Ellis Peters - George Felse 11 - Death To The Landlords by Ellis Peters Page A
Authors: Ellis Peters
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“Rosemount” or “The Cedars”? You wonder whether you’ve slipped through a crack in space and time, and ended up somewhere quite different. At least this
is
rural India, not suburban Cheltenham.’
‘I was once invited to a Women’s Institute meeting,’ Priya said unexpectedly, ‘in Bangalore.’ Everyone turned, even at this vital and anxious moment of arrival, to gape at her in astonishment, the statement came so startlingly, not in itself, but from her. ‘I didn’t go,’ she said demurely, ‘I had an extra duty. I was nursing there then. But I would have gone, if I’d been free.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Patti said, gratified. ‘You know when the real imperial rot set in? When the British memsahibs arrived! The men were quite willing to learn the ropes and go quietly and discreetly native, and no one would have been any the worse for it. But once the wives were let in, and the families, and the damned establishment, it was all over. Everything had to conform to the home life of our dear queen, and everybody stopped learning anything about the home life of the native Indian, and profiting by it. It didn’t matter any more, it was just something to be brought into line. Which of course it never was. Thank God! You can’t just run around the world trying to teach other people respectability, when what that really means is respect for an Anglican doll in a crinoline!’ She caught Dominic’s eye, dwelling upon her consideringly as Larry brought the Land-Rover to a halt close to the terrace steps. ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m talking too much because I’m nervous. I invited myself here. I know it.’
‘You talked a blue streak of truth there,’ Dominic said honestly. ‘I wouldn’t worry about your rights and titles. This sort of caravansarai absorbs visitors wholesale. Come on, let’s go and find the host.’
They clambered out, shaking the dust out of their clothes self-consciously. Lakshman withdrew into the background here; this was no duty of his. It was Dominic who led the way up the staircase to the terrace, and crossed to the open door under the wide eaves.
And suddenly, none of them ever quite knew how, there was a young man standing under the lintel, waiting formally to welcome them. They had heard nothing; he moved gently and fastidiously, after the manner of his race and the code of his aristocratic line. But he had heard the Land-Rover arrive, and needed no other summons, being the punctilious host he was. Probably he had been listening for their engine for an hour and more, whatever he had been doing in the meantime. He stood quite still in the doorway of his house to welcome his guests, the least pretentious figure in the world, and the gravest, a slim, neatly-moulded young man in thin grey flannels and an open-necked white shirt, with short-cropped black hair that waved slightly on his temples, and a spark of something remote and touching, hope of companionship, recollection of gaiety, faith in the possibility of friendship, something intimately connected with England and the English, in his large, proud, aloof and lonely dark eyes.
‘I’m Purushottam Narayanan,’ he said, in a clear, courteous, almost didactic voice. ‘Everything’s ready for you. Do come in!’
The hospitality of the Narayanan household was absolute but not elaborate, the furnishings of the rooms comfortable but simple, and Indian style, like the dinner they presently ate in a large and rather bare room overlooking the terrace and the small, glimmering fires and lamps of the village below. Cutlery and some nine or ten dishes of various vegetables and curries were set out on a large table, and everyone on entering was handed a warmed plate and turned loose to charge it as he felt inclined. The host, attentive, grave and reserved as yet, told them what each dish contained, and added punctilious warnings where he felt the contents might be rather highly spiced for their tastes. Then they all sat
is
rural India, not suburban Cheltenham.’
‘I was once invited to a Women’s Institute meeting,’ Priya said unexpectedly, ‘in Bangalore.’ Everyone turned, even at this vital and anxious moment of arrival, to gape at her in astonishment, the statement came so startlingly, not in itself, but from her. ‘I didn’t go,’ she said demurely, ‘I had an extra duty. I was nursing there then. But I would have gone, if I’d been free.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Patti said, gratified. ‘You know when the real imperial rot set in? When the British memsahibs arrived! The men were quite willing to learn the ropes and go quietly and discreetly native, and no one would have been any the worse for it. But once the wives were let in, and the families, and the damned establishment, it was all over. Everything had to conform to the home life of our dear queen, and everybody stopped learning anything about the home life of the native Indian, and profiting by it. It didn’t matter any more, it was just something to be brought into line. Which of course it never was. Thank God! You can’t just run around the world trying to teach other people respectability, when what that really means is respect for an Anglican doll in a crinoline!’ She caught Dominic’s eye, dwelling upon her consideringly as Larry brought the Land-Rover to a halt close to the terrace steps. ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m talking too much because I’m nervous. I invited myself here. I know it.’
‘You talked a blue streak of truth there,’ Dominic said honestly. ‘I wouldn’t worry about your rights and titles. This sort of caravansarai absorbs visitors wholesale. Come on, let’s go and find the host.’
They clambered out, shaking the dust out of their clothes self-consciously. Lakshman withdrew into the background here; this was no duty of his. It was Dominic who led the way up the staircase to the terrace, and crossed to the open door under the wide eaves.
And suddenly, none of them ever quite knew how, there was a young man standing under the lintel, waiting formally to welcome them. They had heard nothing; he moved gently and fastidiously, after the manner of his race and the code of his aristocratic line. But he had heard the Land-Rover arrive, and needed no other summons, being the punctilious host he was. Probably he had been listening for their engine for an hour and more, whatever he had been doing in the meantime. He stood quite still in the doorway of his house to welcome his guests, the least pretentious figure in the world, and the gravest, a slim, neatly-moulded young man in thin grey flannels and an open-necked white shirt, with short-cropped black hair that waved slightly on his temples, and a spark of something remote and touching, hope of companionship, recollection of gaiety, faith in the possibility of friendship, something intimately connected with England and the English, in his large, proud, aloof and lonely dark eyes.
‘I’m Purushottam Narayanan,’ he said, in a clear, courteous, almost didactic voice. ‘Everything’s ready for you. Do come in!’
The hospitality of the Narayanan household was absolute but not elaborate, the furnishings of the rooms comfortable but simple, and Indian style, like the dinner they presently ate in a large and rather bare room overlooking the terrace and the small, glimmering fires and lamps of the village below. Cutlery and some nine or ten dishes of various vegetables and curries were set out on a large table, and everyone on entering was handed a warmed plate and turned loose to charge it as he felt inclined. The host, attentive, grave and reserved as yet, told them what each dish contained, and added punctilious warnings where he felt the contents might be rather highly spiced for their tastes. Then they all sat
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