The Linnet Bird: A Novel (52 page)
Read The Linnet Bird: A Novel Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
Soldiers, on leave from the King’s regiment of the Indian army stationed all over the country, are striking in their scarlet uniforms. In Simla for the recuperative climate as well, it is quite apparent that they are the most notorious for leading the ladies . . . astray, shall we say. As in Calcutta, there is a constant and tiresome round of formal affairs and full-dress balls, as well as less ceremonious dances and picnics.
I have made my own Simla friendship, Shaker—although it is not the sort of the other memsahibs. The relationship I have forged is with our cook. He is a swarthy fellow from the west coast, given to much muttering. I know he was not at all happy with me visiting his kitchen at first, casting angry looks at me as he scoured his pots with sand in a big tub.
And now, instead of spending hours lingering over tea and cakes at the popular Peliti’s, which Mrs. Partridge—who shares our bungalow—adores, or browsing in the English shops, I go to the Indian market and buy as many tempting foods as I can find. Now I am familiar with the strange fruits and vegetables that I had no names for when I first arrived. There are days when I stagger home, my basket filled with okra, aubergine, yams, mangoes, and lychees, and triumphantly deposit them on the dirt floor of the lopsided kitchen hut presided over by Dilip.
It’s taken a few weeks, but Dilip has finally agreed to show me some of his tricks. The fact that I can now speak Hindi quite fluently was, I believe, the final straw in winning him over. And I am careful to not show surprise or dismay at anything—not the acrid smell of the mustard oil he cooks with, nor the sweet reek of the
daali,
the cow-dung cake hearth. His stove is simply a square of bricks with a hole on top to set a pot and an opening for the smoke on the side. If an oven is needed he has a tin box to place over the opening.
He eventually told me that everyone knows that memsahibs cannot cook, so he assumed my reason for such interest could only be to spy on him. Did I suspect him of atrocities? he asked me, with narrowed eyes. Did I believe he was an uppity cook who stirred eggs into the rice pudding with his fingers, or did I suspect him of straining the soup through his turban? Or was it worse? Did I believe the story of the offended
bobajee
who sprinkled the curry with ground glass or the one who inserted minute portions of belladonna into the kedgeree?
I laughed at his stories, picked up a brick, and began pounding a slab of lamb on a board, and he watched me for a long while. Eventually, after a number of visits, he agreed to show me how to prepare Indian dishes—but only if it remained a secret. There it is again, Shaker. My life of secrets.
And so I now make peppery mulligatawny soup, goat curries, and fish kedgerees, with Dilip instructing as I stir ingredients into the handleless shining
dechis
made of indigenous brass and cook the food over that brick stove.
Faith and I eat what I prepare (when Faith can be persuaded to eat)—I did confide to her how I was spending my time—but of course we don’t breathe a word of it to Mrs. Partridge. She frequents the shops that sell prepared English food and makes her own shopping forays daily, bringing home cold game pies, bread sauce, and roast chicken and tongue. She carefully hides away her packages of Indian sweets; she can’t admit to us that she has a weakness for cakes filled with cheese and almonds, or the delicate pastry babas full of mashed dates, and she hotly denied that the large box of
jallebis
found under the settee by the sweeper belonged to her.
A certain peacefulness has washed over me here, Shaker. There is simple freedom. In the afternoons, alone in the garden, I wear only a simple cotton frock; if truth be told, I have given up wearing a corset and crinolines. Although Mrs. Partridge appears disgusted with me, what do I care? Swinging lazily in a hammock with Neel tucked beside me, I read or watch puffy white clouds gather low over the Himalayas, then blow away in long scattered wisps. Overhead, fresh breezes rustle the cool green leaves and scarlet blossoms of the huge rhododendron trees, and a resident blackbird scolds me with the three warning notes of his trill. A disdainful peacock struts through the shady garden at least once every afternoon, a scaled foot raised daintily before each step, and I must keep my hand tightly on Neel’s quivering back.
It took me a few weeks to understand part of the reason for feeling, for the first time in my life, this peacefulness. Then I realized that it was the lack of noise, Shaker. I have always lived in noise. First Liverpool, and then Calcutta. Calcutta! There is no louder place on earth, I believe. The chants, the constant gonging of big bells and clanging of smaller ones, high-pitched tuneless reedy horns, the pounding of drums, and over it all the endless human voices. My first night here I lay in bed, wondering what I was listening for. And then I realized it was the creak of the punkah—of course, unnecessary in Simla—that has accompanied me every night since I arrived in India.
I have always lived amidst the sounds of life, and much as I love the heartbeat of Calcutta, here life hangs suspended. I am peaceful, but under it all, there is a sense of waiting. For what, I don’t know.
Thank you for your patience in reading this overlong letter. I have written it under my favorite rhododendron. I try to imagine you receiving this at Whitefield Lane in Everton and how you will look up at the English sky as you read and see me under this Indian one.
Always,
Linny
P.S.
Eclipta alba
is sometimes known as the false daisy. As well as keeping the hair dark and lustrous, eclipta is also used for inflammation of the skin caused by fungus and for eye disorders. I also discovered
manjith
—Indian madder. The root of this plant is powdered, then used as a blood purifier and to battle internal inflammations.
I
SAW A
prisoner today. There is a small and miserable hovel at the end of town; it seems derelict and unused, and I have never paid it much heed. But today, as I rode my pony back into town, I witnessed a group of soldiers jerking and dragging a man toward it. He was a Pathan; I recognized him by his long eyes and his height, the golden earrings glinting in his ears. His hair, loose about his shoulders, was coated with thick dust, lightening its deep color.
I instantly remembered my first view of a Pathan at the docks as we landed in Calcutta. I remembered, too, Mrs. Cavendish’s warnings about how fierce they can be. In a manner similar to that Pathan, this man was indeed striking. What I also saw was that although he was being treated with terrible disdain, he somehow maintained a dignity that should demand admiration. His face was not the pinched face of a simple thieving
dacoit
or cowardly thug. What could he be accused of? Surely something serious, judging by the hard kicks of the soldiers’ boots into the man’s ankles, the sharp jabs of their rifles in his back as they forced him along. I wondered how he managed to appear as though he was unaffected by it all, as though he was above their humiliation.
Another soldier led his horse, a huge black Arabian covered with foam, snorting and whinnying as it tossed its head. Spotting Mr. Willows, one of the shopkeepers from the mall, I stopped my pony and inquired what had happened.
“I’m sorry. I simply can’t speak of his crime to a lady,” said Mr. Willows. “But hopefully he’ll be hanged. Although even death is too good for him,” he added. “Now you get yourself off home, Mrs. Ingram. One of ours should never have to set eyes on a fellow like that.”
As I nudged my pony forward, Mr. Willows called out, “Mrs. Ingram? Do your best to forget you ever saw that man, for he is the stuff of nightmares.”
A Pathan, from Afghanistan,
I chanted inside my head, as I had on that first day in India.
A Pathan, from Afghanistan.
“They call themselves Pashtuns,” Mrs. Cavendish had said.
I
HEARD THE STORY
about the Pathan—actually, two stories—that evening. Mrs. Partridge told the first one. She considered herself an authority on all the Simla gossip.
“It’s too horrible, simply too horrible to recount,” she told Faith and me, although her eyes gleamed excitedly and she repeatedly licked her lips.
“Did he . . . did he . . . murder someone?” Faith asked, glancing at me.
“Oh, worse than that, dearie, far worse.”
“What could be worse than murder?” I asked.
What could be worse than murder?
Mrs. Partridge raised her eyebrows and leaned in. “He violated young Mrs. Hathaway.”
Faith covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head. “Do you mean . . . ?” she asked, her voice muffled.
“Yes.” Mrs. Partridge nodded. “She’s destroyed, of course. He caught her behind the picnic grounds, although what she was doing there alone I don’t know. I’ve been told her body will recover, but of course her soul will never be able to forget what that beast did to her. Let’s just hope a child doesn’t result. That would surely be the death of poor Olivia. Can you imagine bearing a half-caste, a black
baba
? And think of her husband! Oh, it sickens me to imagine what he’ll feel, knowing his wife has been desecrated by a native. Is there anything worse?”
I couldn’t look at Faith. Had Mrs. Partridge forgotten about Charles, or did she simply not care, titillated by the excitement of the unexpected and lurid situation? “Now this will be an end to those lonely pony rides you take on your own, Linny. It could have been you. Obviously he was just lurking about, waiting to catch one of us alone.”
I had no intention of stopping my rides. “Has it happened before? A Pathan causing trouble? I thought they were quite respected.”
“They come through at times, but usually they mind their own business. And although they have some nonsense about personal honor, they’re also capable of terrible violence, as is obvious in this case.” Her nostrils pinched and her jaw tightened. “I suppose the temptation was just too much, seeing a lovely young white woman with no one to protect her. They all want one of us. Dark is always attracted to white, you know. Never the other way round.”
“Really, Mrs. Partridge,” I said, snicking my tongue. Poor Faith, to have to listen to this. I thought of Olivia Hathaway. She was a flighty thing, pleasant enough but always overexcited and overdressed. “What will happen to him?” I asked, wanting Mrs. Partridge to move away from the topic of color. “Mr. Willows suggested he would be hanged.”
“Of course. There’ll be no bothering with any kind of judgment. It’s clear that he did it, and there is no alternative but to put him to death. He shall be hanged, and his body thrown into the forest for the jackals and hyenas.”
Faith stood then, and as she passed to go to her bedroom, I saw that her face was completely drained of color.
