Free A House Called Askival by Merryn Glover Page A

starched cap that sat at a jaunty angle on his black curls. The apron had also been used to wipe his glasses just prior to his entrance so that they, like everything else about him, shone. He smiled broadly as he stepped to one side with a small bow and a sweeping gesture towards the table. He had done his best with the few resources available. A slightly greying bed sheet served as table cloth, the cutlery was miss-matched but vigorously polished and he’d folded an assortment of napkins in the Delhi-restaurant style, though he had never been to Delhi. In the middle he’d set a vase of dahlias from the garden and on either side, a pair of candles flickered cheerfully in brass holders.
    The Memsahib herself was uninterested in such ceremony, but Aziz had persuaded her to indulge his passion for it on special occasions. He also knew it would be every bit the expectation of Colonel Sahib and his wife, and although Memsahib Leota never did anything to impress anyone – least of all snooty Britishers – she let Aziz have his fancy table so long as no-one expected her to fuss with airs and graces.
    As the party moved through to the dining room, Aziz stopped James with an arm around his shoulders.
    â€˜Hungry, babu?’ he asked, eyes twinkling.
    â€˜ Bahot hungry, ji!’ James flushed and returned a lopsided smile.
    â€˜ Accha, accha, bahot accha! ’ Aziz slapped him on the belly. ‘I have yum yum khana for you. Sit, sit!’ This had been their pre-supper exchange since James was a child but tonight Aziz sensed his discomfort. He saw the smirk on the Colonel’s face and the frown on Stanley’s and slipped back into the kitchen.
    Behind the door he listened through the rain as the scraping of chairs fell silent and the blessing began. It used to be an unbearable moment as his perfectly timed dishes cooled in the long minutes of Stanley’s prayer, but he had learnt to allow for the delay and to detect in the Sahib’s cadences the final canter to the end. He had also learnt to adapt his planning when Stanley was away and Leota gave the blessing. Hers was always the same and always short:
    â€˜For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’
    On such occasions, Aziz was indeed thankful. However, he did admire the Sahib’s religious fervour and believed that rising to the demands of the situation was – along with artful table dressing – one of the many skills a good khansamma must possess.
    As everyone murmured the Amen he lifted his tray of soup and after an appropriate pause for the party to drape Delhi-folded napkins across laps, he pushed through the swinging door.
    â€˜Tomato Chowder!’ he announced, lowering the tray to the sideboard. ‘Recipe of Mrs Wilhemina Klinkingbeard.’
    â€˜Who?’ asked Bunce. ‘Do we know her?’
    â€˜No,’ said Leota.
    â€˜American Ladies Club of Lahore,’ said Aziz, setting bowls of soup before each diner.
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜Somebody knew her and put her recipe in the book,’ explained Leota
    â€˜What book?’ asked Bunce.
    â€˜The Landour Community Cookbook, darling,’ said Mrs Bunce, resting a hand on his arm. ‘It’s what our khansamma uses all the time. Everybody up here does. Leota was the editor, weren’t you, dear?’
    â€˜I guess,’ said Leota with a tip of her head.
    The Book, as Aziz knew well, was the culinary bible of all hillside memsahibs and their cooks, providing tips on everything from baking at altitude to substitutes for cornstarch. His Memsahib had put it together fifteen years before with a bevy of missionary ladies who all spent their summers on the hillside and congregated at the Landour Community Centre to swap paperbacks, children’s clothes and recipes. Aziz was steadily working his way through The Book with Leota, memorising each dish, as he could not read. His dream was to have one of his own