slant-eyed sons of the high plateaux of Central Asia, who relieved the rigours of the land they conquered by planting gardens where the play of water rivalled the beauty of the flowers, and devised this method of cooling the sherbet they were so fond of drinking. Now, more than two hundred years later, when the
abdar
poured our wine from a frosted, napkin-wrapped bottle, we never paused to comment.

As I sauntered past the hive-like structures, a small figure detached itself from the trees and came boldly towards me. It was little Yasmina, whom I was now accustomed to meeting in the park, though never in the gardens. She was a sociable mite and, though communication was limited, we had managed to establish a sort of friendship. She took my free hand and together we wandered on towards the tall building. She was in the habit of talking when with me, and I enjoyed listening to her and trying to make out what she was saying. Now, as we approached our objective, I was surprised to hear her repeat several times, in a proprietorial tone, the words ‘
Mehra ghar
,’ or ‘My house,’ and I wondered what fanciful playworld she lived in that made this curious edifice seem desirable as a home.

The structure, I now saw, was a hexagonal tower, gracefully proportioned and built of the same pinkish sandstone as Hassanganj. It was, however, of a much earlier date, and the suggestion of strength and dignity in its lines made me think it a remnant of those old Mogul times I had so recently recalled. The window apertures were filled with delicate stone trelliswork, and from their positioning I surmised the building contained three floors. I had expected a ruin, but it was in reasonably good repair; from where we stood no door was visible, but Yasmina, tugging impatiently at my hand, led me round the base of the tower to an entrance, and then I found that it was indeed her home. Chattering in delighted excitement, she led me up a couple of shallow steps into a room doubly dark in contrast to the mellow late sunlight we had just abandoned.

I stood still for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the dimness. The room was stone-paved and bare of furniture; only a few copper pots, burnished to a rosy glow, hung on one wall and stood piled in a corner.

An elderly woman squatted on the floor before an iron brazier preparing the evening meal. The rhythmic slap of her palms shaping the dough into
chapattis
ceased abruptly as she looked up and saw me against the light of the doorway.

‘
Baba
!’ she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and dropping the dough into a pan. ‘Aie! Aie! Yasmina!’

I thought she was going to strike the child, but Yasmina faced her squarely, not flinching. I almost laughed at the defiance implicit in every line of her small body, though I could understand that the woman had probably been anxious for her errant charge, and relief had been expressed, as it often is, in wrath.

‘
Thik hai
,’ I said, glad that my Hindustani was at least adequate to this elementary reassurance. But the woman could not agree with me that things were now ‘All right’, for she began to wring her hands and called out: ‘
Mem—Mem hai
!’ in a high, disturbed voice.

I had guessed from Yasmina’s manner that the woman was not her mother and now, as I wondered why my presence should cause such consternation, a figure glided swiftly down the unrailed stone staircase that followed the curve of the walls to the upper storeys, paused for a moment, and then came towards me. Yasmina dropped my hand and went to the newcomer. ‘
Merha Ma
’ she announced proudly by way of introduction.

Her mother was about my age, but small, slim and graceful. She was dressed in the baggy pyjamas and shirt of Mohammedan womanhood, and her glistening black hair hung down her back in a long braid finished with cotton tassels. From a small face, whose features were delicate and regular, enormous velvet eyes, very like Yasmina’s, gazed at me with an expression so full of malevolence that instinctively I stepped back towards the open door.

It was like a slap in the face.

‘What is it?’ I asked in bewilderment, as she stood and looked at me with unveiled hatred, and the other woman continued to mutter and wring her hands so that the glass bangles on her wrists jangled. ‘What is it? I have only brought Yasmina back to you!’ And I gestured towards the child.

At this her mother picked the child up and thrust her into the servant’s arms, as if to save her from some awful danger. Then she turned on me, and what she said I could not know, but a torrent of words fell from her lips and she clasped her fists as though she would indeed like to strike me.

Quite bewildered by this unduly warm reception, I shrugged my shoulders and was about to leave them to whatever mistaken impressions they laboured under, when a voice rang out from the upper room.

It spoke in Hindustani, but the tone conveyed very adequately the sense of the words: ‘What the devil is that infernal din about?’

His appearance on the stairs a second later was hardly necessary to make known to me the presence of Oliver Erskine.

For a moment we regarded each other in silence. The women too fell quiet and Yasmina hushed her crying.

Then I understood.

I felt the blood mounting to my face, and in a maelstrom of embarrassment and chagrin, I turned and fled into the evening sunlight. As I stumbled down the steps, my sketchbook dropped from under my arm, but I would not pause to retrieve it and, gathering up my skirts, I ran.