A Suitable Boy(198)

As she prattled on and on Lata looked at her wonderingly.

‘Of course, every girl in the family learns these things at an early age.’

For the first time Patricia Cox looked less than cornpletely bored. But by the time the soufflé came around, she had lapsed into passivity.

After dinner, coffee and liqueur, Arun brought out the cigars. He and Basil Cox talked a little about work. Arun would not have brought up the subject of the office, but Basil, having made up his mind that Arun was a thorough gentleman, wanted his opinion on a colleague. ‘Between us, you know, and strictly between us, I’ve rather begun to doubt his soundness,’ he said. Arun passed his finger around the rim of his liqueur glass, sighed a little, and confirmed his boss’s opinion, adding a reason or two of his own.

‘Mmm, well, yes, it’s interesting that you should think so too,’ said Basil Cox.

Arun stared contentedly and contemplatively into the grey and comforting haze around them.

Suddenly the untuneful and slurred notes of ‘Two intoxicating eyes’ were followed by the fumbling of the key in the front door. Varun, fortified by Shamshu, the cheap but effective Chinese spirits that he and his friends could just about afford, had returned to the fold.

Arun stared as if at Banquo’s ghost. He got up, fully intending to hustle Varun out of the house before he entered the drawing room. But he was too late.

Varun, tilting a little, and in an exceptional display of confidence, greeted everyone. The fumes of Shamshu filled the room. He kissed Mrs Rupa Mehra. She drew back. He trembled a little when he saw Meenakshi, who was looking even more dazzlingly beautiful now that she was so horror-struck. He greeted the guests.

‘Hello, Mr Box, Mrs Box – er, Mrs Box, Mr Box,’ he corrected himself. He bowed, and fumbled with the button-hole that corresponded to the missing button. The draw-string of his pyjamas hung out below his kurta.

‘I don’t believe we‘ve met before,’ said Basil Cox, looking troubled.

‘Oh,’ said Arun, his fair face beet-red with fury and embarrassment. ‘This is, actually, this is – well, my brother Varun. He’s a little, er – will you excuse me a minute?’ He guided Varun with mildly suppressed violence towards the door, then towards his room. ‘Not one word!’ he hissed, looking with fury straight into Varun’s puzzled eyes. ‘Not one word, or I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.’

He locked Varun’s door from the outside.

He was his charming self by the time he returned to the drawing room.

‘Well, as I was saying, he’s a little – er, well, uncontrollable at times. I’m sure you understand. Black sheep and all that. Perfectly all right, not violent or anything, but –’

‘It looked as if he‘d been on a binge,’ said Patricia Cox, suddenly livening up.

‘Sent to try us, I’m afraid,’ continued Arun. ‘My father’s early death and so on. Every family has one. Has his quirks: insists on wearing those ridiculous clothes.’

‘Very strong, whatever it was. I can still smell it,’ said Patricia. ‘Unusual too. Is it a kind of whisky? I’d like to try it. Do you know what it is?’

‘I’m afraid it’s what’s known as Shamshu.’

‘Shamshu?’ said Mrs Cox with the liveliest interest, trying the word out on her tongue three or four times. ‘Shamshu. Do you know what that is, Basil?’ She looked alive again. All her mousiness had disappeared.

‘I don’t believe I do, my dear,’ said her husband.

‘I believe it’s made from rice,’ said Arun. ‘It’s a Chinese concoction of some kind.’

‘Would Shaw Brothers carry it?’ asked Patricia Cox.

‘I rather doubt it. It ought to be available in Chinatown,’ said Arun.

In fact Varun and his friends did get it from Chinatown, from a hole-in-the-wall sort of place at eight annas a glass.

‘It must be powerful stuff, whatever it is. Smoked hilsa and Shamshu – how marvellous to learn two entirely different things at dinner. One never does, you know,’ Patricia confided. ‘Usually, I’m bored as a fish.’

Bored as a fish? thought Arun. But by now Varun had started singing to himself inside his room.

‘What a very interesting young man,’ continued Patricia Cox. ‘And he’s your brother, you say. What is he singing? Why didn’t he join us for dinner? We must have all of you around sometime soon. Mustn’t we, darling?’ Basil Cox looked very severely doubtful. Patricia Cox decided to take this for assent. ‘I haven’t had so much fun since I was at RADA. And you can bring a bottle of Shamshu.’