Flame Tree Road (18 page)

The man intrigued her. He was the first Indian man she had talked to in England, besides that obnoxious Sammy Deb. She had liked the sound of his voice. He spoke with a poetic lilt, the intonations curled softly around the edges of his words. She wished she had asked him more about himself. Biren spoke little and was content with silence, which made her jittery. He watched her with a soft indulgent look in his eyes. It was the same look Daddy had had when as a little girl she did a pirouette or some daredevil thing to impress him.

The mournful call of the peacock
floated across the lawn. It sounded eerie, like a newborn infant. Estelle looked out of the window and saw the male bird give a shiver of its dorsal feathers and unfurl its tail into a fan of outrageous glory. Even though she had witnessed this marvel countless times, it never failed to evoke in her a feeling of awe. Daddy loved peacocks. Mummy hated them. “Too little in the head and too much in the tail,” she said, and sniffed.

When she was a child in India, Estelle would collect the fallen tail feathers of the peacock, but her ayah had never let her bring them inside the house.

“It’s bad luck, missybaba,” Ayah had said.

“Why?” Estelle had wanted to know.

Ayah had pointed to the iridescent blue eye in the feather. “See the evil eye? Evil eye spoil missybaba happiness.”

Ayah had braided Estelle’s hair with colored ribbons and tied it with a bow at each end. “One day missybaba marry handsome prince,” the ayah had crooned. “He come on a white horse and he wear peacock feather made of real emeralds and diamonds in his turban. That is only peacock feather you must bring into the house, missybaba.”

Ayah had balled up the fallen strands of Estelle’s hair from the hairbrush and spat on it before throwing it away. After all these years in England, Estelle still did the same. She never brought peacock feathers into the house, either. And unbeknownst to herself, she secretly waited for her Indian prince.

Sylhet

12th June 1891

Dear Dada,

You must have heard about the devastating floods in Bengal. We are in a dire situation. The water level has receded, but now Sylhet is in the grip of a terrible cholera epidemic that has spread from village to village. Our village has come under quarantine. A yellow flag now flies on Momati Ghat. No boats will stop here and every day people are dying like flies.

I have some very bad news. Our family is much diminished, Dada. What can I tell you? We have lost both our grandparents. Only Uncle, Mother and I remain. I was home for the summer holidays when the epidemic broke out. As a result I could not return to Calcutta. Kanai’s village across the river is all but wiped out. Kanai lost his entire family. He packed everything in his boat and is leaving for Silchar. I am sending this letter through him in the hope he will be able to post it from there. Assam is still unaffected from what I know.

I am convinced Uncle and I are alive only because of Ma. As you know, Mother does not eat food from the main kitchen. Let me tell you, Dada, her widow’s curse turned out to be a blessing. I had not been taking food from the main kitchen because I eat with Ma, which is why I was spared. Uncle miraculously escaped, as well, but within five days we lost both our grandparents one after the other. We are still in shock.

Uncle and I are eating Mother’s vegetarian food now. Only boiled lentils and rice. But please do not worry. The worst is behind us. I have heard the quarantine has already been lifted in the Tamarind Tree Village. It will only be a matter of weeks before there is some semblance of normalcy here and I can return to Calcutta.

After having lived through this experience, I have made up my mind to pursue a medical degree and become a doctor. I think I can be of more use to our people that way.

Your brother,

Nitin

Cambridge

13th August 1891

Dear brother Nitin,

I am deeply troubled to get your letter. It took over two months to reach me. It is unimaginable both our grandparents are no more and it is by God’s grace you and Ma have been spared.

Now it becomes clear to me why I have not received any letters from home. I feel very helpless being so far away. There is little I can do from here besides send you money. I had purchased some small gifts earlier for you. They seem paltry and meaningless after what you have gone through, but I am sending them to you in the hope that they will cheer you up. Ma once talked about a Scottish butterscotch toffee that reminded her of Baba. I have managed to find it. I am also sending her a vial of Floris Eau de Cologne, the fresh floral-citrus scent I am sure she will enjoy. The Pelikan fountain pen and folding pocketknife are for you.

Samir Deb will carry these back with him to India and deliver them to you. I am going to London to meet him today. He is leaving for India, permanently, to settle down. His mother has arranged for his marriage with a Bengali girl. Samir will take over the family business as his older brother, Diju, has settled in England and has no plans to return to India.

I must end this letter, as I have to leave for London shortly to meet with Samir.

More soon via post. My love to you all.

Your ever affectionate

Dada

For the next four days Estelle never caught a single glimpse of Biren. She wandered through the meadows and spent a long time hanging about the peacock enclosure. From under the chestnut tree she could see the small window of his room and the square of darkness beyond, but there was no movement within.

Finally, in a fit of brazenness she marched past the stables, through the orchard and into the meadows. She even coughed a little to attract attention. Nobody followed her or called out her name. On her way back she slipped behind the apiary and looked up toward the door of his room. Both the doors were padlocked but a small piece of white paper was attached to the second door. Estelle rushed up to read it.

13th August 1891

Dear Bertie,

I had to make an urgent trip to London.

The backdrops are inside my room. The paint is still drying.

The keys are with Mrs. Pickles.

B.R.

So he was in London. Estelle walked back to the house feeling utterly foolish. To think she had spent so many hours imagining things when he was not even there.

“Pia-ow, pia-ow, pia-ow,” screamed the peacock. He fanned his tail and pirouetted on fat, ugly legs, but Estelle marched past without giving him so much as a cursory glance. The peacock’s tail deflated bit by bit. He cocked his head and gave a puzzled cluck at her retreating back.

CHAPTER

29

Estelle fingered the chipped rim of her bone-china teacup, the result of a small calamity that had occurred a minute ago. She turned the saucer over to read the back stamp and winced. It was the Spode Stafford White set. Mummy would not be pleased.

She was busy writing the article for the
Archangel
and had lifted the teacup absentmindedly without looking. The next thing she knew, it had bumped the rose-quartz elephant on Daddy’s desk.
You
naughty elephant.
Estelle tapped its trunk reproachfully with her pen. She regarded the whimsical elephant tenderly. It had a pink upturned trunk, ornate patterned back and sorrowful human eyes. Daddy’s study was full of interesting memorabilia from India. The walls were decorated with survey maps, the edges curled and brown. There was a photograph of Daddy in his white jodhpurs and
sola
topee standing next to Naga tribal warriors in their full-feathered ceremonial dress. The corner cabinet displayed the tools of a surveyor’s trade: a wooden box containing a vernier compass, a wye level and a small mounted optical telescope. There were hunting photographs, too: one of Daddy with his gun next to a dead royal Bengal tiger, surrounded by Indian villagers dressed in loincloths and turbans carrying long sticks.

Estelle’s favorite section was what James called the “wall of horrors.” There were tribal spears decorated with human hair and boar’s teeth, head-taking baskets, a quill case embellished with a monkey skull and the infamous human shrunken head, which was the size of an orange and dangled at the end of a long shock of hair. It never failed to amuse Estelle that the room with the most morbid things in the house was in fact the liveliest. The south-facing window of Daddy’s study invited a leafy green freshness from the lime tree outside, and made the wood-paneled walls glow a deep and friendly brown. In stark contrast, her mother’s rooms, decorated with drapery and lace, smelled of dead roses and stale lavender—rather like a mortuary.

Estelle got up to pour herself another cup of tea. Wandering over to the window, she leaned against the lintel and glanced toward the old chestnut tree. She was about to take a sip when she almost dropped her cup. Biren Roy was standing by the peacock enclosure. He stuck his fingers through the netting, and it looked as if he was trying to feed the birds pieces of bread. The peahens gathered around, bobbing their heads, while the male luxuriated in the tree with his long tail cascading over the branch like a jeweled veil.

Estelle lifted her skirts and ran out of the study, down the stairs and across the garden path. She caught him just as he was disappearing around the corner into the orchard.

“I say!” she called out gaily. “You’re back!”

He turned around and waited for her to catch up. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets and there was a small notebook tucked under his arm. As Estelle drew closer she noticed he was growing a rather nice-looking moustache, which he obviously tended with loving care.

“How is the debate preparation going?” she gasped, stopping to catch her breath.

“It’s coming along.” His eyes were lively and warm and he had a quizzical, amused look on his face. He took his hand out of his pocket and twirled a pencil between his index and ring finger. A big droopy silence hung between them.

“My offer still stands. You can practice your arguments on me, if you like,” she said. “I can pretend to be the opposition. I’ll give you a good rebuttal.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he said, arching an eyebrow, the tiny smile wandering in.

“I was just going for a walk,” she said impulsively. “It’s such a jolly day. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

He fidgeted. “That’s awfully kind of you, but unfortunately I have another engagement.”

She was deeply disappointed but she did not show it.

“Very well,” she said, giving an airy wave as she turned to go. “Some other time, then.”

He cleared his throat. “Estelle?”

“Yes?”

“I can go for a walk tomorrow, if you like.”

She gave a little hop of joy. “That would be lovely. I’ll bring along a picnic.”

“Oh, no, please, that would be too much trouble.”

Estelle felt exasperated.
What was wrong with him?
Any other man would have jumped at the chance to go on a picnic with her.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said firmly. “I will meet you here under the chestnut tree at eleven o’clock.”

With that she ran back toward the house without giving him a chance to change his mind.

* * *

The day of the picnic turned out to be gray and miserable. A wolfish wind howled around the garden, and the peahens huddled under the chestnut tree, their beaks tucked into their wings. Biren pulled the coat collar of his tweed jacket up to his ears and waited at the appointed time. He fully expected the outing to be called off, but there she was rushing over in a pea-green coat, her red hair flying, a picnic basket looped through her arm. Estelle Lovelace, it seemed, was hell-bent on having a picnic, whether Mother Nature approved of it or not.

The tall grasses in the meadow whipped in frenzy and the daffodils were flattened to the ground. They found a grassy knoll, but the wind made it impossible to spread the tablecloth, so they ate ham sandwiches with frozen fingers and made attempts at teeth-chattering conversation that was quickly abandoned when two white napkins flapped off like wounded seagulls in the grass. Finally all semblance of a picnic came to a halt as big dollops of rain fell. They ran for cover to an abandoned mill, where, protected by a derelict wall, was a miraculously dry spot facing the pond. It was a sly and furtive hideaway, the kind lovers seek out. The hearts and initials scratched on the wall and the ashes of a burned-out fire hinted of forbidden intimacy. The same thought must have crossed both their minds because they were suddenly self-conscious. They spread the picnic tablecloth on the floor and sat side by side, their backs against the wall. The light rain dripped off the overhang with a soft
tippity-tip
sound.