House for Mister Biswas Part 38

'Two or three. Get up. Quick.'

The chattering, the pebbles against the wings, was the noise of the fire. Through the window he saw that the hill had turned red, and the land was red in places where no fire had been intended.

'Pa? Ma?' he asked.

'Outside. We have to go to the big house to tell them.'

The house appeared to be encircled by the red, unblazing bush. The heat made breathing painful. Anand looked for the two poui poui trees at the top of the hill. They were black and leafless against the sky. trees at the top of the hill. They were black and leafless against the sky.

Hurriedly he dressed.

'Don't leave us,' Myna said.

He heard Mr Biswas shouting outside, 'Just beat it back. Just beat it back from the kitchen. House safe. No bush around it. Just keep it back from the kitchen.'

'Savi!' Shama called. 'Anand wake?'

'Don't leave us,' Kamla cried.

All four children left the house and walked past the newly-forked land in front to the path that led to the road. Just below the brow of the hill they were surprised by an absolute darkness. Between the path and the road there was no fire.

Myna and Kamla began to cry, afraid of the darkness before them, the fire behind them.

'Leave them,' Shama called. 'And hurry up.'

Savi and Anand picked their way down the earth steps they couldn't see.

'You can hold my hand,' Anand said.

They held hands and worked their way down the hill, into the gully, up the gully and into the road. Trees vaulted the blackness. The blackness was like a weight; it was as if they wore hats that came down to their eyebrows. They didn't look up, not willing to be reminded that darkness lay above them and behind them as well as in front of them. They fixed their eyes on the road and kicked the loose gravel for the noise. It was chilly.

'Say Rama Rama,' Rama Rama,' Savi said. 'It will keep away anything.' Savi said. 'It will keep away anything.'

They said Rama Rama. Rama Rama.

'Is Pa to blame for this,' Savi said suddenly.

The repet.i.tion of Rama Rama Rama Rama comforted them. They became used to the darkness. They could distinguish trees a few yards ahead. The squat concrete box, where behind a steel door estate explosives were kept, was a rea.s.suring white blur on the roadside. comforted them. They became used to the darkness. They could distinguish trees a few yards ahead. The squat concrete box, where behind a steel door estate explosives were kept, was a rea.s.suring white blur on the roadside.

At last they came to the bridge of coconut trunks. The white fretwork along the eaves of the house were visible. In Mrs Tulsi's room, as always at night, a light burned. They made their way across the dangerous bridge and emerged into the open, grateful at that moment for the tree-cutting of Govind and W. C. Tuttle. The tall wet weeds on the drive stroked their bare legs. They sniffed, alert for the smell of snakes.

They heard a heavy breathing. They could not tell from which direction it came. They stopped muttering Rama Rama, Rama Rama, came close together and began to run towards the concrete steps, a distant grey glow. The breathing followed, and a dull, unhurried tramp. came close together and began to run towards the concrete steps, a distant grey glow. The breathing followed, and a dull, unhurried tramp.

Glancing to his left, Anand saw the mule in the cricket field. It was following them, moving along the snarled fence-wires. They reached the end of the drive. The mule reached the corner of the field and stopped.

They ran up the concrete steps, avoiding the overhanging nutmeg tree. They fumbled with the bolt on the verandah gate and the noise frightened them. They scratched at doors and windows, tapped the wall of Mrs Tulsi's room, rattled the tall drawingroom doors. They called. There was no reply. Every noise they made seemed to them an explosion. But in the silence and blackness they were only whispering. Their footsteps, their knockings, Anand's stumbling among the stale cakes and the widow's corn, sounded only like the scuttling of rats.

Then they heard voices: low and alarmed: one aunt whispering to another, Mrs Tulsi calling for Sushila Anand shouted: 'Aunt!'

The voices were silenced. Then they were raised again, this time defiantly. Anand knocked hard on a window. A woman's voice said, 'Two of the little people!' There was an exclamation.

They were thought to be the spirits of Hari and Padma.

Mrs Tulsi groaned and spoke a Hindi exorcism. Inside, doors were opened, the floor pounded. There was loud aggressive talk about sticks, cutla.s.ses and G.o.d, while Sushila, the sickroom widow, an expert on the supernatural, asked in a sweet conciliatory voice, 'Poor little people, what can we do for you?'

'Fire!' Anand cried.

'Fire,' Savi said.

'Our house on fire!'

And Sushila, though she had taken part in the whisperings against Savi and Mr Biswas, found herself obliged to continue talking sweetly to Savi and Anand.

The apprehension of the house turned to joyous energy at the news of the fire.

'But really,' Chinta said, as she happily got ready, 'what fool doesn't know that to set fire to land in the night is to ask for trouble?'

Lights went on everywhere. Babies squealed, were hushed. Mrs Tuttle was heard to say, 'Put something on your head, man. This dew isn't good for anyone.' 'A cutla.s.s, a cutla.s.s,' Sharma's widow called. And the children excitedly relayed the news: 'Uncle Mohun's house is burning down!' Some thrilled alarmists feared that the fire might spread through the woods to the big house itself; and there was speculation about the effects of the fire on the explosives.

The journey to the fire was like an excursion. Once there, the Tulsi party fell to work with a will, cutting, clearing, beating. It became a celebration. Shama, host for the second time to her family, prepared coffee in the kitchen, which was untouched. And Mr Biswas, forgetful of animosities, shouted to everyone, 'Is all right. Is all right. Everything under control.'

Some eggs were discovered, burnt black, and dry inside. Whether they were snakes' eggs or the eggs of the widows' errant hens no one knew. A snake was found burnt to death less than twenty yards from the kitchen. 'The hand of G.o.d,' Mr Biswas said. 'Burning the b.i.t.c.h up before it bite me.'

Morning revealed the house, still red and raw, in a charred and smoking desolation. Villagers came running to see, and were confirmed in their belief that their village had been taken over by vandals.

'Charcoal, charcoal,' Mr Biswas called to them. 'Anybody want charcoal?'

For days afterwards the valley darkened with ash whenever the wind blew. Ash dusted the plot Bipti had forked.

'Best thing for the land,' Mr Biswas said. 'Best sort of fertilizer.'

4. Among the Readers and Learners

HE COULD not simply leave the house in Shorthills. He had to be released from it. And presently this happened. Transport became impossible. The bus service deteriorated; the sports car began to give as much trouble as its predecessor and had to be sold. And just about this time Mrs Tulsi's house in Port of Spain fell vacant. Mr Biswas was offered two rooms in it, and he immediately accepted. not simply leave the house in Shorthills. He had to be released from it. And presently this happened. Transport became impossible. The bus service deteriorated; the sports car began to give as much trouble as its predecessor and had to be sold. And just about this time Mrs Tulsi's house in Port of Spain fell vacant. Mr Biswas was offered two rooms in it, and he immediately accepted.

He considered himself lucky. The housing shortage in Port of Spain had been aggravated by the steady arrival of illegal immigrants from the other islands in search of work with the Americans. A whole shanty town had sprung up at the east end of the city; and even to buy a house was not to a.s.sure yourself of a room, for there were now laws against the indiscriminate eviction Shama had so coolly practised.

He put up a sign in the midst of the desolation he had created: HOUSE FOR RENT OR SALE HOUSE FOR RENT OR SALE, and moved to Port of Spain. The Shorthills adventure was over. From it he had gained only two pieces of furniture: the Slumberking bed and Theophile's bookcase. And when he moved back to the house in Port of Spain, he did not move alone.

The Tuttles came, Govind and Chinta and their children came, and Basdai, a widow. The Tuttles occupied most of the house. They occupied the drawingroom, the diningroom, a bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom; this gave them effective control of both the front and back verandahs, for which they paid no rent. Govind and Chinta had only one room. Chinta hinted that they could afford more, but were saving and planning for better things; and, as if in promise of this, Govind suddenly gave up wearing rough clothes, and for six successive days, during which he smiled maniacally at everyone, appeared in a different threepiece suit. Every morning Chinta hung out five of Govind's suits in the sun, and brushed them. She cooked below the tall-pillared house, and her children slept below the house, on long cedar benches which Theophile had made at Shorthills. Basdai, the widow, lived in the servantroom, which stood by itself in the yard.

Mr Biswas's two rooms could be entered only through the front verandah, which was Tuttle territory. At first Mr Biswas slept in the inner room. Light and noise from the Tuttles' drawingroom came through the ventilation gaps at the top of the part.i.tion and drove him to the front room, where he was enraged by the constant pa.s.sage of Shama and the children to and from the inner room. Shama, like Chinta, cooked below the house; and when Mr Biswas shouted for his food or his Maclean's Brand Stomach Powder, it had to be taken to him up the front steps, in full view of the street.

The house was never quiet, and became almost unbearable when W. C. Tuttle bought a gramophone. He played one record over and over: One night when the moon was so mellow Rosita met young man Wellow.

He held her like this, his loveliness, And stole a kiss, this fellow.

Tippy-tippy-turn tippy-turn - and here W. C. Tuttle always joined in, whistling, singing, drumming; so that whenever the record came on, Mr Biswas was compelled to listen, waiting for W. C. Tuttle's accompaniment to: Tippy-tippy-turn tippy-turn Tippy-tippy-teeeeepi-tum-tum turn.

A dispute also arose between W. C. Tuttle and Govind. They both parked their vehicles in the garage at the side of the house, and in the morning one was invariably in the way of the other. They conducted this quarrel without ever speaking to one another. W. C. Tuttle told Mrs Tuttle that her brothers-in-law were unlettered, Govind grunted at Chinta, and both wives listened penitentially. And now, away from Mrs Tulsi, the sisters also had daily squabbles of their own, about whose children had dirtied the washing, whose children had left the wc filthy. Basdai, the widow, often mediated, and sometimes there were maudlin reconciliations in the Tuttles' back verandah. It was Chinta who remarked that these reconciliations had the habit of taking place after the Tuttles had acquired some new item of furniture or clothing.

Despite the strict brahminical regime of his household, W. C. Tuttle was all for modernity. In addition to the gramophone he possessed a radio, a number of dainty tables, a morris suite; and he created a sensation when he bought a four foot high statue of a naked woman holding a torch. An especially long truce followed the arrival of the torchbearer, and Myna, wandering about the Tuttles' establishment one day, accidentally broke off the torchbearing arm. The Tuttles sealed their frontiers again. Myna, in response to wordless pressure, was flogged, and a frostiness came once more into the relations between the Tuttles and the Biswases. Matters were not helped when Shama announced that she had ordered a gla.s.s cabinet from the joiner in the next street.

The gla.s.s cabinet came.

Chinta shouted to her children in English. 'Vidiadhar and Shivadhar! Stay away from the front gate. I don't want you to go breaking other people things and have other people saying that is because I jealous.'

As the elegant cabinet was being taken up the front steps one of the gla.s.s doors swung open, struck the steps and broke. This was observed by the Tuttles, imperfectly concealed behind the jalousies on either side of the drawingroom door.

'Oh! Oh!' Mr Biswas said that evening. 'Gla.s.s cabinet come, Shama. Gla.s.s cabinet come, girl. The only thing you have to do now is to get something to put inside it.'

She spread out the j.a.panese coffee-set on one shelf. The other shelves remained empty, and the gla.s.s cabinet, for which she had committed herself to many months of debt, became another of her possessions which were regarded as jokes, like her sewingmachine, her cow, the coffee-set. It was placed in the front room, which was already choked with the Slumberking, Theophile's bookcase, the hatrack, the kitchen table and the rockingchair. Mr Biswas said, 'You know, Shama girl, what we want to put these rooms really straight is another bed.'

In the house the crowding became worse. Basdai, the widow, who had occupied the servantroom as a base for a financial a.s.sault on the city, gave up that plan and decided instead to take in boarders and lodgers from Shorthills. The widows were now almost frantic to have their children educated. There was no longer a Hanuman House to protect them; everyone had to fight for himself in a new world, the world Owad and Shekhar had entered, where education was the only protection. As fast as the children graduated from the infant school at Shorthills they were sent to Port of Spain. Basdai boarded them.

Between her small servantroom and the back fence Basdai built an additional room of galvanized iron. Here she cooked. The boarders ate on the steps of the servantroom, in the yard, and below the main house. The girls slept in the servantroom with Basdai; the boys slept below the house, with Govind's children.

Sometimes, driven out by the crowd and the noise, Mr Biswas took Anand for long night walks in the quieter districts of Port of Spain. 'Even the streets here are cleaner than that house,' he said. 'Let the sanitary inspector pay just one visit there, and everybody going to land up in jail. Boarders, lodgers and all. I mad to lay a report myself.'

The house, pouring out a stream of scholars every morning and receiving a returning stream in the afternoon, soon attracted the attention of the street. And whether it was this, or whether a sanitary inspector had indeed made a threat, news came from Shorthills that Mrs Tulsi had decided to do something. There was talk of flooring and walling the s.p.a.ce below the house, talk of part.i.tions and rooms, of lattice work above brick walls. The outer pillars were linked by a half-wall of hollow clay bricks, partly plastered, never painted; there was no sign of lattice work. Instead, to screen the house, the wire fence was pulled down and replaced by a tall brick wall; and this was plastered, this was painted; and the people in the street could only make surmises about the arrangements for the feeding and lodging of the childish mult.i.tude who, in the afternoons and evenings and early mornings, buzzed like a school.

The children were divided into residents and boarders, and subdivided into family groups. Clashes were frequent. The boarders also brought quarrels from Shorthills and settled them in Port of Spain. And all evening, above the buzzing, there were sounds of flogging (Basdai had flogging powers over her boarders as well), and Basdai cried, 'Read! Learn! Learn! Read!'

And every morning, his hair neatly brushed, his shirt clean, his tie carefully knotted, Mr Biswas left this h.e.l.l and cycled to the s.p.a.cious, well-lit, well-ventilated office of the Sentinel. Sentinel.

Now when he said to Shama: 'Hole! That's what your family has got me in. This hole!' his words had an unpleasant relevance. For whereas before he had spoken of his house in the country and his mother-in-law's estate, now he kept his address as secret as an animal keeps its hole. And his hole was not a haven. His indigestion returned, virulently; and he saw his children increasingly riddled with nervous afflictions. Savi suffered from a skin rash, and Anand suddenly developed asthma, which laid him in bed for three days at a time, choking, having his chest scorched and peeled by the futile applications of a medicated wadding.

Still the boarders came. The education frenzy had spread to Mrs Tulsi's friends and retainers at Arwacas. They all wanted their children to go to Port of Spain schools, and Mrs Tulsi, fulfilling a duty that had been imposed in a different age, had to take them in. And Basdai boarded them. The floggings and the rows increased. The cries of 'Read! Learn!' increased; and every morning, not long after the babbling children had streamed through the narrow gateway between the high walls, Mr Biswas emerged, neatly dressed, and cycled to the Sentinel. Sentinel.

Despite his duties and despite the fear of the sack, which he had never quite lost, even during the adventure at Shorthills, the office now became the haven to which he escaped every morning; and like Mr Burnett's news editor, he dreaded leaving it. It was only at midday, when the readers and learners were at school and W. C. Tuttle and Govind were at work, that he found the house bearable. He gave himself a longer midday break and stayed later in the office in the afternoons.

Then once more Shama started to bring out her account books, and once more she showed how impossible it was for them to live on what he earned. Self-disgust led to anger, shouts, tears, something to add to the concentrated hubbub of the evening, the nerve-torn helplessness. In daylight, in a Sentinel Sentinel motorcar and with a motorcar and with a Sentinel Sentinel photographer, he drove through the open plain to call on Indian farmers to get material for his feature on Prospects for This Year's Rice Crop. They, illiterate, not knowing to what he would return that evening, treated him as an incredibly superior being. And these same men who, like his brothers, had started on the estates and saved and bought land of their own, were building mansions; they were sending their sons to America and Canada to become doctors and dentists. There was money in the island. It showed in the suits of Govind, who drove the Americans in his taxi; in the possessions of W. C. Tuttle, who hired out his lorry to them; in the new cars; the new buildings. And from this money, despite Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus, despite Samuel Smiles, Mr Biswas found himself barred. photographer, he drove through the open plain to call on Indian farmers to get material for his feature on Prospects for This Year's Rice Crop. They, illiterate, not knowing to what he would return that evening, treated him as an incredibly superior being. And these same men who, like his brothers, had started on the estates and saved and bought land of their own, were building mansions; they were sending their sons to America and Canada to become doctors and dentists. There was money in the island. It showed in the suits of Govind, who drove the Americans in his taxi; in the possessions of W. C. Tuttle, who hired out his lorry to them; in the new cars; the new buildings. And from this money, despite Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus, despite Samuel Smiles, Mr Biswas found himself barred.

It was now that he began to speak to his children of his childhood. He told them of the hut, the men digging in the garden at night; he told them of the oil that was later found on the land. What fortune might have been theirs, if only his father had not died, if only he had stuck to the land like his brothers, if he had not gone to Pagotes, not become a sign-writer, not gone to Hanuman House, not married! If only so many things had not happened!

He blamed his father; he blamed his mother; he blamed the Tulsis; he blamed Shama. Blame succeeded blame confusedly in his mind; but more and more he blamed the Sentinel, Sentinel, and hinted savagely to Shama, almost as if she were on the board of the paper, that he was going to keep his eye open for another job, and that if the worst came to the worst he would get a job as a labourer with the Americans. and hinted savagely to Shama, almost as if she were on the board of the paper, that he was going to keep his eye open for another job, and that if the worst came to the worst he would get a job as a labourer with the Americans.

'Labourer!' Shama said. 'With those hammocks you have for muscles, I would like to see how long you would last.'

Which either made him angry, or reduced him to an absurd puckishness. Then, lying on the Slumberking in vest and pants, as was his wont when he indulged in speculations about the future, he would lift up one leg and prod the slack calf with a finger, or make it swing, as he had done when they were newly married, in the long room at Hanuman House. These were the times (for the children were not excluded from this talk about money) when Mr Biswas delivered insincere homilies on the honest manner of his livelihood, and told his children that he had nothing to leave them but good education and a sound training.

It was at one of these sessions that Anand told how at school boys were being challenged to say what their fathers did. This, a new school game, had spread even to the exhibition cla.s.s. The most a.s.siduous challengers came from the most hara.s.sed and insecure strata, and their aggressive manner suggested that they were neither hara.s.sed nor insecure themselves. Anand, who had read in an American newspaper that 'journalist' was a pompous word, had said that his father was a reporter; which, though not grand, was unimpeachable. Vidiadhar, Govind's son, had said that his father worked for the Americans. 'That is what all of them are saying these days,' Anand said. 'Why didn't Vidiadhar say that his father was a taxi-driver?'

Mr Biswas didn't smile. Govind had six suits, Govind was making money, Govind would soon have his own house. Vidiadhar would be sent abroad to get a profession. And what awaited Anand? A job in the customs, a clerkship in the civil service: intrigue, humiliation, dependence.

Anand felt his joke going bad. And a few days later, when a new quiz was going round the school what did the boys call their parents? Anand, wishing only to debase himself, lied and said, 'Bap and Mai,' and was duly derided; while Vidiadhar, shrewd despite his short stay at the school, unhesitatingly said, 'Mummy and Daddy.' For these boys, who called their parents Ma and Pa, who all came from homes where the sudden flow of American dollars had unleashed ambition, push and uncertainty, these boys had begun to take their English compositions very seriously: their Daddies worked in offices, and at week-ends Daddy and Mummy took them in cars to the seaside, with laden hampers.

Mr Biswas knew that for all his talk he would never leave the Sentinel Sentinel to go to work for the Americans as labourer, clerk or taxi-driver. He lacked the taxi-driver's personality, the labourer's muscles; and he was frightened of throwing up his job: the Americans would not be in the island forever. But as a gesture of protest against the to go to work for the Americans as labourer, clerk or taxi-driver. He lacked the taxi-driver's personality, the labourer's muscles; and he was frightened of throwing up his job: the Americans would not be in the island forever. But as a gesture of protest against the Sentinel, Sentinel, he enrolled all his children in the Tinymites League of the he enrolled all his children in the Tinymites League of the Guardian, Guardian, the rival paper; and in the the rival paper; and in the Junior Guardian, Junior Guardian, for years thereafter, Mr Biswas's children were greeted on their birthdays. The pleasure he got from this was enhanced when W. C. Tuttle, imitating, enrolled his children among the Tinymites as well. for years thereafter, Mr Biswas's children were greeted on their birthdays. The pleasure he got from this was enhanced when W. C. Tuttle, imitating, enrolled his children among the Tinymites as well.

The Sentinel Sentinel had its revenge. A small but steady decline in circulation hinted to the directors that there might be something wrong with their policy that conditions in the colony could not be better; they began to admit that readers might occasionally want views instead of news, and that news was not necessarily bright if right. For not only was the had its revenge. A small but steady decline in circulation hinted to the directors that there might be something wrong with their policy that conditions in the colony could not be better; they began to admit that readers might occasionally want views instead of news, and that news was not necessarily bright if right. For not only was the Guardian Guardian winning over winning over Sentinel Sentinel readers, the readers, the Guardian Guardian was also getting people who had never read newspapers. So the was also getting people who had never read newspapers. So the Sentinel Sentinel started the Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund, the name suggesting that there was not a necessary inconsistency between the fund and the leaders which spoke of the unemployed as the unemployable. The Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund was an answer to the started the Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund, the name suggesting that there was not a necessary inconsistency between the fund and the leaders which spoke of the unemployed as the unemployable. The Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund was an answer to the Guardians Guardians Neediest Cases Fund; but while the Neediest Cases Fund was a Christmas affair, the Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund was to be permanent. Neediest Cases Fund; but while the Neediest Cases Fund was a Christmas affair, the Deserving Dest.i.tutes Fund was to be permanent.

Mr Biswas was appointed investigator. It was his duty to read the applications from dest.i.tutes, reject the undeserving, visit the others to see how deserving or desperate they were, and then, if the circ.u.mstances warranted it, to write harrowing accounts of their plight, harrowing enough to encourage contributions for the fund. He had to find one deserving dest.i.tute a day.

'Deserving Dest.i.tute number one,' he told Shama. 'M. Biswas. Occupation: investigator of Deserving Dest.i.tutes.'

The Sentinel Sentinel could not have chosen a better way of terrifying Mr Biswas, of reviving his dread of the sack, illness or sudden disaster. Day after day he visited the mutilated, the defeated, the futile and the insane living in conditions not far removed from his own: in suffocating rotting wooden kennels, in sheds of box-board, canvas and tin, in dark and sweating concrete caverns. Day after day he visited the eastern sections of the city where the narrow houses pressed their scabbed and blistered facades together and hid the horrors that lay behind them: the constricted, undrained backyards, coated with green slime, in the perpetual shadow of adjacent houses and the tall rubble-stone fences against which additional sheds had been built: yards choked with flimsy cooking sheds, crowded fowl-coops of wire-netting, bleaching stones spread with sour washing: smell upon smell, but none overcoming the stench of cesspits and overloaded septic tanks: horror increased by the litters of children, most of them illegitimate, with navels projecting inches out of their bellies, as though they had been delivered with haste and disgust. Yet occasionally there was the neat room, its major piece of furniture, a table, a chair, polished to brilliance; giving no hint of the squalor it erupted into the yard. Day after day he came upon people so broken, so listless, it would have required the devotion of a lifetime to restore them. But he could only lift his trouser turn-ups, pick his way through mud and slime, investigate, write, move on. could not have chosen a better way of terrifying Mr Biswas, of reviving his dread of the sack, illness or sudden disaster. Day after day he visited the mutilated, the defeated, the futile and the insane living in conditions not far removed from his own: in suffocating rotting wooden kennels, in sheds of box-board, canvas and tin, in dark and sweating concrete caverns. Day after day he visited the eastern sections of the city where the narrow houses pressed their scabbed and blistered facades together and hid the horrors that lay behind them: the constricted, undrained backyards, coated with green slime, in the perpetual shadow of adjacent houses and the tall rubble-stone fences against which additional sheds had been built: yards choked with flimsy cooking sheds, crowded fowl-coops of wire-netting, bleaching stones spread with sour washing: smell upon smell, but none overcoming the stench of cesspits and overloaded septic tanks: horror increased by the litters of children, most of them illegitimate, with navels projecting inches out of their bellies, as though they had been delivered with haste and disgust. Yet occasionally there was the neat room, its major piece of furniture, a table, a chair, polished to brilliance; giving no hint of the squalor it erupted into the yard. Day after day he came upon people so broken, so listless, it would have required the devotion of a lifetime to restore them. But he could only lift his trouser turn-ups, pick his way through mud and slime, investigate, write, move on.

He was treated with respect by most of the DDS DDS or Deserving Destees, as, in order to lessen the dread they inspired, he had begun to call them. But sometimes a dest.i.tute turned sullen and, suddenly annoyed by Mr Biswas's probings, refused to divulge the harrowing details Mr Biswas needed for his copy. On these occasions Mr Biswas was accused of being in league with the rich, the laughing, the government. Sometimes he was threatened with violence. Then forgetting shoes and trouser turn-ups, he retreated hastily to the street, pursued by words, his undignified movements followed with idle interest by several dozen people, all dest.i.tute, all perhaps deserving. 'Deserving Dest.i.tute Turns Desperate,' he thought, visualizing the morning's headline. (Though that would never have done: the or Deserving Destees, as, in order to lessen the dread they inspired, he had begun to call them. But sometimes a dest.i.tute turned sullen and, suddenly annoyed by Mr Biswas's probings, refused to divulge the harrowing details Mr Biswas needed for his copy. On these occasions Mr Biswas was accused of being in league with the rich, the laughing, the government. Sometimes he was threatened with violence. Then forgetting shoes and trouser turn-ups, he retreated hastily to the street, pursued by words, his undignified movements followed with idle interest by several dozen people, all dest.i.tute, all perhaps deserving. 'Deserving Dest.i.tute Turns Desperate,' he thought, visualizing the morning's headline. (Though that would never have done: the Sentinel Sentinel wanted only the harrowing details, the grovelling grat.i.tude.) wanted only the harrowing details, the grovelling grat.i.tude.) His bicycle suffered. First the valve-caps were stolen; then the rubber handlegrips; then the bell; then the saddlebag in which he had transported his plunder from Shorthills; and one day the saddle itself. It was a pre-war Brooks saddle, highly desirable, new ones being un.o.btainable. Cycling that afternoon from the east end of the city to the west end, continually bobbing up and down, unable to sit, had been fatiguing and, judging by the stares, spectacular.

There were other dangers. He was sometimes accosted by burly Negroes, pictures of health and strength; 'Indian, give me some money.' Occasionally exact sums were demanded: 'Indian, give me a shilling.' He had been used to such threatening requests from healthy Negroes outside the larger cinemas, but there the bright lights and the watchful police had given him the confidence to refuse. In the east end the lights were not bright and there were few policemen; and, not wishing to antagonize dest.i.tutes any more than was necessary, he took the precaution of going on his investigations with coppers distributed about his pockets. These he gave, and later recovered from the Sentinel Sentinel as expenses. as expenses.

And other dangers. Once, climbing up a short flight of steps and pushing past the obstructing lace curtain in a room of exceptional cleanliness, he found himself confronted by a woman of robust appearance. Her large lips were grotesquely painted; rouge flared on her black cheeks. 'You from the paper?' she asked. He nodded. 'Give me some money,' she said, as roughly as any man. He gave her a penny. His promptness surprised her. She gazed at the coin with awe, then kissed it. 'You don't know what a thing it is, when a man give give you money.' His experience on 'Court Shorts' enabling him to recognize a piece of the prost.i.tute's lore, he made perfunctory inquiries and prepared to go. 'Where my money?' the woman said. She followed him to the door, shouting, 'The man me right here, behind this curtain, and now he don't want to pay.' She called the women and children of the yard and the yards on either side to witness her injury; and Mr Biswas, feeling that his suit, his air of respectability, and the time of day gave some weight to the accusation, hurried guiltily away. you money.' His experience on 'Court Shorts' enabling him to recognize a piece of the prost.i.tute's lore, he made perfunctory inquiries and prepared to go. 'Where my money?' the woman said. She followed him to the door, shouting, 'The man me right here, behind this curtain, and now he don't want to pay.' She called the women and children of the yard and the yards on either side to witness her injury; and Mr Biswas, feeling that his suit, his air of respectability, and the time of day gave some weight to the accusation, hurried guiltily away.

It was some time before he could distinguish the applications of the fraudulent: people who merely wanted the publicity, those who wanted to work off grudges, those who had wanted merely to write, and an astonishing number of well-to-do shopkeepers, clerks and taxi-drivers who wanted money and publicity, and offered to share what money they got with Mr Biswas. Many of his early visits were wasted, and since he had to provide a convincing dest.i.tute every morning he had sometimes had to take a mediocre dest.i.tute and exaggerate his situation.

The authorities at the Sentinel Sentinel continued neither to comment on his work nor to interfere; and this policy, which he had at first regarded as sinister, now made his position one of responsibility and power. His recommendations were the only things that mattered; his decision was final. He was given a by-line and described as 'Our Special Investigator', which won Anand some respect at school. And for the first time in his life Mr Biswas was offered bribes. It was a mark of status. But, largely through a distrust of the Deserving Destees, he accepted nothing, though he did allow a crippled Negro joiner to make him a diningtable at a low price. continued neither to comment on his work nor to interfere; and this policy, which he had at first regarded as sinister, now made his position one of responsibility and power. His recommendations were the only things that mattered; his decision was final. He was given a by-line and described as 'Our Special Investigator', which won Anand some respect at school. And for the first time in his life Mr Biswas was offered bribes. It was a mark of status. But, largely through a distrust of the Deserving Destees, he accepted nothing, though he did allow a crippled Negro joiner to make him a diningtable at a low price.

He wished he hadn't, for when the table came it made the congestion in his rooms absolute. Shama's gla.s.s cabinet was taken to the inner room, and the table placed in his, parallel to the bed and separated from it by a way so narrow that, after bending down to put on his shoes, for instance, he often knocked his head when he straightened up; and if, having put his shoes on, he stood up too quickly, he struck the top of his hip-bone against the table. The generous joiner had made the table six feet long and nearly four feet wide, wide enough to make shutting and opening the side window possible only if you climbed on to the table. On his restless nights Mr Biswas had been in the habit of relegating Anand to the foot of the Slumberking; now when this happened Anand left the bed in a huff and spent the rest of the night on the table, an arrangement Mr Biswas tried to make permanent. The window had to remain open: the room would have been stifling otherwise. The afternoon rain came swiftly and violently. Shama could never mount the table quickly enough; and presently that part of the table directly below the window acquired a grey, black-spotted bloom which defied all Shama's stainings, varnishings and polishings. 'First and last diningtable I buy,' Mr Biswas said.

He was lying in vest and pants on the Slumberking one evening, reading, trying to ignore the buzzing and shrieks of the readers and learners, and W. C. Tuttle's new gramophone record of a boy American called Bobby Breen singing 'When There's a Rainbow on the River'. Someone came into the room and Mr Biswas, his back to the door, added to the pandemonium by wondering aloud who the h.e.l.l was standing in his light.

It was Shama. 'Hurry up and get some clothes on,' she said excitedly. 'Some people have come to see you.'

He had a moment of panic. He had kept his address secret, yet since he had become investigator of dest.i.tutes he had been repeatedly traced. Once, indeed, he had been accosted by a dest.i.tute just as he was wheeling his bicycle between the high walls. He had pretended that he was investigating a deserving case, and as this had looked likely, he had managed to get rid of the man by taking down his particulars there and then, standing on the pavement, and promising to investigate him as soon as possible.

Now he twisted his head and saw that Shama was smiling. Her excitement contained much self-satisfaction.

'Who?' he asked, jumping out of bed, striking the top of his hip-bone against the diningtable. Standing between the table and the bed, it was impossible for him to bend down to get his shoes. He sat down carefully on the bed again and fished out a shoe.

Shama said it was the widows from Shorthills.

He relaxed. 'I can't see them outside?'

'Is private.'

'But how the h.e.l.l I can see them inside here?' It was a problem. The widows would have to stand just inside the door, in the narrow area between the bed and the part.i.tion; and he would have to stand between the bed and the table. However, it was evening. He took the cotton sheet from below the pillow and threw it over himself.

Shama went out to summon the widows, and the five widows entered almost at once, in their best white clothes and veils, their faces roughened by sun and rain, their demeanour grave and conspiratorial as it always was whenever they were hatching one of their disastrous schemes: poultry farming, dairy farming, sheep raising, vegetable growing.

Mr Biswas, the sheet pulled halfway up his chest, scratched his bare, slack arms. 'Can't ask you to sit down,' he said. 'Nowhere to sit down. Except the table.'

The widows didn't smile. Their solemnity affected Mr Biswas. He stopped scratching his arms and pulled the sheet up to his armpits. Only Shama, already conspicuous in her patched and dirty home-clothes, continued to smile.

Sushila, the senior widow, came to the foot of the bed and spoke.