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  My turn to choose a letter was met with howls of protest since my spelling ability, particularly when I was very young, went beyond the creative to wallow in the realms of adventurous. I’d been known to insist “clock” was, understandably, spelt with a “k” and photograph with an “f” but the one that capped it all invoked universal exasperation.

  “Of course it’s spelt with a ‘p’. It’s a plastictable!” It was the years when artificial wood was a novelty for us because all the furniture we’d ever seen was uninspiring Victorian mahogany and rosewood. The advent of a new, lightweight table called for explanations and somewhere in the convoluted twists of my mind “plastic” and “table” had become one word. But, in playing I Spy no one was persuaded by my logic and I was banned from the game.

  Though the idea was to entertain ourselves during the tedious, brainless work of cleaning the mavea, the mixture of nuts and fruit for the Christmas cake, it was a time of great camaraderie and fun. And prodigious learning. Our vocabulary grew as did our inventiveness.

  Once the cake ingredients were prepared (raisins destalked, sultanas and currants destalked and deseeded, worms sent scurrying, fruit peel inspected) it was time to mince.

  “I’m the strongest.” Lily flexed her biceps to lend credence to her statement. “I’ll mince the almonds as they’re the hardest.” The strenuous physical work was camouflaged by fun so we all wanted to have a turn – showing off to each other about the amount we could get through before muscles objected.

  I soon worked out how much fruit would make the machine sticky and just before this happened, yelled out, “My turn! My turn to mince now.” And sure enough, a few minutes later a call was made for stale bread, collected for this precise purpose, to be put through the mincer and clean the threads.

  Stale bread is so much easier to mince than either fruit or nuts.

  “What do people do when they don’t have a mincing machine?” I asked.

  “They cut by hand,” replied my mother. “Chotto cutto,” she explained, using a mixture of Hindi and pidgin English to mean cut into tiny pieces.

  “That’s primitive!” I tossed my head with arrogance as though I had a God-given right to our privileged life, as though I had earned our comforts, as though mincing machines were state-of-the-art technology.

  In mid-December that year, as she did every year, Lorraine sang out, “The black face monkey is back,” and three pairs of eyes swivelled towards the calendar. Sure enough the date was 14 December.

  In her turn, my mother exclaimed, as she did every year. “It’s uncanny!”

  We were accustomed to little brown monkeys living in the Imli and Khatta Kurounda trees around the garages 100 metres away from the house. For the most part, they showed perfect manners, though on occasion could get rowdy if friends dropped in to party. That’s when they would chatter noisily or giggle in little groups. They didn’t bother us and we had enough sense to give them a wide berth.

  However, every year at roughly the same time, the monkeys silently slipped away, leaving the coast clear for a lone, grumpy, black-face ape to take up residence. He was a nasty old rogue who spent his day sitting upright on the garage roof shooting visual daggers towards the house, accompanied by periodic angry hissing. When that was ignored, he’d jump onto a slim branch of the tamarind tree and shake it with the force of an elephant. Or he’d leap through the air to unerringly catch what looked like a thin twig and swing from it intentionally exposing his ventral surface in all its (supposed) male glory.

  Sometimes he’d jump from the garage roof and shoot up to the top twigs of the Khatta Kurounda tree, pick berries and throw them at us. Other times he’d hide among the foliage and hollow, loudly imitating twenty of his kind.

  Perhaps he believed a demonstration of aggressive male swaggering and hostile, artistic aerobatics was a sign of his superiority to which we were expected to surrender.

  And all because the maeva was minced, mixed and ready for drying. This was the easy part of cake-making as the sun and dogs did all the work. The mixture was spread out in shallow porcelain dishes on the tea trolley, covered with fine netting and wheeled into the sun.

  “Where’s that dog of yours?” asked my mother, and called, “Reg. Reg. Here boy.” Reg appeared silently, as was his way, out of nowhere. Guard; on guard he was told, and we could safely remove ourselves, leaving him in charge.

  As soon as our backs were turned the other house dogs appeared, ready to scavenge, but one look at Reg’s deceptively sleepy manner was enough to send them packing. The black-face monkey was a different matter and the year I entered my teens he presented me with an unusual gift – a display of his finely tuned war strategy.

  Deviating from his usual pattern of watching from the safety of the garage roof he indulged in a long, patient glare designed to intimidate. From his aerial vantage point it said – I hate you. You are a stupid dog if you think I want your maeva. I have choice pickings of all the fruits in the forest.

  I don’t know who he thought he was kidding.

  Reg yawned scornfully, stretched himself to his full length and lay down to enjoy a lazy snooze in the sun, occasionally yelping happily to tell us he was enjoying his dreams.

  A little while later the posturing began. With head thrust forward the monkey said: Be careful. Be very careful. I’m bigger than you. I’m vicious and mean. I’m wicked and cruel. I’ll shred you from limb to limb. He challenged Reg to walk away and leave the maeva unattended for a split second.

  Reg rolled over onto his back and mockingly displayed his vulnerable underbelly, then stood up, stretched again, shook all over and sauntered off. This monkey business was boring, he had better ways to spend his time.

  The afternoon wore on. The threat of attack wore off. The atmosphere relaxed, became placid, soporific, fluid, easy to breathe.

  Lulled into a false sense of security our attention was elsewhere when suddenly the black-face monkey was half up the driveway. Noting the maeva was unattended, in one swift, streamlined, almost graceful move, he was within striking distance when, with a howl that was nine parts surprise, he soared into the air in a maniacal leap.

  Doing his usual trick of materialising out of thin air, Reg had leapt onto the monkey, giving a whole new – reversed – meaning to the expression, having a monkey on your back. Knowing instinctively he had to protect himself from nasty claws and germ-ridden teeth, his first bite said it all. Attaching his razor-sharp canines to the monkey’s right ear, he could only be dislodged if the monkey rolled over.

  Using speed and agility for both attack and defence, in a split second Reg jumped to one side and crouched a few yards away, disdainfully spitting out a bloody flap of skin. Quivering in unblinking eye contact he telegraphed threatening messages to his foe. There was nothing somnambulant about him now.

  The two adversaries sized up each other, evenly matched for weight and height. But not for brains. We were petrified, frightened into statue-still terror. As my mother said later, she was sorry she hadn’t the airgun handy.

  Reg was a mixed breed animal with predominantly Australian cattle dog features. His ancestors came from the unforgiving, arid plains of outback Queensland, so managing herds of cattle many times the size and weight of this creature was in his genes. And though cattle may be more compliant and amiable than an aggressive, thwarted monkey, Reg wasn’t about to be intimidated. Or insulted.

  He stood his ground – or more precisely, crouched it, ready for anything but more prepared to frighten than fight. Why go into battle and risk being injured when one can panic an enemy into cowering submission?

  The monkey didn’t cower.

  He didn’t submit.

  He backed off. Hissing ferociously while keeping his eyes on Reg, he waited until he was a safe distance then turned tail and hared back the way he’d come. Though he moved fast, the dog moved faster. And silently. Each way he turned, Reg was there before him, at a non-provocative, safe distance, herding him on.

 
The tactic paid off. Soon the monkey had no option except to race straight into the relative safety of a dense thicket of bougainvillea – a creeper that had swallowed trees and bushes as it diligently obeyed God’s command to grow and multiply.

  The poor monkey sped straight into elongated, spiteful, flesh-hacking thorns. It was a surreal moment in time, one that changes a person forever. There are definitely two types of homo sapiens. Those who have experienced a bougainvillea come alive and those who haven’t. One moment the bush was a mass of splendid, vibrant magenta, the next it was a shivering, tortured, tormented thing. Howls of pain, fury and frustration told a tale of their own while Reg watched on, ever alert, ever ready for action, until the time came when he could safely retire, intact in hide and hair.

  Our parents were more alarmed than they wanted to acknowledge. “That’s not funny,” my father exclaimed on his return from work when we excitedly regaled him with the story. “It could’ve been worse. Reg could’ve been badly injured, even killed – a painful, horrible death. Or one of you could’ve been bitten and that’s serious.” But we didn’t understand. We were so well protected that the prospect of a monkey bite was beyond our grasp.

  However we’d learnt our lesson. Following this episode, every year the airgun and pellets were kept within easy reach while the maeva dried. We were all taught to use it and took turns in firing prophylactic shots just to make our intentions abundantly clear.

  The one-eared monkey learnt nothing. For the remaining years that we lived in Kanpur he continued to turn up year after year, going through the same routine from a safe distance, never venturing closer. The two adversaries grew older together, across the 100-metre span between the house and garages. And as they grew older, one thing never changed. Year after year Reg contemptuously ignored his old foe.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE PERSIAN CARPET

  The industry of Christmas didn’t stop with the cake. There was the annual spring cleaning to accomplish. The local people around us addressed this task as part of their religious festivals of Dhasera and Davali in October each year. Our turn came in December.

  Everything in the house was moved, dusted and wiped over with a damp cloth. Mould that had pretended friendship during the first few days of the monsoons and lulled us into a false sense of security had subsequently invaded and now reigned supreme. It was annihilated. Ancient cobwebs grown stiff with dust so of no use to anyone, not even spiders, were ruthlessly sacked, and dog hair that during the year had evaded us by hiding behind furniture and in dark corners was summarily scooped up and disposed.

  Though spring cleaning (in winter) was seen as a Christmas tradition its roots lay in practical necessity and was unrelated to anyone’s religion. After the heat and dust of summer and the invasion of fungi during the monsoons, a thorough clean ensured we weren’t enmeshed in dirt that added to itself over the years. It was a practical requirement reflected in social custom that was designed to keep us healthy. There are very good reasons why these tenets evolve.

  It was also the time to move heavy rosewood furniture away from the ceiling fan in the centre of the drawing room and arrange armchairs around the open fireplace. This was no mean feat when the manual labourers involved were Lorraine, Lily and I with assistance from the family retainer – our old ayah.

  Lorraine, ever the supervisor, took charge. “Lily and I are stronger than Lucy and ayah so Lucy come with me and ayah go with Lily. When I say ‘PUSH’ we all push.” Arranging our teams on opposite sides of the sofa we all pushed. And the sofa budged – not one inch!

  “No, nooo,” screeched Lorraine. “We can’t all push. You’re meant to pull when we push.”

  It says something favourable about the gentle, sweet sisters that we are, because neither Lily nor I advised Lorraine of her faulty instructions.

  We tried again but at the last minute I was confused so stopped in the middle of a push-pull.

  “Galoot! You Hefty, Heaving, Gorilling Galoot!” rent the air as Lorraine flung her own brand of strong language at her youngest sister. Ready to retaliate I stomped my foot, folded my arms across my chest and for good measure, also screwed up my face. I made sure my statement was understood. For a moment, as we assessed opposing armies, it became apparent that World War III was a preferable choice to spring cleaning.

  However, at that moment expedience in the form of my mother entered the room and just by her presence influenced us to return to the task at hand. Singing in unison “push-pull / pull-push / swap-sides / get-it-right,” we managed to move the furniture onto the front verandah.

  Cleaning the rooms was an art form, with each of us having a quarter of a room as our responsibility. In our hearts was the intention to speed-clean and win the unspoken competition of finishing first. Being the youngest and for a few years the shortest, I often needed help with the long-handled brooms to attack aerial cobwebs. But when I shot up and to my everlasting joy grew taller than my sisters, a potentially new winner was on the cards.

  That it meant lending someone else a hand and therefore doing more than our fair share never persuaded any of us to slow down. Sibling rivalry is a dynamic force, probably more compelling than any other rivalry.

  But there are some things three young girls cannot achieve. Lorraine, Lily and I glared at the Persian carpet rolled up in its case in the back verandah. We had just combined our strengths to move it and after a lot of grunting, achieved nothing. “Bloody arse.” Lorraine made sure only Lily and I could hear. “That damned carpet doesn’t get any lighter, does it! We’re going to have to admit defeat. AGAIN.”

  My mother knew the carpet was too heavy for us so had already arranged for help from three stalwart jawans, who were young men related to our ayah. The hired hands were known to our parents and considered completely trustworthy but before they could enter the house Lorraine, Lily and I had to remove ourselves to the inner rooms. Though I knew it was for my own protection, I objected.

  “This is so stu-uu-pid,” but when one is singular against many, especially in the face of unarguable logic, there is only one course of action – capitulation. I, having said my piece, vented my spleen, made a lot of noise and achieved absolutely nothing, meekly followed Lorraine and Lily to the back room, thereby ensuring that three young girls were unavailable to be ogled by potentially lusty men.

  It was also considered dishonourable to expose young workers to a standard of living to which they could never aspire. So while we made ourselves scarce my mother ensured the men were fully occupied with no spare moment to case the premises. The task of moving the carpet was performed in one, swift, liquid movement.

  Once the carpet was in place we fell to brushing it with soft-hair bristles bringing out the brilliant colours of peacock blue, reds, old gold and shades of green, all illustrating traditional Middle Eastern patterns.

  “That circle of dusky pink was my lucky pot when I played Tiddlywinks with Daddy.” Loraine’s tone was dreamy. Lily and I knew exactly what she meant. Each one of us had played the child’s game with our father, using the carpet as “mat”, choosing a part of its design as our “pot” and raiding our mother’s button collection to find “winks”. We refined hand–eye co-ordination while our father taught us about the subtleties of colour and geometric shape that comprise Persian art.

  “The rhomboid of turquoise is my favourite,” countered Lily but no one listened. No one believed her because each year she came up with a different choice. The intention of course, was to match her older sister, not to reminisce.

  I said nothing. I knew what was coming and had no way of averting it. It was something that had happened when I was a tot, when I was too young to remember. But it was brought up year after year.

  I felt both pairs of eyes on me. “We all know which one Lucy likes,” and though the words were innocent the attitude was meant to torment. It must be enormously satisfying to be able to ridicule your younger sister.

  That’s the worst of being the youngest. Every awkward
thing you do has the potential to be remembered and regurgitated at will. And usually is. On the other hand, your siblings can exhibit all kinds of embarrassing behaviour prior to your birth, before you can be witness and store it in your memory for future use.

  The time I had disgraced myself on that carpet was when the Christmas fare was in full swing. Knowing full well that pestering my mother was pointless I had worked on my father instead. With the single-mindedness of a tiny person with an even tinier brain, I repeated with deadly monotony, only one more sweet, Daddy and just a few more nuts, pleeeease.

  The result was predictable.

  It truly wasn’t my fault. I was on a winning streak, having just shot five consecutive winks (buttons) home when the excitement got too much for me.

  “Take careful aim,” my father encouraged. “If you win this one you’ll have a bullseye.” So I flicked my wink with all the force I could muster and instead of travelling towards my pot, it took off at a rate of knots, heading straight for my father’s right eye.

  Rather than see stars, he brushed the button aside with more energy than skill, so it changed directions and flew halfway across the room. I grabbed a deep breath to support a yell of protest, but the extra abdominal pressure proved too much for a small stomach, particularly one that was already overburdened by Christmas goodies. To my eternal shame a disgusting mixture of you-don’t-want-to-know-what surged up onto that luxurious family heirloom, the only Persian carpet in Kanpur and probably the only one left in India.

  Though, at the time, Persian carpets had a reputation for being the best in the world, were housed in august residences like Number 10 Downing Street and were prohibitively expensive for the majority of the world’s population, neither of my parents reproached me.

  “This is your home,” my father said, “Not a showpiece. I ran across that carpet with muddy shoes when I was a boy.” We knew he remembered playing Tiddlywinks with his father on exactly the same carpet and, like us, remembered learning about colours, geometric shapes and improving hand–eye coordination.