The Peacock Spring (18 page)

‘You must be Una,’ said Mrs Lamont. ‘Ally said you were disagreeable. You don’t look disagreeable at all. Come, give me a kiss. And Halcyon . . . why, you are
lovely,’ – it came out unmistakably as luv-el-ee. ‘My God!’ said Mrs Lamont, looking round. ‘This is as big as Government House in Pondicherry. What lucky girls you
are, m’n?’

‘I will order some tea,’ said Una.

‘Tea,’ declared Mrs Lamont, ‘is bad for me. It gives me much indigestion and swelling – you never saw such swelling. Girls, I will take a little Scotch.’

‘Whisky? At four in the afternoon?’ They were surprised.

‘Scotch whisky,’ but, ‘Is no whisky,’ said Dino when he was summoned.

‘No whisky?’

‘No whisky, Missy-Sahib.’

Una looked at his obstinate face. ‘There is plenty. Bring whisky and soda – at once.’ It was Edward’s voice but, as Dino turned to obey, Una added, ‘Dino, she is
old.’

If Una had known it, she could have made no stronger appeal; Indian reverence for the old is innate and, for all their disapproval of Alix, the servants saw nothing wrong in Hal sitting on the
floor rubbing Mrs Lamont’s feet when she had kicked off the high-heeled satin shoes in which she had tottered up the steps. ‘Press them a little for me, darling. They swell like boils
in my shoes. I should have brought my old Terala, but that lazy owl of a rickshaw wallah said he wouldn’t pull her as well. Besides, Ally would have been shamed. If Terala is so shabby,
shouldn’t Ally have brought her a new sari when I asked her, m’n? Ten rupees it would have cost but, my God, it might have been a hundred.’ Una brought a small table to hold the
glass Dino had brought – a single whisky in a tumbler. ‘No, no soda,’ said Mrs Lamont and, ‘Haven’t you a decanter? I didn’t think Sir Eddie would measure
pegs.’

‘Bring the decanter, Dino.’

‘Better no more, Miss-baba.’

‘Bring the decanter.’ Grumbling, Dino submitted. Una went to the pantry to fetch cakes, poured a second drink – ‘The Little Flower will bless you, darling.’ Una
doubted if the Little Flower would, the whisky disappeared so fast. Three times she picked up bag, handkerchief, card case. ‘Give me back my card. Now I have found my way to you, why should I
not call on other of Ally’s high friends, m’n? Why should I be hidden away, I ask you? Ally is a good daughter but, yes, she hides me away. It hurts me very, very much,’ and Mrs
Lamont wept a little, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief which seemed to have been steeped in scent. ‘Can you believe it, I shouldn’t have known your address, or met you dear
girls, if Ally had not dropped a letter that Mr Lobo found.’

‘Mr Lobo!’ said Una.

‘Yes, he is my very good friend, but Ally uses him as if he were a pig. A pig! And so he brought this letter to me. “Ally does not want me to go there,” I told him, “and
I, Hortense Marie Lamont, do not go where there is not welcome for me.” Girls, am I welcome, m’n?’

‘Of course you are,’ said Hal and Una, ‘Why not?’

‘Why not, indeed? That is what Mr Lobo told me. “Besides,” he said, “you should go. You should certainly go. You are her mother, and should see what this Sir Eddie is up
to. If you make Miss Ally angry . . .”’

‘Miss Ally,’ and Una remembered Alix’s ‘Muslim form of greeting.’

‘ “If you make her angry,” Mr Lobo said, “all the better.” He said that but Ally cannot help herself. God help her with that God-awful temper.’

‘Has she a God-awful temper?’ Hal had seen only a tinge of it in that lesson morning on the verandah. ‘And Una was the worst,’ Hal remembered.

‘Well, let her be angry.’ Mrs Lamont held out her glass. ‘One little drink more and you shall show me over your place and I will tell you tales about Ally, m’n?’
Her eyes were snapping with delight – and the alcohol, thought Una. She had not dreamed Mrs Lamont could drink so much; the decanter was half-empty. ‘Try and put my shoes on for me,
sweetheart,’ she told Hal, ‘and we shall go.’

Hal was struggling with the swollen feet when there was the sound of a car stopping in the porch, a door slammed, angry steps; then Alix was in the drawing room and they had a glimpse of the
God-awful temper.

‘
What
are you doing here?’ She towered over her mother.

‘I came to see you, Ally.’ It was a whimper.

‘And I had gone to see you. Get up – get up at once. How dare you come when I expressly told you not to. Dressed up like a guy,’ scolded Alix. ‘Disgracing yourself and
me. It was Lobo set you on to this, that disgusting pig.’

‘Alix, don’t, don’t,’ pleaded Hal, but Alix shook her off.

‘She wants to see the house,’ said Una. ‘At least, now she is here, Alix, let her see what she wants.’

‘You keep out of this, both of you.’ Alix hoisted her mother from the sofa and propelled her to the steps.

‘My shoes.’

‘Never mind your shoes. You can go barefoot.’

They saw the old puckered face where tears were making runnels through the powder; the hat, with its nodding rose, was on one side, the boa trailing as, between silent watching servants, Alix
thrust Mrs Lamont in front of her down the steps and into the Diplomat. Una gathered up the parasol and card case, Hal followed with bag and shoes. Alix snatched them and threw them into the back
seat. ‘
We
didn’t want you to go,’ said Una loudly to Mrs Lamont, and Hal, dodging Alix, leaned through the open car door and kissed her.

There was silence between Una and Hal after Mrs Lamont and Alix had gone. Hal looked as dazed as if a balloon had exploded in her face – and it was a balloon, thought Una. At last,
‘Did you know Alix could be like that?’ Hal asked.

‘Yes, I knew,’ said Una.

‘Poor, poor old lady.’ Hal covered her eyes with her hands as if to shut out Mrs Lamont’s face; then she took her hands down. ‘I’m glad I’m going away to
school. I don’t think I want to stay here any more. Una, why don’t you ask to go back to Cerne?’

It was Mrs Porter over again and Una said, ‘I couldn’t possibly go back.’

‘Then let’s talk to Edward and perhaps he will send Alix away.’

‘That isn’t likely. Besides . . .’ and Una contemplated what it would mean if Alix were sent away. It wouldn’t suit me at all, thought Una. It would be the end of our
freedom, mine and Ravi’s. ‘One must be fair,’ she said aloud. ‘Alix has had a hard time and, remember, she is in love.’

‘I’m in love with Vikram but I wouldn’t treat Louise like that – and Vik wouldn’t let me.’

Neither would Ravi, thought Una. ‘Nor would Edward,’ she said, ‘if he knew . . .’

‘But why doesn’t he know? Why doesn’t she tell him?’ Deceit always made Hal desperate. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

‘It’s difficult for you to understand,’ and, You are only twelve, thought Una. You haven’t had time to be stained, she thought with a pang of guilt. She could not say
that to Hal and so used Alix’s words: ‘You have nothing to hide.’

‘If I had I wouldn’t hide it.’ Hal was fierce and, I’m not fit to stay in the same room as Hal, thought Una.

‘Alix is a juggernaut, a cruel hypocrite juggernaut. Lend me your handkerchief, Una. I’m going to cry.’

‘Then Vikram will see you with red eyes and a swollen nose.’

‘If Vik is going to marry me, he had better see me as ugly as possible,’ and again Una felt respect for her young sister. She put her arms round Hal and hugged her. Hal broke down.
‘I loved Alix. I worshipped her.’

‘I know you did.’

‘She’s a beastly bitch,’ said Hal, drying her eyes.

‘Not altogether.’ Una was judicious.

‘Why does she have to be so mysterious?’

Because she is afraid – but Una did not say that; instead, to divert Hal, she began to invent, as only Una could, tales of Alix, Mrs Lamont and poor fat Mr Lobo; how they were part of a
circus in which Alix did
haute école
, Mrs Lamont was the elephant, Mr Lobo the clown; how Alix was a siren from the sea off Pondicherry, half-woman, half-mermaid –
‘That’s why she sings so well.’ She had been spawned by a white whale – ‘Half-brown, you mean,’ said Hal – who was always followed by a faithful seal which
smiled, with no idea how hideous he was. When Alix came back she found them in fits of giggles.

‘What are you laughing at?’

‘You,’ and Hal spluttered, ‘Oh Alix! You told Una your mother was a quiet old lady who lived in a home.’

‘She could well be in a home!’ That was Una as again they collapsed. The giggles were deadly to Alix. She began to breathe quickly.

‘Don’t be offended,’ said Una, wiping her eyes.

‘We liked her,’ said Hal. ‘She asked us to tiffin and said she would give us a proper prawn curry. What is tiffin?’

‘My mother is – not quite right in her mind.’ Alix was immensely dignified. ‘Sadly, she is a little mental which is why she dresses up and talks . . . also why I have
kept her away.’

‘Oh Alix! Don’t put on so much lace.’ Una did not care how rude she was. ‘She isn’t mental and we’re not fools. We can see what your mother is, and why
shouldn’t she be? Hal is right. We liked her.’

‘She is much nicer than you.’ Hal too, did not care now what she said.

‘You will have a good tale to tell Edward, won’t you?’ Alix was white, her nostrils dilated.

‘We’re not tattlers,’ said Hal but, ‘Ask us not to tell him,’ Una taunted. ‘Go on. Ask us.’ Then, suddenly, she did not want to be cruel but serious.
‘There is someone who ought to tell him,’ she said gravely to Alix. ‘You – for your own good,’ and the stately Alix crumbled and started to cry – as if all the
fright had come back, thought Una, watching. She had a strange instinct to go to Alix and steady her; to say, ‘Hush, hush. It will be all right, if you will trust us and tell the
truth.’ A strange thing to say to my enemy, thought Una.

‘Will they send you too away to the hills?’ asked Ravi.

Hal had gone. She and Sushila had been handed over at the airport to a large capable escorting nun of whom ‘Even Aunt Freddie would have approved,’ said Edward.

‘Will they send you away too?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Una. ‘They still need an excuse for Alix living here. No, I’m still gooseberry.’

‘Gooseberry? What is gooseberry?’

‘Having to be there when you are not wanted,’ said Una.

‘Wouldn’t you like to go to Bulbul this evening?’ said Edward.

‘Mrs Mehta has asked you to the music festival. You should go,’ Alix urged.

‘Lady Srinevesan rang.’

‘They can’t get rid of me enough,’ said Una. For instance, they had fallen in easily with her not riding Mouse.

‘My back aches.’

‘Then perhaps you had better not ride.’ To Una it had become a point of honour but they scarcely noticed.

‘I thought you loved Mouse,’ Edward did say on the fourth day. At that tears rose but, ‘I do, but my back aches,’ she managed to say.

Alix was sharper. ‘You are doing this to make me unhappy.’

Una opened her eyes wide in pretended innocence. ‘But it should make you very happy. Haven’t you a lovely little horse to ride?’

‘You are an abominable girl.’

Una shrugged. Her shrug was one of her best weapons. It always nonplussed Edward, silenced Hal; it had even disconcerted Mrs Carrington and, pleasingly, it infuriated Alix.

Una drove out with them to the parade ground and walked while they rode. She treasured these solitary early mornings; nobody spoke to her, though now and again she had to step back out of a
horse’s way as she wandered in the fresh coolness under tasselled trees that dappled the paths with their shadows. Sometimes she climbed up to the ruined monument on the knoll; it was used
now as an art school and the students’ attempts at sculpture were set up among the bushes. She saw a mongoose; hares; often peacocks with their hens; and heard partridges, the cock calling
‘pateela, pateela’. At this time Ravi was busy with the morning watering, or swishing the lawns with those long bamboo canes, or gathering flowers for the house before they wilted in
the sun; but Una could say his poems, murmuring them as she walked.

‘Goodbye our afternoons,’ Ravi had said when Hal went. She had been a useful decoy, taking most of Alix’s attention, and it had become difficult, ‘and dangerous,’
said Hem, for Una in the day to slip away. ‘But we must keep our nights,’ said Una. ‘The poems are so important.’ Ravi was to try for the Tagore Prize. Una had persuaded him
and, ‘It would be imbecile not to,’ said Ravi. Hem, for once, reluctantly agreed. ‘I suppose you are safe by now. But I wish,’ he said, worried, ‘you would tell Sir
Edward of this work.’ Hem knew that almost every night Una and Ravi worked at the poems, Una in her guise of stillness and patience. ‘I wish you would tell.’

‘We shall,’ said Ravi. ‘Listen, I shall tell you how it will be. It will be in the hall called Vigyan Bhawan, when everyone is gathered there to hear the poets who have been
chosen finalists for the Tagore Prize. We, the ten poets who will read, will be on the rostrum. Una and Sir Edward – you must prevail on him to come, Una – will be in front seats, of
course. Then, when I am called, I shall announce’ – and Ravi became dramatic – ‘“I, Ravi Bhattacharya, write in Hindi and English both. I will read the Hindi but,
since I am not well versed in pronouncing English, I call on my friend, Miss Una Gwithiam, to be so kind as to come and read with me,” – and you, to your father’s amazement, the
amazement of everyone in the hall, will rise and ascend the platform. We shall sit as we are sitting now and read my poems turn and turn about, and your father will see without
explanation.’

‘He
will
be astonished,’ said Una.

‘Indeed! And more! When I win the prize, he will be filled with admiration and we shall cast ourselves at his feet.’

‘Not in Vigyan Bhawan.’

‘It would be best. He can hardly refuse forgiveness when so many are there. Besides, he will be so proud that you, his daughter, know me.’

‘Ullu,’ said Hem.

‘And remember, it is not for long,’ said Ravi. ‘Only till the end of April – already we are in March. The poems for the Tagore have to be in by the fifteenth of April,
which is Baisakhi – our new year,’ said Ravi, ‘when everything new will begin, including my fame.’