Garlands

I grew up in India. A wild thing, my Mother would say with increasing exasperation. I had none of the decorum that she believed little girls should have. I was boisterous and loud, and adored running and leaping and getting up to mischief. When I fell and grazed my knees, which was often, I wouldn’t cry, but grin and get up to look for my next adventure. I suppose that’s why my mother hired Mrs Hall, who was in charge of educating me and keeping me alive, by making sure I had no fun at all.

Most mornings, Mother would wave a cheery goodbye, dressed in her starched white tennis outfit. Tennis was her great love. She spent her days playing in competitions or at the local clubhouse where the other English woman met. Although she kept saying that she would teach me how to play, she never could find the time or the patience. Father would leave for the plantation before dawn, sat behind his mahogany desk with the rickety fans blaring at full speed, doing important things. All whilst I would be stuck indoors with Mrs Hall.

I would watch the sun beat down from the window, and count down impatiently until my lessons were finished and Mrs Hall would stop droning on about Kings and Queens. For all I wanted to do was run out onto the veranda, where the dogs were dozing in the shade. I would pull on my topee impatiently, for Mother insisted it be glued to my head while the sun was out. Dogs in tow, wilfully ignoring Mrs Hall’s warnings, off I went. I wasn’t allowed out alone, so my Ayah would often trail behind me, to make sure I didn’t get into too many scrapes. She was a petite woman, with kind, gentle eyes. Some days I would kick off my sandals, preferring to let my bare feet dance along the dusty road.

My favourite days were when the snake charmers would pass by the bungalow with their round rush baskets. They would sit to play their enchanting pipe music whilst the snakes poked their heads out of the baskets to sway and bob obediently. Of course, it would always be accompanied by the dogs’ low growl, as they watched the snakes’ movement warily, hackles raised.

Once the snake charmers had moved on, we would go to see the monkeys, sat high up in the palm trees that lined the roads. They gnawed on betel nuts, systematically devouring the insides before throwing down the husks, which would bounce onto the road or onto the roofs of passing cars with a dull thud. Occasionally a driver would stop their car and raise an incensed fist at them. Though Mrs Hall dismissed such claims, I was quite sure the monkeys would aim for the cars on purpose. Perhaps, like me they enjoyed mischief.

As night-time began to draw in, we would return home. The dogs would flop on the veranda, whilst Mrs Hall would chastise me for the specks of dirt on my dress or the dust on my sandals. On those occasions, she liked to recall stories of man-eating tigers prowling the town looking for small children to swallow whole. In response I would tell her that being eaten by a tiger would be jolly interesting. For wild things never give up without a fight.

After Mrs Hall had finished with her telling off, I would find myself back in the confines of the garden amongst Mother’s cosmos and zinnia plants and would turn my attention to making garlands instead. Vibrant orange, yellow, purple garlands, damp but sweet-smelling against my neck. Of the dogs, only Sookie, loyal and docile, would allow me to drape one around his collar. As long as Mother wasn’t around to notice, Sookie and I would keep our garlands on until every flower had wilted, spreading falling petals throughout the house.

On the day that Mother and I were due to return to London, I stashed the petals in my trunk. They were to be keepsakes of my time there, along with the blue beads that Father had bought me from a local merchant. I knew already that I was unlikely to return by the next season. I was well past the school age in England, and Mother worried constantly that I was behind.

By the end of our voyage home, a long five week journey, the petals were shrivelled, their scent lost forever. I still stashed them under my pillow as a reminder of the perfumed scent of the scarlet geraniums, of the sights and smells and soft textures that I’d left behind. I would proudly recount to my new school friends the tales of my time in India. How I used to run along the rows of towering tobacco plants, trailing my fingers along the large sticky leaves. Or sit on Father’s knees behind his mahogany desk, as he told stories of the animals he’d hunted. Animals whose skins and heads were mounted on our walls for all to admire. My life in London felt so dull in comparison. So colourless. Devoid of any man-eating animals whatsoever.

I developed bronchitis not long after returning to England and was largely confined to my room. I had always been a healthy child said Dr Gage, who told Mother that it was likely the change in temperature. The second winter after I returned was one of the coldest of the century, a far cry for the humidity of India. I had to stay in my room for days on end, memorising each crack in the garish floral wallpaper. When Mother was out, I would tentatively venture out. Grandmother spent most of her days glued to the rocking chair knitting and Grandfather had gone blind years before so I was seldom bothered. Still I would test out my stalking skills, putting on my Grandmother’s fur coat and roaming the halls like a wild bear. On such days, I would make a point to stop by and see Tiger for a chat; wild animal to wild animal. Poor Tiger. On our wall in India, he would be the centre of attention amongst Father’s friends, as would tell the story of his death, embellishing a new detail every time. For some reason, on our most recent visit home, Mother had insisted on bringing him amongst her luggage. Yet besides from scaring my school friends and sending them shrieking from the room in fits of giggles, Tiger had little use here. He should have been prowling the jungles of India. Or strolling the streets of Bangalore looking for little children to gobble up. Now both he and I were stuck in dreary, cold London in a dreary, cold house.

My mother used to tell me to listen for the call of the cuckoo in Spring. That’s when she would return, tired from the 5 week voyage. About a year after I began school, she did return, this time with furniture. Her silk saris, tennis trophies, the dinner plates. It was time for her to return home, she declared to my grandmother. The journeys back and forth had become all too tiring for her. I was cheered by the news, though I seldom saw anymore of her than I had before.

Under her behest, I still wrote to my Father. In my letters I would tell him stories of my school friends, what I’d learnt at school and the names of all my pet mice, who I would carry around in my pocket. He never replied, nor did he ever return to England. In those days, I would think of him often. I would imagine him in his favourite spot; sat on the veranda in the hazy light of dusk, cigar in one hand, whisky and soda in the other, my beloved dogs at his feet.