Rajmahal (24 page)

“Oh there was no real danger. But the old Pram's done for,” he comforted the trembling and tearful Maudie. The police syces helped them out of the mangled wreck and Anthony patted it and instructed them to throw it in the junkyard. Maudie begged Anthony not to play polo that day, but he was already cantering away.

The polo players went thundering by while she became absorbed in the exchange of niceties with other onlookers. They were paying no attention to the players at the far end of the field when there was a collision of horses, and Anthony had a fatal fall. Maudie remembered little of events after this, except for the sight of a limp body as it was carried by on a stretcher. She could hear a whimpering sound which seemed to come from her, and feel her lips and cheeks stretching tight over her facial bones in an uncontrollable grimace.

After Anthony's death, Maudie was immediately taken to her brother David's at the Rajmahal.

“Look at her. Just like a corpse, poor dear!”

“Let's keep her with us, Dore. She'll never be able to cope alone.”

David Norman and his wife Doreen were standing by Maudie, looking down at her lying in a drugged sleep, two hectic patches on her cheeks distinguishing her from the white sheets. Doreen agreed immediately, and Maudie recovered and became a part of the house. At times Doreen wondered if they had taken on too much with this uncomfortable guest who would continue to evoke bereaved attitudes with her sad, frail presence.

“You aren't like that!” exclaimed Doreen in exasperation to her husband. “I wish your sister would stop behaving like a sleepwalker. Let's give a party this weekend, come on Davie! It's been such a long time . . . ”

David Norman grabbed Doreen and they jigged about, shouting and laughing. Maudie came in just then, and a smile, the first since her bereavement, showed on her face.

The party preparations went forward speedily, and the Normans took up their old exuberant existence, cheering Maudie along whenever they suspected a relapse.

Maudie stood waiting nervously in the sitting room when the first guest came in. It was the legendarily sexy Robert Rozario, in whose presence women found themselves breathing rapidly and anxiously.

“So you're up and about again, eh Maudie?” Rozario's eyes glinted under arched eyebrows, his Pavlovian way with women. He put out a hand and stroked Maudie's bare arm, raising goose bumps. She cringed, afraid her skin must feel rough. Rozario resembled a bronzed Anglo-Teuton of the Mountbatten variety. He had dark brown curly hair, cut and vaselined in the dated “forties style,” bringing out the shapely bone structure of his head and showing off his muscular neck. A quick intuitive equation in Maudie's head killed her inhibitions and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing. Rozario, unsurprised, contented himself with stroking her honey blonde hair, the same as had been passed on to the tragic Eric.

“There, there. What's this, eh? Don't go crying like that my girl.” He kissed the top of her head.

Rozario's silky soft voice and his “my girl,” an echo of Anthony, sent shudders through Maudie and she could feel the goose bumps again.

“It's so nice to see you Robby . . . ” she smiled sadly as Rozario sat her down on a sofa and disappointingly distanced himself.

The party set the trend for Maudie's frustrated widowhood. Instilled with a Christian conscience, she felt guilty at experiencing that fleeting desire for another man so soon after Anthony's death. That evening, sitting
at the piano, playing and singing the old familiar songs, “Irene Goodnight,” “My Bonny Lies over the Ocean,” and weakened by an extra glass of gin, she couldn't stop the nostalgic tears. Guilty hope awoke again when Robby came to her side, his pale blue eyes sympathetic, and put his arm around her. “Goodnight Irene, Goodnight Irene, I'll see you in my dreams...,” he sang with Maudie, his pleasant baritone intimately mingling with her tremolo. And in that atmosphere of mild inebriation, the other singers jostled to hug Maudie, pat her back, and kiss her, including Rozario. “He's waiting till a decent time passes,” thought Maudie, instantly quenching the thought as her conscience flared.

At another party not long after, Maudie was seduced while Proshanto Mojumdar did an exhibition cha-cha-cha for the guests. She was drunk and almost unconscious, and it was child's play for a notorious lecher, not Rozario, to inveigle her into her own bedroom. But the lecher was never to reappear, and this was the last time she would succumb to such behavior. As for Rozario, he was a regular visitor at the Normans' but chillingly platonic. Occasionally, after decent gaps, Doreen and David Norman would raise the topic of Maudie remarrying.

“Come on now,” she would say, sadly shaking her head. “Who'd want to marry old me?”

The morning after the seduction, she woke up with a hangover, and disturbing memories of the night. Was it a dream or reality? The dream she had woken from seeped back into her memory, but it was surprisingly devoid of carnality. Instead, it carried tantalizing glimpses from her wedding. A girlfriend living in a jute mill had been found dead on the riverbank half-devoured by crocodiles. Maudie was among those who discovered the body as she walked in bridal attire toward the church. The dream recaptured in startling detail the elaborate decorations in the church, baskets of white chrysanthemum and maidenhair fern embellished with clusters of silver bells and horseshoes hung at the entrance to every pew, while more ferns and flowers decorated the walls. The bridesmaids, in pale orange dresses and hats, giggled and scattered rose petals as they followed the bride. Maudie herself wore a gown of soft white satin charmeuse with a trim of orange blossom and lover's knots, and carried a bouquet of white orchids. Her hair, looped cunningly about her ears, was veiled with fine silk lace with the same trim. Her mother was particularly admirable, in emerald green satin with golden embroidery. But they were walking by the side of the river, and she had a train, dropped by the careless
bridesmaids, which collected more and more mud and rose petals as it dragged behind her. When it became so heavy she could barely walk, the party came on Maudie's friend, lying at the water's edge. Without remark, they surrounded the mangled corpse and tried to pull it up. But the clay on the riverbank was slick, and while trying to save themselves from sliding into the water, they let go of the corpse, which slid away among bouquets and petals. Maudie woke up with a feeling of stickiness and dirt and doom, with the pall of the crocodile's menace hanging over her. She threw off her clothes and went into the bathroom for an endless purifying shower followed by a long soak in the tub. She wondered if she had actually been seduced, but was too scared to look closely for the signs. The ghosts who had turned away in shame could have enlightened her.

Her waking world was no better. She fantasized about Robby taking her in an irresistible impulse. Then one day she found his chin too large, his arms too thin and hairy. She imagined his legs to be as spindly as those disappointing arms, and then she imagined them densely covered with loathsome hair . . . But when he smiled she couldn't help responding, finding his smile warm and “man sweet,” a word which came unannounced into her head.

“Tell me, Robby,” she pleaded in her fantasizing, “Why can't you tell me? Tell me it's me you want. Is there something stopping you?”

But it was she herself who was stopping men with her inner critical eye, her timidity and her fear of turning them off with her goose-pimpled, rough, aging skin. And repositioning herself to view Rozario from another angle highlighting what she saw as his deformed jaw formation, she shored up her changed opinion. “How could I ever have found him handsome?” she would reprimand herself yet flush with pleasure when she caught his eye and his “man-sweet” smile. There was no redress for her timidity. Not only was she aging, but her seduction, surely meriting at least raised eyebrows, was never discovered. Apart from the guilt, the reason for Maudie's reluctance to face the event was her ideal of a perfect marriage paired with sex. That night was too sordid to merit acknowledgement.

Amit Dhar, a school friend of Eric's and a lawyer, kept steadfastly in touch with Maudie, and anticipating his company was her greatest pleasure. The Normans had never approved of Maudie's young friend, and were
unimpressed by his mellifluous attentions. But what could they say? Maudie was safe, as long as she was with them. Over the years, their discomfort at Amit's presence increased. They squirmed when he was seen one day, going into Maudie's room.

“Look at that,” whispered Doreen. “What's he going in there for?”

“I don't know,” said David crossly, though equally surprised. “She looks on him as her son. It's all right Dore. Stop worrying.”

After a while, Doreen walked boldly into Maudie's room to find Amit in the dressing room fidgeting with the objects on the dressing table.

“Hello!” she pretended surprise. “What are
you
doing here, in the
dressing room
? And where's Maudie?”

“Hello Doreen-
mashi
,” said Amit coolly. “Just dropped in to see Ma ... She's getting ready.”

“‘Ma'?” Doreen couldn't help exclaiming. “You call her ‘Ma'?”

“So I do!” said Amit turning to face her with a charming smile. “I must have slipped into it. Poor dear. I do regard her as such, you know, Doreen-
mashi
. She is Eric's mother after all. You don't mind, do you?”

“No, no, why should I? Why don't you let her get ready? Come on out and have a drink.”

“She asked me to wait for her here. I'm taking her to New Market. Thanks anyway.” Amit strolled out into the bedroom and picked up a magazine.

What was it, Doreen wondered, that had interested Amit so greatly? Cussedly, she walked over to the large Burma teak dressing table backed by Belgian beveled and triple-paneled mirrors. Was it Maudie's splendid fitted hide case, carefully preserved by her since her wedding? The open case graced the dressing table, carelessly spilling jewelry. Along the inner sides, lined with faded moiré silk, were silver-topped crystal bottles holding eau de cologne, unguents and toiletries, even tooth powder, and a silver pushup container for the rare solid English cologne, all held in place with silk-covered loops. The other objects on the dressing table were equally stylish. A silver powder box lying open with a puff billowing out of it, an ebony and silver hair brush, and enameled crystal bottles. Doreen always appreciated Maudie's things. She had brought her own furniture for her room, and given the rest of her household's contents to the Normans. Doreen noted that Maudie's cocktail cabinet was as usual well-supplied. “Just like a sitting room!” said Doreen brightly to Amit. “All she needs is a canary and a piano!”

Amit looked up with a bored air and grunted, then turned rudely
back to his magazine. Doreen left, glancing back worriedly at the dressing table covered with valuables. Amit didn't miss the glance. Smiling and humming, he went into the dressing room again and stood in front of the mirror, picked up Maudie's hairbrush and applied it to his already smoothly brushed and oiled hair, then walked casually to the cocktail cabinet and helped himself to a scotch.

 

When the tragic falling-out took place, Doreen was able to observe, “It's that Amit Dhar. He's been at it for years and it's paying off at last!”

“Poor Maudie!” said David. “Poor dear!”

Amit had turned Maudie against her protectors. She had caught him in her room one day with his ear pressed to the Normans' bedroom door and it was easy for him to turn his defense into mischief.

“They're up to something, I'm sure of it. Can't you sense it? Really Ma! You are too trusting!”

Maudie paused briefly to wonder what they could be “up to” with their consistent kindness and concern, but a niggling doubt settled into her. “What could they be up to, Amit?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

The house and ghosts were urging her. “Don't you believe a word he says! Scoundrel!”

“Oh really Ma!” Amit exclaimed again. He poured a gin for Maudie to distract her, pleased at stumbling on this stratagem. Maudie began her practice of putting a wine glass to the Normans' bedroom door, imitating a film in her memory. And of course, when the Normans talked of leaving India for Canada, a debate lasting many years, Amit would look meaningfully at Maudie, and her attempts at overhearing their bedroom talk would become more vigorous. The debate was finally ended years and years later, when David Norman retired and decided to join his children, who had overtaken them to Canada. The by now middle-aged Amit was able to say smugly, “I told you so, Ma, didn't I?”

But Amit Dhar would disappear over long periods, his activities frustratingly mysterious to Maudie who had come to depend heavily on his company and his useful role as alcohol procurer. If she bought alcohol for herself there were awkward encounters with David or Doreen, who would say, “But I say Maudie, what's the need? Plenty of it here already!” This was no help with the different levels of refined hypocrisy which would then be activated. Maudie had to find alternatives, and the simplest was to use the services of the Rajmahal watchman. When Vir Singh Rawat was appointed
to this post, he took on the chore readily, the tips and ways in which he could diddle the absentminded memsahib giving him ample incentive. This was the second dubiously beautiful friendship which sprang up in Maudie Jessop's life.