for any signs of distress within. Sanang had once been a renowned seamstress, driven into poverty by arthritis. Her knotted hands worked now to embroider new handkerchiefs for British Grandfather, her rescuer. She provided a fresh handkerchief each day, though Grandfather had a great fondness for the paper ones called Kleenex, the kind the movie stars used to remove cold cream from their faces. Still, the pile of embroidered handkerchiefs grew.
Dawid visited the candy stalls in Little India and brought sacks of candy to tempt Grandfather—to no avail. Danai ended up the secret beneficiary of these candies. Nei-Nei Down managed to be everywhere at once—in the kitchen barking out orders, napping fitfully in a folding cot by the side of Grandfather’s bed, harassing the local herbalists and healers and hawkers, chastising Grandfather as if he were doing all this deliberately, dying just to spite her.
I saw very little of Geoffrey during this time, for Nei-Nei was a fearsome dragon at the gate, and she carefully supervised which visitors were allowed. The worse Grandfather got, the fewer visitors she admitted, turning away even old friends and admirers. Poor Geoffrey did not stand a chance.
Once when he came to call, she locked all the doors and drew down the shades. Humiliated for his sake, I escaped through a back window and took Geoffrey for a walk in our garden, explaining that Grandfather’s current illness—which I tried to make light of in the early days—did not permit him the pleasure of visitors.
As we came back from our short stroll, we spied Nei-Nei Down standing in the circular front drive, studying Brown’s Pierce-Arrow. Before our very eyes, my grandmother did a shocking thing. She glanced quickly right, then left, and kicked the side of Geoffrey Brown’s car. It was no accident. It was a vicious little kick, made by her small slippered foot. I expected Geoffrey to be outraged, or at the very least offended. But Geoffrey just seemed amused. Perhaps the tiniest bit chagrinned. That’s how perfectly even his temper was. “She thinks I am not good enough for you,” he said. “She’s right.”
“She is not,” I said, “right. —And she’s a terrible snob.” I was embarrassed for her—for all of us.
“Perhaps I’ll win her over in the end,” Geoffrey said musingly. “Though I doubt it.”
Grandfather’s slump infected us all with gloom. It did not help matters that we had entered into the second monsoon season, a particularly unrelenting one. I woke to the sound of rain and slept to the sound of raindrops battering the palace roof, seeking admittance. Poor Nei-Nei went around like a bedraggled bird, her hair and skirts askew. She sloshed through the garden in knee-high gutta-percha boots, looking for peonies to rescue, but they, too, had slumped against the eternal downpour. Only Uncle Chachi and Dawid maintained their good humor. At the dinner table, they kept up a running dialogue that none of the rest of us had the heart to enter.
At Kahani’s, too, business had slowed. There was a brief flurry of after-Christmas sales into the New Year, a handful of remorseful late gifts, but these soon sputtered to a halt. The Christmas bills had now arrived. Serangoon Street became a ghost town. The bright holiday stalls folded up like flowers and disappeared. Much of our temporary holiday staff followed suit. I was afraid that Bridget, too, would lose her job, but Mr. Kahani promoted her into the ranks of estate jewelry, where he still all but forbade me to set foot.
“The two of you are always gossiping, every chance you get. So stay away from your friend during business hours, please. The estate customers are a particular clientele. They do not want to hear the chatter of teenagers. You are free to talk as much as you like whilst your friend smokes out back.”
It was impossible to keep secrets from Mr. Kahani. Much less the scent of our cigarettes. Still, I was offended that he dismissed
Dawid visited the candy stalls in Little India and brought sacks of candy to tempt Grandfather—to no avail. Danai ended up the secret beneficiary of these candies. Nei-Nei Down managed to be everywhere at once—in the kitchen barking out orders, napping fitfully in a folding cot by the side of Grandfather’s bed, harassing the local herbalists and healers and hawkers, chastising Grandfather as if he were doing all this deliberately, dying just to spite her.
I saw very little of Geoffrey during this time, for Nei-Nei was a fearsome dragon at the gate, and she carefully supervised which visitors were allowed. The worse Grandfather got, the fewer visitors she admitted, turning away even old friends and admirers. Poor Geoffrey did not stand a chance.
Once when he came to call, she locked all the doors and drew down the shades. Humiliated for his sake, I escaped through a back window and took Geoffrey for a walk in our garden, explaining that Grandfather’s current illness—which I tried to make light of in the early days—did not permit him the pleasure of visitors.
As we came back from our short stroll, we spied Nei-Nei Down standing in the circular front drive, studying Brown’s Pierce-Arrow. Before our very eyes, my grandmother did a shocking thing. She glanced quickly right, then left, and kicked the side of Geoffrey Brown’s car. It was no accident. It was a vicious little kick, made by her small slippered foot. I expected Geoffrey to be outraged, or at the very least offended. But Geoffrey just seemed amused. Perhaps the tiniest bit chagrinned. That’s how perfectly even his temper was. “She thinks I am not good enough for you,” he said. “She’s right.”
“She is not,” I said, “right. —And she’s a terrible snob.” I was embarrassed for her—for all of us.
“Perhaps I’ll win her over in the end,” Geoffrey said musingly. “Though I doubt it.”
Grandfather’s slump infected us all with gloom. It did not help matters that we had entered into the second monsoon season, a particularly unrelenting one. I woke to the sound of rain and slept to the sound of raindrops battering the palace roof, seeking admittance. Poor Nei-Nei went around like a bedraggled bird, her hair and skirts askew. She sloshed through the garden in knee-high gutta-percha boots, looking for peonies to rescue, but they, too, had slumped against the eternal downpour. Only Uncle Chachi and Dawid maintained their good humor. At the dinner table, they kept up a running dialogue that none of the rest of us had the heart to enter.
At Kahani’s, too, business had slowed. There was a brief flurry of after-Christmas sales into the New Year, a handful of remorseful late gifts, but these soon sputtered to a halt. The Christmas bills had now arrived. Serangoon Street became a ghost town. The bright holiday stalls folded up like flowers and disappeared. Much of our temporary holiday staff followed suit. I was afraid that Bridget, too, would lose her job, but Mr. Kahani promoted her into the ranks of estate jewelry, where he still all but forbade me to set foot.
“The two of you are always gossiping, every chance you get. So stay away from your friend during business hours, please. The estate customers are a particular clientele. They do not want to hear the chatter of teenagers. You are free to talk as much as you like whilst your friend smokes out back.”
It was impossible to keep secrets from Mr. Kahani. Much less the scent of our cigarettes. Still, I was offended that he dismissed
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