The Linnet Bird: A Novel (34 page)

There was a large lunch, a nap, and then perhaps afternoon callers, followed by dinner out by invitation, or, if it was dinner in, a visit to the Calcutta Club or to a social event.

“M
RS.
W
ATERTON
,” I
SAID,
finding the woman at a small table in the drawing room, studying a book that had illustrations of cakes, “would it be possible to go for a walk?” It was our third day in Calcutta; as Mrs. Waterton had predicted, I felt refreshed. I had continued to sleep well and was now anxious to see some of Calcutta outside the front door. Faith was reading in her room, but had agreed that she would go for a stroll with me if there were a chaperone.

“Certainly, dear. Just follow the path through the garden along the flowers. It is lovely to walk in the garden.” She didn’t look up from the book.

“No,” I said. “I meant a walk outside the garden.”

She looked up now, her finger on the page. “A walk? Where would you walk?”

“I—I don’t know. I wondered if Faith and I—if we were accompanied by Mrs. Liston, of course, or by yourself—might go for a walk.”

“Do you mean on the road?” Her face showed consternation. “Oh, no, my dear. It just isn’t done. A lady doesn’t walk about the streets of Calcutta. This is not London, or Cheltenham. One simply doesn’t walk about,” she repeated.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Well, one wouldn’t, would one? It’s quite all right. You’ll learn how things are done here very shortly.” She bent her head over her recipe again.

I stood there. “Would it be possible to go for a ride, then?”

Now she closed the book. Gently, but with a definite purpose. “A ride? At this time of day?”

I glanced at the swinging pendulum of the mantel clock, swallowing. Was I showing complete ignorance? I should have conferred with Faith first. “Oh. It’s just gone two. I didn’t realize . . .”

“Well, it’s not unheard of, I suppose. But I shall have to have the
chuprassi
summon a palanquin. Where did you wish to go?”

I looked down at the carpet. “I don’t know, Mrs. Waterton. But I would so like to see some of the city.”

Mrs. Waterton’s lips formed a thin line. “There’s very little of interest to see. There is a possibility of a drive to the Maidan after dinner, to take the cool evening air. I suppose, if you are quite insistent, that we could arrange to do that now, but I hadn’t planned for an outing today. I feel I have quite a bit to do with planning for meals right now, as there are more of us in the house than I’m used to. And I have a number of calling cards to answer.”

It was obvious by her tone and the steel in her voice—as well as her reference to having extra guests, through her own goodwill—that I should not be asking for anything as frivolous as a ride out. “I understand, Mrs. Waterton, of course. Please. Forgive my uncalled-for request.” I backed out of the room. “I’ll have a lovely stroll in the garden.”

She opened her book again. “Yes. That’s best, my dear. That’s best.”

It appeared that I must wait a while longer to find out about the country I had come to. Mrs. Waterton seemed content to shut out the whole Indian world and concentrate on the one she knew.

W
E BEGAN TO SET UP
our social calls on the fourth day. A number of calling cards that had been delivered were brought in by the
chuprassi,
and Mrs. Waterton and Faith and I read them over together. There were invitations for dances and dinner parties and evenings of cards. Mrs. Waterton went through the wardrobes we had purchased before leaving England, studying our dresses and admiring the latest styles. “You have a good selection, but you shall need more. It won’t do to be seen in the same frock at too many events. We shall purchase some new material, and then have the
durzi
make new ones in similar styles. They’re wonderful at reproducing, down to a stitch, these Indian
durzis.
One must be careful, though—such is my
durzi
’s zealousness that if there has been a small rent, patched over, even the patch will be reproduced. Even the patch, bless him!”

I
REALIZED, ALMOST IMMEDIATELY,
how uncomfortable I was about the complete servitude. I looked away when I witnessed the tall
chuprassi,
in his fine uniform and rigid bearing, go down on his knees to dust off Mr. Waterton’s shoes with a tiny brush every time the short, officious man entered the door. I noticed the burned hand of the
dhobi,
and knew how the blistered welt, caused, I deduced, by a heated iron, must ache. And yet he cheerfully salaamed before he accepted still another mound of lightly soiled linen Mrs. Waterton piled in his outstretched arms. I saw my ayah crying when I came into my room unexpectedly. She was straightening the items on my dressing table, tears coursing down her face, but when she saw me she beamed as if overjoyed to see me, gesturing for me to sit on the stool. I tried to question her as to why she was crying, pointing to her face, but she acted as if it was nothing, completely unimportant, brushing at her cheeks with a careless swipe, never losing her smile. I saw that one of the little fly-whisk boys was missing the last two toes of his right foot, and that the amputation was fairly fresh, and that he touched it gingerly when he thought no one watched him. I wondered if he was the son of any of the other servants, or if he had parents at all. I wondered about many things, but dared not mention my observances to Faith or even Mrs. Liston, as it might make them think strangely of me, that I should bother myself so with people who should not be noticed at all.

I
WANTED TO INSTRUCT
the
durzi
that all my dresses must have a neckline that covered my scar. I tried to remember my Hindi, but couldn’t find the words. Finally, alone with him in my bedroom but for the ayah, I disclosed my scar, then held a piece of fabric over it. The
durzi,
his face showing nothing, said, so quietly that at first I thought I hadn’t heard him, “Missy sahib would like her dresses to cover this? It is possible.”

“You speak English?” I cried, smiling, but at the look on his face and the violent shaking of his head, I clapped my hand over my own mouth as if I had done something wrong. Once more he shook his head, this time putting his finger to his lips, and I understood that I was not to let on that I knew he could speak English.

That afternoon Mrs. Waterton had left me alone with Mrs. Liston, who had asked me to call her by her Christian name, Meg, on the verandah. Well, alone as one ever is in India. The
durzi
sat cross-legged in one corner, stitching my new dress. He held the fabric straight between his toes, and in his turban he had stuck dozens of needles of different sizes, threaded with assorted colors, which he pulled out as needed. A bearer stood at the waiting, should we require something, and, of course, little boys waved their fly-whisks over us the whole time.

The verandah was wonderful; I found it to be the best place in the whole, grand, overdone house. Bamboo trellises, upon which grew masses of creepers yielding reddish yellow flowers that I later found out were called bignonia, screened the verandah, creating a cool, green room. On the floor were grass mats, and there were hanging baskets and flower boxes with pink geraniums, white and red achimenes, rubbery begonias, and fragile violets. Chairs and chaises provided comfortable seating; instead of the hard horsehair settees or overstuffed chairs in the parlor, the verandah had small grass chairs and bamboo couch chairs for the ladies and heavy, dark teak chairs with wide seats and tall curling backs for the men.

When I had the opportunity to be alone on the verandah for a few minutes I sometimes allowed myself the privilege of lolling, leaning back on one of the couch chairs with my arms over my head, smelling the cool green of the plants. Mrs. Waterton had warned me that at the first breath of the hot season all the plants would shrivel and die, no matter how many times a day they were watered, and that I should enjoy them while I could.

“Meg, today the
durzi
spoke English to me, but seemed frightened that I should let on,” I said to her, quietly, so that he wouldn’t hear.

She grimaced. “Of course. There’s really no way for them to win at all in most households—or at least with petty tyrants like Mr. Waterton. If a servant is perceived as too stupid, he’s beaten and dismissed; if he shows he is clever—and one indication could be that he has mastered the English language—he’s viewed with suspicion and, possibly, dismissed. It’s completely unfair, of course, but a game played by the people of this country in order to survive. Of course, much of the same goes on back home, but the rigidity of master and servant is more noticeable to me here. Perhaps because we, after all, are not
of
this country. We are of England, and yet—” She stopped, as if aware of saying too much. She stood suddenly, causing the boy with his whisk to jump out of her way, and went to one of the hanging baskets, pinching off a dying flower. “Anyway, I can’t wait to get to
mofussil
—that’s the countryside—and away from all this pompous nonsense and overbearing officiousness. I find it quite intolerable. It’s much, much more informal in the countryside.” She studied my face. “Do I have to fear you’ll report my mutinous thoughts?” Although the sentence was serious, I could tell by her expression that she hoped she had seen in me an ally.

“Of course not,” I told her, smiling warmly. “But I do hope you’re not leaving too soon.”

“I imagine I shall be here another two weeks.” She continued to study me, and I felt a prickle of the old fear under her scrutiny. I had long ago stopped worrying about Faith ever finding me out, or questioning my behavior in any way. Although I knew she cared about me, she didn’t seem to study me with much depth. I often felt I was a reflecting board for her feelings and thoughts; mine were not of that much interest to her. Of course, this had always worked in my favor. But with everyone else here, as it had been during my time in Everton, I was constantly on my guard, fearful of giving myself away with a sudden wrong word, a lapse in manners.