He did not mention this, or the surgical termination of Minnie’s possibilities way beyond these black hills, out in the afternoon sunshine of Wichita, U.S.A.
‘We breed like rabbits here,’ laughed Shamime.
Duke gnawed a chicken bone. He did not feel he had much to offer conversations like these, but he leant forward to listen. Beside him Shamime was talking to Donald.
‘I don’t fit here any more,’ she was saying. ‘I’m a hybrid. I’ve seen too much. My parents didn’t realize what they were doing, sending me abroad. They thought I was just learning some French verbs.’
‘I didn’t learn much at school either,’ said Donald, gazing at the embers. ‘I think I’m only starting to learn out here.’
‘Donald darling, your lot have never come to learn. You’ve come here to take things away. Your ancestors used high-minded words but they had sound commercial, interests at heart. They just liked to disguise it to themselves.’ She laughed. ‘We’re just as bad. But at least we’re straightforward about it. No waffling self-justification. We go to England to get what we can out of it. Like money.’
‘Rather successfully too. You know, the Asians. But what do they want to learn about Britain?’
‘Only the bare necessities. Don’t you see, I’m on neither side. Or both. That’s my trouble. I’m in the right line of business, I can do a lousy P.R. job on anything. I can slither around either way. Aziz looks like me but he’s not. He’s like all the young men here – he’s a real Pakistani. He’s got everything the way he wants it, so why should he change?’
Duke wanted her to go on, but Donald said: ‘That’s not quite fair, you know. People like my grandfather were lost without this place. He didn’t know what to do in England. He’d left himself out here.’
‘I’m not speaking personally about him. I’m sure he was a marvellous man. But I still think they came out to find what they wanted. It was called Imperialism but it hasn’t really changed. You come to pillage us for the good of your country or your bank balance or else your experience of life. It was called cotton or territory then. But it’s still the same thing. You take home your snapshots and your whiffs of oriental mysticism. You’re still getting off on your own thing. But you can’t get to us, not really. We look so welcoming but we can’t be touched. Take Karachi. It looks so modern. But just look closer.’
She threw her bone into the embers. It sizzled. Donald threw his, but it landed in the sand.
‘Now Duke here, at least he’s honest,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t disguise it. No traditions or preconceptions behind him. Nobody’s told him what to find. He’s come to develop us. Haven’t you.’ She swung round to smile at Duke, and turned back. ‘At least he thinks he has. But you can’t start from scratch here; it’s not like the Middle East. He wants to stick his hotel in the desert because commercial sense tells him that’s where it should be. I’m not saying we don’t need it. But it won’t change anything.’
Long after that night, after everything had been changed, Duke remembered her turning to him and laying her hand on his arm.
‘As I said, at least you’re honest about it.’
Despite the intellectual talk this seemed the last moment of simplicity. The three of them mopping up their salad, people moving around, and the shadows leaping against the wall of the hut.
Eleven o’clock, and the barbecues lay there, three cool tins. The servants were packing up. Many of the guests had left; Aziz and some of his friends were off to the Excelsior Night Spot. There were cries of ‘cheerio’ and ‘wala ale’icum’. These youngsters never needed sleep. Himself, Duke: he was tired. Beyond the hut he heard engines revving. Headlights swung over the beach as the cars turned.
A spirit lamp lit the trampled sand. A flashbulb popped.
‘I only just remembered,’ said Donald. ‘Trust me to be too late for the main event. The story of my life.’ Donald, like Duke, had drunk a good deal of Aziz’s excellent Scotch.
The music had stopped. Duke could hear the waves now, and the barking of dogs further down the beach where the fishing village lay. In the States there was true wilderness but this country was inhabited, every inch.
Shamime was sitting next to him. She leant over.
‘I thought Uncle Bobby was coming. He thrives on this sort of thing. He thinks he’s so young at heart. It’s a shame; you could’ve met him.’
Duke was uncertain whether or not it was a shame. He had his principles, hadn’t he? He raised his head to the vaulted sky. The stars made him dizzy. He could usually take his liquor. He could usually take being alone too. But tonight was worse than usual. He could not work out if he was missing Minnie, or lonely because he wasn’t. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gazed at his gaudy chest.
Shamime was pushing the sand with her finger. He looked at her profile. With the clarity of drunkenness he realized it was far from perfect: her strong bumpy nose and her full lips. Her feet moved him. They were small-boned and fine as a bird’s, so delicate. He turned his head away. He wondered which of those young men, driving back to town, was her beau.
Another flash. ‘Sorry,’ said Donald. ‘Kept not working. Shamime put a jinx on it, talking like that about snapshots.’
Christine hugged her knees tighter. ‘Remember at that mosque? By the time old Cartier-Bresson had fixed his exposure, all the tastefully tattered beggars had gone.’
‘Not gone. Come.’ He bent over the lens. ‘Up to me, to get some money.’
‘Except the women who covered their faces.’
‘I won’t cover mine,’ said Shamime, pushing back her hair and smiling. Duke looked away and the bulb flashed.
‘At least you’re not the home-movies type,’ said Shamime. ‘I don’t think I could take any more ayahs pushing blurred little Habibs in front of the camera.’
Duke was silent. In fact he happened to be something of a 16mm expert himself. Back home he had a cupboard full of reels: Chester’s sixth birthday, John-John in his cowboy suit shooting the camera. That vacation stop at the Grand Canyon, his little family standing, tense, near the drop. Below them, nothingness. He had stopped the film and called out, ‘Get back from there!’ But there had been no danger, had there?
‘Duke, could you drive me home?’
Duke paused. ‘Sure.’
‘Aziz has taken his car, and the bearers have taken the things back in mine.’ She paused. ‘You look doubtful.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Fine. Sure.’
He climbed to his feet, heavily. The other guests rose. Shamime gathered her sandals. They collected the last glasses and extinguished the lamp, while Shamime locked up the hut.
The moon had risen. In its light they could see their way around the corner of the hut, stepping over the tussocks of grass. The others drove off. Duke put the rest of the party debris into the trunk.
They climbed into the car. Duke switched on the headlamps. They lit up the back wall of the hut. He started the engine. Beneath the wheels there was a grinding and spinning. The Datsun did not move. He revved the engine. More spinning.
‘We’re just getting deeper.’ He switched off the engine.
They sat still for a moment, then they climbed out. The wheels were sunk into the sand, right over the hubcaps. In the moonlight the automobile looked like some stranded creature, just crawled from the sea on his own damnfool demand. He should not have come here.
‘Heck.’
‘Perhaps we could get some help. There’s always somebody around.’
‘I’m getting us out,’ he said.
‘Anyway, I don’t fancy creeping about this place at night.’ The dog barked again. She shivered.
‘Could you sit in the driver’s seat?’ asked Duke. ‘And I’ll push.’
She climbed in. ‘I’ll try.’
He leant over and showed her the starter. ‘Put your foot on the clutch, here.’ He bent and patted the pedal. She moved her sandalled foot.
‘I’ve never driven a Datsun.’
r /> ‘Press the clutch. I’ll put it into gear.’ He leant over, careful not to touch her, and eased the gear-shift into position. ‘When I say Now. Okay?’
He went over to the front bumper. She peered out of the window, watching for when he would push. She was so slim, the car felt no heavier with her inside it.
‘Now.’
She revved. He pushed, willing every muscle in his body to move the automobile. His feet dug into the sand. His shirt stuck to his chest.
‘Now.’
She revved again. He pushed, grunting. The wheels spun.
‘Now.’ She revved. He moaned.
He rested a moment, leaning against the warm hood. The air was full of exhaust smoke. She was leaning out of the window, coughing with the fumes. He wanted to protect her.
‘Again?’ she asked.
Groaning, he pushed against the car. He must get this girl delivered home.
The door slammed. She was beside him.
‘I’ve put it into neutral,’ she said. ‘Shall I push from here?’
She, too, was breathless. She pulled up her sleeves; they fell back again. They put their hands against the hood. He could smell her perfume and warm sweat.
He took a deep breath. ‘Now.’
They pushed together. Her breath rasped beside his. His head swam with perfume and exhaust. The wheels spun. They stopped. He looked up at the spinning stars.
‘I think there are some . . . planks . . . in the hut.’ She caught her breath. ‘From when we had the shutters replaced.’
‘I’ll go.’
‘No. I know where they are. But please come with me.’ She looked around. ‘I know it’s stupid . . .’
He reached through the window to get her pocketbook. The illuminated clock stood at ten after twelve. Something was supposed to be happening at midnight but he could not remember what.
Shamime crossed the headlights, making her way round the hut. He had no torch to help her. The wind had risen and the moon clouded over.
A sharp cry.
‘Shamime?’
He stumbled forward and bumped into her. She was climbing to her feet. He put his arms around her and helped her up.
‘Just a can,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Probably one of ours.’
He was still holding her. She was thinner than she seemed. ‘Pardon me.’ Quickly he let her go and took the can, inspecting its label as if his life depended on it. She stood near, looking at it too.
‘Root Beer. I thought we’d cleared them up. Sure you’re okay?’
‘Fine, I think. I should’ve worn my shoes.’ She lifted one bare foot, holding his shoulder for balance. The wind blew her hair, whipping his cheek.
Along the beach, a loose shutter banged. She searched her pocketbook and found the key.
‘Let me do it.’ He felt his way to the hut door and unpad-locked it. He stepped in. The party seemed to have happened a week ago. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘You have some matches?’
She did not wait outside; she came into the hut. She was walking around, holding out her flickering lighter. The flame lit her tilted face and that bumpy nose. ‘I’m sure they’re here somewhere.’ Indoors her voice was smaller. ‘Somewhere around.’ She sounded unsure. ‘There must be some candles. They leave the candles by the sink . . . I thought they did.’
‘I’ll feel around.’
Like a blind man he ran his hands along the wall. Outside the waves were roaring. Shamime’s face was flickering the other side of the hut.
‘Can’t find the candles,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they took them back.’ She was lost without her servants.
This end of the hut it was pitch dark. He continued his search. The walls were rough and warm. He felt the floor. It was gritty with sand. His fingers felt the debris swept into the corner – a weightless cigarette carton, more sand. Waving to the right, his hand brushed the webbed back of an armchair. He felt’down its wooden leg.
‘I don’t think they’re here at all,’ said Shamime’s voice.
He looked up. The light caught her face as it turned. She should be safely back home. His hand met another leg, the next chair. He was old and clumsy. He should be back home too. His fingers felt the wall again; in places it was cracked.
‘You’ve searched your side?’ her voice asked.
He was near her now. He straightened up.
‘What shall we do?’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they leave things.’ She held up the lighter. Her hair was messed by the wind. His heart lurched. The small flame illuminated her face; her eyes were filled with tears.
‘What will my parents think?’
He had never seen her like this. The dog barked again, nearer. The wind slammed the door shut. The flame blew out. He felt her jump like a deer.
A shaky laugh. ‘This is silly,’ she said. ‘You see, I’m terrified of the dark. Duke, are you there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘When I was little . . .’
Her hand touched his chest. ‘Duke, don’t leave me alone.’
12
As she entered the door, Christine was already writing the letter to Roz. Part of the reason she had come here, in fact, was to produce something amusing for Roz to flatten out on her desk at Rags. She imagined Roz laughing in that cubbyhole full of other women’s lace. (Her own sister Joyce would not see the joke; Christine’s letters to her were fond enough, but travelogue in tone.)
The British Wives’ Association is over the other side of our modern suburb. Cars parked down the street outside. I had walked. I only came to see if somebody wanted a gardener so I could find mine another job. Chintzy curtains; loud women in loud prints. Tins of Nescafé and plates of biscuits, a Coffee Mornings atmosphere. Oh, remember our coffee nights? I miss the way we talked.
Everything nice and safe. Furnishings preserved, Weybridge circa 1956. A room from my own childhood. Wars might rage, Pakistan be gripped by Russians invading through Afghanistan, the crooked Prime Minister overthrown; outside there might be famines and floods, but here inside there will be honey still for tea.
Large woman called Anthea introduced me. Everyone started praising Ann Smythe, my predecessor, what a brick she was, didn’t know how they’d manage without her. Doubtful looks at my potential as replacement. Children everywhere. A.S. had two.
Besides children, main topics of conversation: parties and servants. High jinks, like young blood from Consulate throwing someone’s wife into swimming pool. A Fancy Dress do – ‘Look Who’s Wearing The Trousers’ – where men dressed as women and vice versa. Men simpering, with rouged cheeks, and asking for Little Girls’ Room. Daring stuff. Remember my last letter about transvestites down in the bazaar? Felt tempted to contribute this item.
‘It’s not like England,’ said one woman. ‘We have to make our own entertainments here.’ Another one asked, ‘You’re not one of those Women’s Libbers are you?’ Tried to explain about our group. ‘Sounds just like us,’ she said, ‘but fewer laughs.’
Servants discussed at length, mainly complaints. Servants are like second-hand cars – cheap to buy but performance to be distrusted. Not considered human being at all, let alone friend. Marjorie Somebody said: ‘Ibrahim made Nicky a birthday cake, with five candles and H-A-P-Y B-U-R-thday on it. Still, Nicky can’t spell either.’
Behind the armchairs, shelves of lending-library books – Agatha Christie, Catherine Cookson etc. Not a single book about this country except Indian Horticultural Association Tips for the Tropics, printed 1935. Charming tinted illustrations of dahlias etc., with background of bending servants. Curious how much more palatable old pictures are of this subject.
Had to sign up for B.W.A. in order to borrow book. Also to leave notice. Beside french window noticeboard is fixed with lists of members’ names, ages of their children etc. Plus announcement of films at Consulate and amateur production of Salad Days at British Council. Plus Mrs Wilmot’s recipe for marmalade, posted up by public demand. Plus small ads for cook-bearers
and fridges. Thought of replacing, at nightfall, with small ads from our café, how I miss that place – cards for Tai Ch’I and inner growth.
‘Here’s a pin.’
Anthea was standing beside her. With a smile she passed Christine a drawing pin. She was a middle-aged woman with a wide, pink, placid face, as if any questions it had once felt had long been settled. Her hair, dried coarse and yellow by the climate, was fixed into permanent waves. Like a thatched aunt, Christine would write.
‘I’m seeing if somebody would like my mali.’
‘Thanks for your subscription. Welcome to the B.W.A. Wouldn’t you like one of these?’
‘Er no thanks, I like smoking these.’
‘The subscription money all goes to charity, you know.’
‘I see. Who?’
‘There are still some old folk living here – mostly widows, whose husbands served here.’ She scratched the straw. ‘They’ve no place in Britain now, so they’ve just stayed. And there’s a couple of schoolmistresses from the old British Grammar school.’ She pointed to the list.
Christine re-lit her cigarette. These Pakistani ones kept going out. She looked at the names. ‘Mrs Iona Gracie, how wonderful. Sounds like the heroine of one of those books.’ She pointed across at the cloth-bound romances.
‘By all accounts she looked like one, long ago. She’s a bit eccentric now. Quite a character. You must meet her.’
Christine thought: I don’t want to meet English people. ‘Do you have any Pakistanis?’
‘Goodness no.’ Anthea laughed. ‘Pakistanis keep their old folk in the family. They take care of them better than we do.’
How many Pakistanis do you know? thought Christine.
‘We also do practical work,’ said Anthea. ‘Visiting hospitals, fund-raising, that sort of thing.’
Christine thought: I don’t want to go around like Lady Bountiful with my basket. I don’t want to give them, as a gift, my idea of what they should want. She sucked her cigarette back to life.