The BeeBee's eyes rose slowly from the slate and came to rest appraisingly on Paulette. 'The judge does so enjoy your company, Puggly!' she said. 'Just last week I heard him say that you deserve a shahbash for your progress with your Bible studies.'
Paulette took fright at this: an evening spent at the side of Mr Justice Kendalbushe was not a pleasant prospect, for he invariably subjected her to lengthy and disapproving catechisms on scriptural matters. 'The judge is too kind,' said Paulette, recalling vividly the frown with which Mr Kendalbushe had affixed her on seeing her take a second sip from her wineglass: ' "Remember the days of darkness," ' he had muttered, ' "for they shall be many…" ' And of course she had not been able to identify either the chapter or the verse.
Some quick thinking was called for and Paulette's wits did not fail her. 'But Madame,' she said, 'will not the other Burra Mems take offence if someone like me is placed beside a man so puisne as Judge Kendalbushe?'
'You're right, dear,' said Mrs Burnham after a moment's consideration. 'It would probably give Mrs Doughty an attack of the Doolally-tap.'
'She is to be present?'
'Can't be avoided I'm afraid,' said the BeeBee. 'Mr Burnham is set on having Doughty. But what on earth am I to do with her? She's completely dottissima.'
Suddenly Mrs Burnham's eyes lit up and the tip of her chalk flew down to the slate again. 'There!' she said triumphantly, inscribing Mrs Doughty's name on the empty seat to Captain Chillingworth's left. 'That should keep her quiet. And as for that husband of hers, he'd better be sent off beech-o-beech where I don't have to listen to him. I'll let you have the windy old poggle…' The chalk came down on the blank centre of the table and seated Mr Doughty and Paulette side by side.
Paulette had barely had time to reconcile herself to the prospect of making conversation to the pilot – of whose English she understood mainly the Hindusthani – when the tip of the BeeBee's chalk began to hover worriedly once again.
'But that still leaves a problem, Puggly,' the BeeBee complained. 'Who on earth am I to lagow on your left?'
A bolt of inspiration prompted Paulette to ask: 'Are the ship's mates to be invited, Madame?'
Mrs Burnham shifted her weight uncomfortably on her bed. 'Mr Crowle? Oh my dear Puggly! I couldn't have him in my house.'
'Mr Crowle? Is he the first mate?' said Paulette.
'So he is,' said the BeeBee. 'He's a fine sailor they say – Mr Burnham swears that Captain Chillingworth would have been all adrift without him these last few years. But he's the worst kind of sea-dog: piped out of the Navy because of some ghastly goll-maul with a foretopman. Lucky for him the Captain is none too particular – but my dear, no mem could have him at her table. Why, it would be like dining with the moochy!' The BeeBee paused to lick her chalk. 'It's a pity, though, because I've heard the second mate is quite personable. What's his name? Zachary Reid?'
A tremor passed through Paulette, and when it ceased it was as if the very motes of dust had ceased their dance and were waiting in suspense. She dared not speak, or even look up, and could only offer a nod in answer to the BeeBee's question.
'You've already met him, haven't you – this Mr Reid?' the BeeBee demanded. 'Wasn't he on the schooner when you went over to take a dekko last week?'
Having made no mention of her visit to the Ibis, Paulette was more than a little put out to find that Mrs Burnham knew of it already. 'Why yes, Madame,' she said cautiously. 'I did have a brief rencounter with Mr Reid. He seemed aimable enough.'
'Aimable, was he?' Mrs Burnham gave her a shrewd glance. 'The kubber is that there's more than one young missy-mem who's got a mind to bundo the fellow. The Doughties have been dragging him all over town.'
'Oh?' said Paulette, brightening. 'Then maybe they could bring Mr Reid with them, as their guest? Surely Mr Crowle need not know?'
'Why, you sly little shaytan!' The BeeBee gave a delighted laugh. 'What a clever contrivance! And since you thought of it, I'll put you beside him. There. Chull.'
And with that her chalk came swooping down on the slate, like the finger of fate, and wrote Zachary's name on the seat to Paulette's left: 'There you are.'
Paulette snatched the tablet from the BeeBee and went racing upstairs, only to find her rooms under invasion by a troop of cleaners. For once, she summarily bundled them all out, the farrashes, bichawnadars and harry-maids – 'Not today, not now…' – and seated herself at her desk, with a stack of place-cards.
Mrs Burnham liked the cards to be inscribed in an elaborately ornamental script, with as many curlicues and flourishes as could possibly be squeezed in: even on ordinary days it often took Paulette an hour or two to fill them to the BeeBee's satisfaction. Today, the task seemed to stretch on endlessly, with her quill spluttering and faltering: of all the letters, it was the 'Z' that gave her the most trouble, not only because she had never before had cause to inscribe it in capitals, but also because she had never known that it offered so many curves and curls and possibilities: in exploring its shape and size, her pen turned it around and around, shaping it into loops and whorls that seemed, somehow, to want to knot themselves with the humble 'P' of her own initials. And when she grew tired of this, she felt impelled, inexplicably, to stare at herself in the mirror, taking alarm at the straggling mess of her hair, and at the blotches of red where her nails had dug into her skin. Then her feet took her to the wardrobe and held her imprisoned in front of it, rifling through the dresses that Mrs Burnham had given her: now, as never before, she wished that they were not all so severe in their colour, nor so voluminous in shape. On an impulse, she opened her locked trunk and took out her one good sari, a scarlet Benarasi silk, and ran her hands over it, remembering how even Jodu, who always laughed at her clothes, had gasped when he first saw her wearing it – and what would Zachary say if he saw her in it? That notion took her eyes straying out of the window, in the direction of the bungalow in the Gardens, and she fell on her bed, defeated by the impossibility of everything.
Ten
As he stepped past the tall mahogany doors of Mr Burnham's Dufter, it seemed to Baboo Nob Kissin that he had left the heat of Calcutta behind and arrived in another country. The dimensions of the room, with its apparently endless stretch of floor and soaring walls, were such as to create a climate peculiar to itself, temperate and free of dust. From the massive beams of the ceiling, an enormous cloth-fringed punkah hung down, sweeping gently back and forth, creating a breeze that was strong enough to paste the gomusta's light cotton kurta against his limbs. The veranda that adjoined the Dufter was very broad, so as to keep the sun at bay by creating a wide threshold of shade; now, at midday, the balcony's khus screens were hanging low, and the tatties were being wetted constantly, by a team of punkah-wallahs, to create a cooling effect.