Isabel Comes to Tea
Sarah
Milverton drew aside the curtains of her living room and proceeded to plant a
set of freshly picked daffodils in the flower vase. A cake had been put in the
oven to bake, the flower pots watered, and it was time she could resume her
knitting. Now over sixty years of age, the silvery haired lady still found her
greatest joy in tending to her garden, doing knitting and stitching, and attend
to a host of sundry things in and around the home.
The ring
of a bell announced that a visitor was at the gate. Sarah peeped out of the
window to find a young lady dressed in a blue pleated skirt and coat holding a
bicycle. The girl smiled and waved, and Sarah waved back.
“Come
dearie, come right inside,” said Mrs Milverton cheerily stepping out of the
portico. “I have waited for you all along. Come this way!”
The young
lady seemed a trifle nervous as she walked into the living room. Having made
the girl as comfortable as she could, Sarah went around looking for her son.
“Roger!” she cried, “Roger, come and see who we have got here!”
Milverton,
who seemed to have prepared for the occasion, emerged in an evening suit and
seemed to take some time taking in the sight of the exquisitely made young lady
with golden brown hair and a smile which dimpled her cheeks.
“Ah, it is
so very nice of you to drop in, Miss,” said Roger pleasantly as he took a seat
opposite the girl. “How do you do?”
“She’s
Isabel Thorpe, my newest friend,” blurted out Mrs Milverton excitedly as she
sank into the sofa beside the girl, giving her a warm squeeze. “She’s newly
joined Bruce Memorial Hospital. You haven’t heard her play on the piano, son!”
Isabel
blushed at the compliments that were pouring and found it a relief when the
maid stepped in bringing a trolley laid out with tea.
Roger
began by passing around a plate of biscuits. “My mother speaks a good deal
about you,” he said. “I believe you are here on—er—a medical assignment?”
“Oh, well
– yes – it was a project I took up last year. I am here to do some research on
the medical cures practiced here traditionally, and study the complications
that usually arise. It’s quite interesting, you know.”
“Splendid
!” said Roger as he buttered himself a toast. “And it’ll serve a very useful
purpose too. May I ask, how far have you progressed with your research?”
Isabel
stroked her chin softly. The gentleman with the easy going manners seemed
pleasant enough, but a bit awkward. Nice people, she thought to herself, nice
to talk to, and nice to be with. “I have nearly finished with my work,” she
said. “Dr Martin at Bruce Memorial says these findings are going to be
tremendously useful, and could be published in the form of a thesis on the
subject.”
Mrs
Milverton who seemed keen on letting the young pair have some time to
themselves had left the room on some pretext. Now she returned and stood in the
doorway holding up a carton triumphantly.
“Here’s a
new record, children. No evening can be complete without music!” she declared.
And placing the record on the gramophone player she gently wound up the crank.
The machine began to play the soft strains of Silent Night.
The
conversation drifted to other topics. “Mr Milverton,” began Isabel, “have you
ever thought of returning to England?”
“Why, no,
Miss Thorpe. Why do you ask?”
“I thought
you might want to return to civilization,” Isabel said tentatively.
“I like
the civilization here,” said Roger. “It is quiet, life is never in a hurry, the
natives are good natured folks. . .”
“Oh, yes.”
“You know,
there are people back Home who dream of the romance of India. I like to live the romance. India has a kind of
dreamlike quality.”
Isabel
looked at Roger with a smile that soon gave way to a mischievous twinkle in her
eye. “Something like a latter day Livingstone exploring the jungles of Africa?”
“Er—not
quite. Haven’t you ever had the urge to explore unknown lands?”
“I do,”
returned Isabel. “As a matter of fact I have travelled quite a bit in India.”
“Then you
will have tales of adventure to tell !”
Mrs
Milverton looked fondly at the young pair as they laughed and talked away into
the evening. Beyond the open window, the
sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky with deep yellow and crimson, while
the hills in the distance seemed to grow mellow and dusky. She had changed
records and the gramophone was now playing Alexander’s
Ragtime Band, her favourite piece of music. She rose from her chair and
drew close to Isabel. Then taking the girl by her hand she said, “Come dearie,
let’s dance with the music.”
The young
lady looked up bewildered. “No, please, Mrs Milverton, you must excuse me,” she
protested. “I hardly ever dance; I make a terrible hash of it.”
“So do I,
my dear, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try, does it? Come!”
And soon
the ladies had swept away, their arms entwined, swaying to the rhythm of the
tune amidst squeals of laughter, while Roger Milverton, enthralled with the
performance, took on the task of re-setting the gramophone record humming a
tune himself while cheering on the pair.
Friends Forever
As in most other towns the small English community in Alampore
found its recreation in the Englsh club where the sahibs and memsahibs would
gather in the evenings for social intercourse and pleasure. Mrs Milverton had
long been an active member, but in recent days she seemed to have grown tired
of the social life offered by the club and her visits had declined. The truth
was that there was something far superior, and far more valuable to be found in
the home, for with the coming of Isabel Thorpe, Milverton Lodge had seen a
change that would make its inhabitants look forward to each day with eager
expectation.
Evenings in Milverton Lodge would see the sound of music
when Isabel played some of the finest tunes she knew on the piano. Old Colonel
Browning who lived next door called on Mrs Milverton. “Great music coming from
over yonder. What is it all about, ma'am?” he wanted to know, and Sarah had
told him about her newfound friend and her musical gift. Word quickly spread
around, and neighbours began to pour in, eager to hear the young pianist play.
There was a time when Sarah complained of a lack of
enthusiasm, a feeling that having reached the eventide of life there wasn’t
much of a meaning left in anything around. Isabel who had listened patiently
all along didn’t say anything, but when evening came, she returned with a bunch
of brightly dressed kids gathered from the neighbourhood. They were soon
scampering all over the garden letting out squeals of delight, some even
persuading Mrs Milverton to join in the fun, and when she refused, they
clambered on to her lap to receive a hug of love.
The children returned the next day, and the day after . . .
it left Sarah feeling enthralled. The sparkle had returned to her eye, there
was a spring her step. Life that had grown dreary seemed once again to have
regained its former zest and meaning.
Then there were picture albums to browse through. The young
lady from Bruce Memorial seemed to be equally skilled with a camera as she was
with her stethoscope. She had travelled extensively all over the country, and
recorded her findings in a series of notes jotted down in a diary, and a set of
four neatly bound albums with hundreds of pictures stuck in. Roger and his
mother spent many happy hours browsing through these albums with Isabel sitting
beside giving a commentary on each picture. Going through these albums was like
making a grand tour of the country ; they contained pictures of all kinds : pictures
of forts and monuments, armies and regiments, official lodges and bungalows, shops
and streets, hill stations and towns, natives and Englishmen in India, stations
and ports . . . a breathtaking photographic archive created with nothing more
special than an Ensign box camera which the girl had mastered, later graduating
to a more expensive folding bellows camera of the same company.
Autumn brought with it a cool breeze coming in from the
nearby hills and Sarah’s daffodils swayed in the wind as though to welcome the
intrusion that had come in their uneventful life. With the weather growing
mild, Mrs Milverton who had mostly kept indoors during the summer began to move
out more adventurously, taking a horse-buggy to town or calling up on friends.
During one of these excursions she seemed to have caught an infection and was
laid up in bed. Dr Martin who was Medical Superintendent of Bruce Memorial
Hospital was kind enough to call on the lady for an examination. He pronounced
it a case of severe bronchial infection, advising immediate removal of the
patient to the hospital.
Isabel who worked under Dr Martin made it a point to snatch
every moment she could find to be with her elderly friend. She studied the
temperature chart, checked the breathing, then sat down to examine the senior
doctor’s prescription. Light diet it
recommended, but from her own experience as a physician she knew that on more
than one occasion she had proved the text books wrong. She picked up her bag
and hurried to the bazaar returning with tin of liver extract.
“There you are, Mrs Milverton!” said Isabel smiling brightly
as she stood by the bed holding up a spoonful of the liquid for the old lady.
“This should put you back on your feet soon!”
The liver extract worked wonders. Within a week’s time the
old lady had grown strong again; the doctors attending on her pronounced her
out of danger. She was soon strolling around and to everyone’s astonishment, in
another four days she was discharged from the hospital.
And thus it went on, the young lady filling the home with a
thousand shades of radiance till Roger and his mother began to find themselves
positively looking forward each day to the girl’s visit. “Do you like her?” Mrs
Milverton asked her son at the breakfast table once. Roger, gauche and awkward,
and well over thirty, had rarely succeeded in engaging the attention of women
thus far. He had reached a stage where he found it entirely futile even to
conceive a wish that someone from amongst the gentle sex would cast an admiring
glance at him, and yet here was a girl who was taking an exceptional interest
in both mother and son. “She comes here
to see you!” Mrs Milverton said teasingly, and Roger would murmur something
in reply flushing with pleasure.
But it was Sarah who found the greatest joy and fulfillment
with the arrival of the girl. Materially speaking, she was already well-off;
she had a lovely home and a comfortable bank balance; she had worked prior to
her retirement as headmistress of a school, a position which had earned her
recognition and esteem. And now there was this young lady who had stepped into
her life bringing with her a thousand little joys, and making her feel that she
was special. With the passage of time they grew closer ; friendship gave way to love so that at last
they were like mother and daughter. The young lady was nearly a daily visitor
to Sarah’s home. They sat together reading aloud poetry, they sang together,
read the same books, tried out the latest culinary art. And how popular they
had grown at the Club ! When Christmas came along, Sarah and her friend staged
a play with a few others named ‘Broken Blossoms’ based on a short story by one
of the writers of the time. ‘Broken Blossoms’ proved to be a runaway success;
it made Isabel something like a celebrity overnight. So popular was the play
that on public demand several more shows had to be staged ; on the fourth run
no less a person than the Collector of
the District himself was amongst the audience.
Mother and daughter found perfect happiness in each other’s
company. The two got on splendidly. They picked daisies together ; they rode
together to the bazaar in a buggy ; and as they strolled about in the garden
whispering to each other their inmost secrets, nature herself seemed to brim
over with joy : the wind whistled a tune and the leaves rustled, while the
crocuses gleefully nodded in the breeze, pleased at the thought of having two
friends sharing a blessed communion in their presence.
Continued below.