Sea of Poppies (31 page)

After thinking about this for a bit, Kalua asked: And
ját
– what about caste?

Caste doesn't matter, said the duffadar. All kinds of men are eager to sign up – Brahmins, Ahirs, Chamars, Telis. What matters is that they be young and able-bodied and willing to work.

At a loss for words, Kalua had put all his strength behind his oars. As the boat was pulling up to shore, the duffadar had repeated his offer. But this time he had added a warning: Remember – you have
only one night to decide. We leave tomorrow – if you come, it must be at dawn . . .
sawéré hí áwat áni
.

Having told his story, Kalua turned to look at Deeti and she saw that his huge, dark eyes were illuminated by questions that he could not bring himself to ask. The sensation of a full stomach had made Deeti groggy enough to hear Kalua out in silence, but now, her head boiled over with the heat of many inadmissible fears and she jumped to her feet in agitation. How could he imagine that she would agree to abandon her daughter forever? How could he conceive that she would go to a place which was, for all she knew, inhabited by demons and pishaches, not to speak of all kinds of unnameable beasts? How could he, Kalua, or anyone else, know that it wasn't true that the recruits were being fattened for the slaughter? Why else would those men be fed with such munificence? Was it normal, in these times, to be so profligate without some unspoken motive?

Tell me, Kalua, she said, as tears welled into her eyes. Is this what you saved me for? To feed me to the demons? Why, it would have been better if you'd left me to die in that fire . . .

One of the small ways in which Paulette attempted to make herself useful to her benefactors was by writing the place-cards for their dinners, suppers, church tiffins and other entertainments. Being of a comfortable, placid disposition, Mrs Burnham rarely exercised much effort over these meals, preferring to make the arrangements while lying in bed. The head-bobachee and chief consumah were generally shown in first, to discuss the fare: for reasons of propriety, Mrs Burnham would keep her nightcap on her head and her mosquito-net down while this consultation was in progress. But when it was Paulette's turn to enter, the drapes would be pulled back and more often than not Paulette would be invited to sit on the Burra BeeBee's bed, to look over her shoulder as she puzzled over the seating for the meal, writing names and drawing diagrams on a slate tablet. Thus it was that Paulette was summoned to Mrs Burnham's bedroom one afternoon to help with the arrangements for a burrakhana.

For Paulette, the examination of Mrs Burnham's seating charts was usually an exercise in misery: coming as low as she did in the
order of social precedence, it almost always fell to her to be seated amidships – or beech-o-beech, as the BeeBee liked to say – which meant that she was usually placed between the least desirable guests: colonels who'd been deafened by gunpowder; collectors who could speak of nothing but the projected revenues of their district; lay preachers who ranted about the obduracy of the heathens; planters with indigo-stained hands, and other such nincumnoodles. Such being her experience of the Burnham burra-khanas, it was with some trepidation that Paulette asked: ‘Is this a special occasion, Madame?'

‘Why yes, Puggly,' said Mrs Burnham, stretching languidly. ‘Mr Burnham wants us to put on a tumasher. It's for Captain Chillingworth, who's just arrived from Canton.'

Paulette glanced at the slate and saw that the Captain had already been placed at the BeeBee's end of the table. Glad of an opportunity to show off her knowledge of memsahib etiquette, she said: ‘Since the Captain is next to you, Madame, must not his wife be placed beside Mr Burnham?'

‘His wife?' The tip of the chalk withdrew from the slate in surprise. ‘Why, dear, Mrs Chillingworth has been gone many a long year.'

‘Oh?' said Paulette. ‘So he is – how do you say – a
veuf
?'

‘A widower do you mean, Puggly? No, dear, he's not that either. It's rather a sad story . . .'

‘Yes, Madame?'

This was all the prompting Mrs Burnham needed to settle back comfortably against her pillows. ‘He's from Devonshire, Captain Chillingworth, and bred to the sea, as they say. These old salts like to go back to their home ports to marry, you know, and that's what he did: found himself a rosy-cheeked West Country lass, fresh from the nursery, and brought her out East. Our country-born larkins weren't mem enough for him. As you might expect – no good came of it.'

‘Why, Madame? What was it that came to pass?'

‘The Captain went off to Canton one year,' said the BeeBee. ‘As usual, months went by and there she was, all alone, in a strange new place. Then at last there was news of her husband's ship – but instead of the Captain, who should turn up at her door, but his first
mate. The Captain had been struck down by the hectic-fever, he told her, and they'd had to leave him in Penang to convalesce. The Captain had decided to arrange a passage for Mrs Chillingworth and had deputed the mate to see to it. Well, dear, that was that: hogya for the poor old Captain.'

‘How do you mean, Madame?'

‘This mate – his name was Texeira as I recall – was from Macao, a Portuguese, and as chuckmuck a rascal as ever you'll see: eyes as bright as muggerbees, smile like a xeraphim. He put it about that he was escorting Mrs Chillingworth to Penang. They got on a boat and that was the last that was seen of them. They're in Brazil now I'm told.'

‘Oh Madame!' cried Paulette. ‘What a pity for the Captain! So he never remarried?'

‘No, Puggly dear. He never really recovered. Whether it was because of the loss of his mate or his wife, no one knows, but his sea-faring went all to pieces – couldn't get along with his officers; scared the cabobs out of his crews; even turned a ship oolter-poolter in the Spratlys, which is considered a great piece of silliness amongst sailing men. Anyway, it's all over now. The
Ibis
is to be his last command.'

‘The
Ibis
, Madame?' Paulette sat up with a jolt. ‘He will be Captain of the
Ibis
?'

‘Why yes – didn't I tell you, Puggly?' Here the BeeBee cut herself short with a guilty start. ‘Look at me, rattling on like a gudda when I should be getting on with the tumasher.' She picked up the slate, and scratched her lip pensively with the tip of the chalk. ‘Now tell me, Puggly dear, what on earth am I to do with Mr Kendalbushe? He's a puisne judge now you know, and has to be treated with the greatest distinction.'

The BeeBee's eyes rose slowly from the slate and came to rest appraisingly on Paulette. ‘The judge does so enjoy your company, Puggly!' she said. ‘Just last week I heard him say that you deserve a shahbash for your progress with your Bible studies.'

Paulette took fright at this: an evening spent at the side of Mr Justice Kendalbushe was not a pleasant prospect, for he invariably subjected her to lengthy and disapproving catechisms on scriptural matters. ‘The judge is too kind,' said Paulette, recalling vividly
the frown with which Mr Kendalbushe had affixed her on seeing her take a second sip from her wineglass: ‘ “Remember the days of darkness,” ' he had muttered, ‘ “for they shall be many . . .” ' And of course she had not been able to identify either the chapter or the verse.

Some quick thinking was called for and Paulette's wits did not fail her. ‘But Madame,' she said, ‘will not the other Burra Mems take offence if someone like me is placed beside a man so puisne as Judge Kendalbushe?'

‘You're right, dear,' said Mrs Burnham after a moment's consideration. ‘It would probably give Mrs Doughty an attack of the Doolally-tap.'

‘She is to be present?'

‘Can't be avoided I'm afraid,' said the BeeBee. ‘Mr Burnham is set on having Doughty. But what on earth am I to do with her? She's completely dottissima.'

Suddenly Mrs Burnham's eyes lit up and the tip of her chalk flew down to the slate again. ‘There!' she said triumphantly, inscribing Mrs Doughty's name on the empty seat to Captain Chillingworth's left. ‘That should keep her quiet. And as for that husband of hers, he'd better be sent off beech-o-beech where I don't have to listen to him. I'll let you have the windy old poggle . . .' The chalk came down on the blank centre of the table and seated Mr Doughty and Paulette side by side.

Paulette had barely had time to reconcile herself to the prospect of making conversation to the pilot – of whose English she understood mainly the Hindusthani – when the tip of the BeeBee's chalk began to hover worriedly once again.

‘But that still leaves a problem, Puggly,' the BeeBee complained. ‘Who on earth am I to lagow on your left?'

A bolt of inspiration prompted Paulette to ask: ‘Are the ship's mates to be invited, Madame?'

Mrs Burnham shifted her weight uncomfortably on her bed. ‘Mr Crowle? Oh my dear Puggly! I couldn't have him in my house.'

‘Mr Crowle? Is he the first mate?' said Paulette.

‘So he is,' said the BeeBee. ‘He's a fine sailor they say – Mr Burnham swears that Captain Chillingworth would have been all
adrift without him these last few years. But he's the worst kind of sea-dog: piped out of the Navy because of some ghastly goll-maul with a foretopman. Lucky for him the Captain is none too particular – but my dear, no mem could have him at her table. Why, it would be like dining with the moochy!' The BeeBee paused to lick her chalk. ‘It's a pity, though, because I've heard the second mate is quite personable. What's his name? Zachary Reid?'

A tremor passed through Paulette, and when it ceased it was as if the very motes of dust had ceased their dance and were waiting in suspense. She dared not speak, or even look up, and could only offer a nod in answer to the BeeBee's question.

‘You've already met him, haven't you – this Mr Reid?' the BeeBee demanded. ‘Wasn't he on the schooner when you went over to take a dekko last week?'

Having made no mention of her visit to the
Ibis
, Paulette was more than a little put out to find that Mrs Burnham knew of it already. ‘Why yes, Madame,' she said cautiously. ‘I did have a brief rencounter with Mr Reid. He seemed aimable enough.'

‘Aimable, was he?' Mrs Burnham gave her a shrewd glance. ‘The kubber is that there's more than one young missy-mem who's got a mind to bundo the fellow. The Doughties have been dragging him all over town.'

‘Oh?' said Paulette, brightening. ‘Then maybe they could bring Mr Reid with them, as their guest? Surely Mr Crowle need not know?'

‘Why, you sly little shaytan!' The BeeBee gave a delighted laugh. ‘What a clever contrivance! And since you thought of it, I'll put you beside him. There. Chull.'

And with that her chalk came swooping down on the slate, like the finger of fate, and wrote Zachary's name on the seat to Paulette's left: ‘There you are.'

Paulette snatched the tablet from the BeeBee and went racing upstairs, only to find her rooms under invasion by a troop of cleaners. For once, she summarily bundled them all out, the farrashes, bichawnadars and harry-maids – ‘Not today, not now . . .' – and seated herself at her desk, with a stack of place-cards.

Mrs Burnham liked the cards to be inscribed in an elaborately
ornamental script, with as many curlicues and flourishes as could possibly be squeezed in: even on ordinary days it often took Paulette an hour or two to fill them to the BeeBee's satisfaction. Today, the task seemed to stretch on endlessly, with her quill spluttering and faltering: of all the letters, it was the ‘Z' that gave her the most trouble, not only because she had never before had cause to inscribe it in capitals, but also because she had never known that it offered so many curves and curls and possibilities: in exploring its shape and size, her pen turned it around and around, shaping it into loops and whorls that seemed, somehow, to want to knot themselves with the humble ‘P' of her own initials. And when she grew tired of this, she felt impelled, inexplicably, to stare at herself in the mirror, taking alarm at the straggling mess of her hair, and at the blotches of red where her nails had dug into her skin. Then her feet took her to the wardrobe and held her imprisoned in front of it, rifling through the dresses that Mrs Burnham had given her: now, as never before, she wished that they were not all so severe in their colour, nor so voluminous in shape. On an impulse, she opened her locked trunk and took out her one good sari, a scarlet Benarasi silk, and ran her hands over it, remembering how even Jodu, who always laughed at her clothes, had gasped when he first saw her wearing it – and what would Zachary say if he saw her in it? That notion took her eyes straying out of the window, in the direction of the bungalow in the Gardens, and she fell on her bed, defeated by the impossibility of everything.