Love and Madness in the 70s

Something Different

I have written an autobiography concentrating on a couple of years in my early 20s when I suffered a couple of mental breakdowns. I have included some scenes from my childhood and snippets from my boarding school years to provide context. Also, I describe some memorable moments from my trip to India immediately prior to my illness. Threaded throughout the episode including the recovery, was the importance of my girlfriend. The entire memoir is as I recall it, though the exact wording of the conversations is an estimate of the probable based on a diary from that time.

I thought it would be fun to write a bit of fiction about the circumstances of my conception and birth. How it played out is entirely a work of imagination but the basics of time and place are factual. This is the prologue in two parts: my father’s point of view then my mother’s. I have included the paragraph of my memoir to see if it piques your curiosity and if you want me to post the first chapter, please say so in the comments.

My Father, Hugo

Somewhere in the fading British Empire a conception was being negotiated. That somewhere was Malabar Hill, close to the Hanging Garden with views of Chowpatty Beach– the Western most tip of Bombay– a very pukka part of town. Twenty days before the longest day in the exact middle of the twentieth century at six o’clock Hugo returned home from the offices of the Burma Shell Oil Company. He’d been worrying about how to approach the delicate matter of progeny for weeks now. That afternoon he’d been pouring over leave dates over the coming year and labour recruitment schedules for road construction in the Thar Desert, he decided that now was pretty much the optimum time. Also, another factor to consider, his eldest was due to be shipped back to Britain for his first boarding school the following year– aged 7. A wrenching upheaval he dreaded. Sending your 7-year-old to the other side of the world for months at a time did seem unnatural, but what else could he do? It would have been ‘unheard of’ to send one’s son to a local school. One just had to be stoic about it.

Bringing home flowers for the Memsahib on a Friday was routine but the bunch he brought home this Friday were chosen with particular care. He wanted an extravagant riot of colour but he also wanted to demonstrate his knowledge of Indian native flora so the flower shop, which catered to the Viceroy, arranged an impressive assemblage of crimson Hollyhocks nestling in a density of yellow Mimosa and Malabar Copperleaf. 

The sound of his leather shoes crunching on the leafy shaded gravel driveway was obliterated by the once in 13 years deafening noise of cicadas. His naturalist friend, Ralph Morris, told him once that the louder a cicada sings the better its chances of attracting a mate. “That’s got to be a good omen”, he thought. Ishmael, the Head Bearer, saw him coming and stepped out to take his jacket and briefcase. “Shall I take those, Sahib?” Ishmael enquired, pointing at the enormous bunch of flowers. “No, no, thank you Ishmael, I want to present them to Memsahib myself!” He said with a broad smile. With a slight shake of his head Ishmael indicated he quite understood.

Alwine, Hugo’s 28-year-old beauty of a wife, was sitting in her customary position on the sofa surrounded by large skeins of wool. The children, Martin and Elizabeth, 6 and 4, both planned, could be heard giggling in the dining room where the ayah (Indian nanny) was supervising their supper. Despite the 90° Fahrenheit temperature outside, with a pleasant breeze wafting in through the French windows and the 2 fans set in the high ceiling gently turning, the temperature in the drawing room was a good 6 degrees lower. As Hugo almost bounds into the drawing room, he theatrically offers up the spectacular bunch of flowers and says, “These are for you m’dear.”

“Oh Darling, they are GORGEOUS! Thank you so much!” After a short pause she asked, “Why such a big bouquet? They must have cost a fortune. Are you celebrating something?” 

“Oh, sort of. You remember that Dutch pain in the ass CO in the bitumen division? Well, I finally managed to bring him round to my way of thinking re employing locals as on-site managers. And it’s Friday and I thought they’d look good for the dinner party tomorrow night. And by the way I did haggle a bit on the price.”

“My! Another feather in your cap and so thoughtful, Darling.” 

Usually on a Friday she would simply offer her cheek to be pecked while remaining seated in front of her tapestry but on this occasion, she actually got up to accept the flowers and kissed Hugo on his cheek. They were both in ebullient moods– he because of a significant victory at work and having made the decision to hasten a third conception and she because she’d just come off a long gossipy phone call with another ex-pat wife, Monica, and was looking forward to roughing it in her father Ralph Morris’ coffee estate in the Niligri Hills. They needed to head down south to the Western Ghats within a couple of weeks because the monsoon, which usually reaches Kerela around early June, made some of the roads impassable. 

“That worked well!” Hugo thought as Alwine disappeared to the kitchen to fetch a vase. He took the opportunity to dash upstairs and rip off his sweat-drenched shirt, flannel his top half and put on a fresh one. Meanwhile the children had rushed into the drawing room and were demanding to know where Daddy was.

“Upstairs changing, I expect. Have you finished your supper?” Alwine demanded to know in return as she pierced a Hollyhock stalk into a wodge of green floral foam in the bottom of the vase. She had placed it on the cracked white marble topped 18^th century console whose heavily ornate legs were chipped with much of the gold leaf flaked off. A classic Alwine acquisition– dilapidated but 18^th century. She had no time for ghastly overwrought Victoriana. 
“YES, WE HAVE!” They screeched in unison as they scarpered up the stairs to climb all over Hugo.

Minutes later Hugo lifted Elizabeth off his shoulders and prized Martin off his leg and told them to go and play with Jasper, the black Labrador retriever, in the garden.

“But we want to show you our new hide hole.” Martin explained matter-of-factly.
“I’ll look at it later, I promise. I just want to chat to Mummy in peace for a while.”
Without further remonstration they grabbed Jasper and ran outside.
“Finally, some quiet! You’ve done a great job on those flowers. Can I get you a whisk?”
“Oh, that’d be lovely–very long.”
“Of course.” Now Hugo was not naïve enough to believe that getting Alwine pissed would be an effective aphrodisiac but there was no harm in attempting libidinal encouragement with just a hint more of the amber fluid. On accepting a large oversized 18^th century wine glass, not the traditional stubby whiskey one, with 2 large ice cubes floating in water with as much Johnny Walker as he thought he could get away with, she appraised the depth of amber colouration with forensic precision. “Phew! I got away with it!” He thought as she took her first sip without asking for just a dash more water. 

Fortified by a couple of swigs of his stronger whiskey merely splashed with soda, he started his oblique approach to the issue of a third child. He knew they were compelled to make the long trip south to Western Tamil Nadu to stay with Ralph as soon as next week. Alwine loved it down there because it suited her ramshackle tendencies and the mountain trekking with Monica, Ralph’s daughter and her husband, Bob, but there was bugger all privacy so consummation there was out of the question. He simply had to persuade and seduce in the next couple of days or the chance would disappear forever. 

Standing squarely facing out into the garden watching Martin and Liz squealing with delight as Jasper chased a large crow Hugo mused to himself – “They do get on so well maybe another child, especially one 7 years younger than Martin, would disrupt the harmony. Not to mention Alwine’s probable antagonism. But then again, bugger it, I’m one of four children and Alwine is the eldest of four sisters- it’s just unnatural to have less than three.” To Hugo’s way of thinking a child brought up in the dense cluster and hurly burly of multiple siblings was the best way to lay the foundation for the skills of cooperation, compromise and negotiation. Also, a bit of healthy sibling rivalry was no bad thing. Having clarified the argument in his own mind he spoke to the garden as if thinking out loud.

“I’ve been thinking about my leave to England next year and the thought of dropping Martin off at St Micheal’s in Devon and not seeing him for a year fills me with horror.” There is no comment from his wife. He turns around to face her.

“Darling?” he solicits. She’s aware he has turned to face her but does not look up from her needlepoint canvas. She appears to be yanking the wool tighter on the frame. Her whole upper body is taught and tensed around this mind numbingly dull but absorbing hobby. Alwine can sense where this is going and resolves to remain adamant but doesn’t want to create a scene. She replied with as much empathy as she could muster. “Yes, I know, me too. It’s so ghastly. I try not to think about it. But remember we did like the headmaster and the school has an excellent reputation not just for getting boys into public school but also for being great parents in absentia, as it were.”

“Yes, that’s all true, but still…” A pause was filled with the sound of Alwine swallowing a large slug of her drink. “Sometimes this heat and isolation makes me want to just jack it all in and buy an apple orchard in Somerset – maybe make cider– and keep a yacht in Poole. We’d be close to your parents and Martin could still go to St Michael’s.” Alwine stifled a chortle and, relieved the conversation didn’t appear to be leading to the dreaded third child, replied.

“Darling, you don’t know the first thing about apples. You hate cider! I’ve seen you pottering about the garden with absolutely no commitment. You haven’t got the patience for manual toil.”

“That’s not fair! How d’you know?” Noticing her empty glass asked, “The other half?”

“Yes please, that’d be lovely.” If she were going to have to follow Hugo to England it would have to be London. She wasn’t as stressed out by the heat as Hugo. When you think of the wonderful climbing with her women friends in the Himalayas and Western Ghats, Christmases at Munva Beach near Bombay, the fabulous honeymoon at Shimla, Dal Lake at Srinagar and gliding on thermals at the Quetta Soaring and Flying Club in the hot months, this was a life with built in exotica. Then, when you add on the servants, though she liked to think of the cook, ayah, cleaner, mali (gardener), dhobi wallah (laundry) and the bearer as paid help who had no other means of employment, you’ve got a lifestyle up there with 19^th century aristocracy– not the struggling landed gentry of today, having to open their mansions to the wretched public to stay solvent. Martin recalled a strong memory of Alwine’s domestic duties when he flew out to Karachi for the summer holidays. Here I quote,

“She sat at the head of the breakfast table dressed in a house coat. Standing at her side was the cook. I remember him as a kindly man (I think he was a Christian and he and his family lived in our garage because he had been made homeless). Ma would discuss the menu for lunch and dinner with him. Having agreed the menus Ma would give the cook money to buy the day’s fresh meat fruit and veg at the bazaar. Ma would then go to the dry stores cupboard (which was always kept locked) and give the cook any ingredients he needed for the day.
The rest of the day was given to pleasure; tennis, bridge, and lunch parties. I do not remember Pa at breakfast; I think he had already left for the office.” Nevertheless, parenting Martin and Elizabeth would not have been totally outsourced.

On top of all that you’ve got a social milieu right out of the top drawer with a vestigial military top brass, the diplomatic Corp and British commercial interests all congregated on the Hill. Tennis and bridge weren’t the half of it. She gave voice to all those reflections whereupon Hugo jumped in to reassure her that his thoughts were really idle speculation.

“Well, keep them idle, my dear!”
“Ha, ha! Well, I guess I will. But there’s still the problem of Elizabeth.”
“Sorry, I’m not with you. Problem?”
“Well, I mean just look at them,” as he gestures towards the garden, “suddenly we’re going to wrench Martin away and yes he’ll probably get to love his prep school eventually, but poor Liz will be devastated.”
CLANG!!! Now she got it. Hugo wants a sibling–preferably a brother–for his darling daughter. No response. Not verbally anyway, just the inward build-up of a seething rage which she was going to have to control. Hugo realized he’d probably miss timed his run but ploughed on regardless.
“She absolutely loves her dolls. It would be wonderful for her to be able to fulfill her nurturing instincts with a baby brother.”
“That’s all very nice, Darling, but I think this is simply your idea of an ideal family size. And besides, when Jasper chewed off her favourite doll’s leg she got over it pretty quickly.” She realizes there was no mileage to be had by emphasizing the drudgery aspect of having another child because of endless domestic help so she attempted to allay his apprehensions on the social pressure to have a minimum of three children.
“You are sort of half right. You know why I think three’s a good number.”
“Yes, we have rather been over this. I think you can have a perfectly cooperative and competitive family atmosphere with two children especially as they so often spend time with other families.” 
“You may be right but why can’t we…” With a rising sense of irritation Alwine interrupted.
“I mean look at Bob and Monica. They’re perfectly happy with two. Simon and Sue are delightful children. And I’ve not heard any whispered criticisms of their small family.”
“Yes, but he’s in advertising with an uncertain salary and Monica’s father is more of a naturalist than a businessman so I wouldn’t count on a massive inheritance there. So, they had to accept the bare minimum – children wise.”
“What utter ROT! Honestly, they could easily afford another child, it’s just that Monica can’t face all that nappy changing and breast feeding 24 hours a day.”
“But you know it’s really about…”
Again, Alwine cuts him off, knowing Hugo is going to say it’s really about Monica’s desire to carry on mountain climbing.
“You’re going to say it’s about Monica wanting to climb more mountains.” Now her body is convulsing with fury, her innate sense of gender equality bubbling to the surface. 
“And why the HELL shouldn’t she?”
Hugo sees no point in escalating this further so walks over to the drinks cabinet and takes the lid off a round brass inlayed tin of 50 Players Navy Cut cigarettes, takes one out and tamps down the tobacco, lights up, exhales and sighs at the same time. Then, turning back to her he says without rancour, “You’re probably right. Nine months of pregnancy is a hell of a thing and at 28 you are in your prime. I know how you love the mountains. I’ll go and fetch the children and ask Chandrima to give them a bath.” With that he stubbed out his cigarette and strode into the garden clapping his hands and gesturing for the children to come in–a man at ease with domestic life. 

Alwine is taken aback by Hugo’s sudden acquiescence. As so often in the past when spats began to turn ugly, he would terminate the exchange by saying something like “All right, all right, drop it!” The player becoming the umpire was a state of affairs, which built resentment on her side of the relationship. That wall of resentment was not impregnable. It could disappear altogether with the lightest touch of Hugo’s generosity of spirit.

She lay awake that night while Hugo’s torso gently moved to the rhythms of deep sleep. He had kissed her fondly good night but had made no further moves. She thought how sweet. Her resolve from earlier in the evening started to weaken. Then she started to build a case for another child from her point of view. She’d heard that rigors of labour diminished with each successive child and she knew she was fit. Being pregnant was a pain but it didn’t stop her sailing or playing tennis with Liz inside her. She in fact quite liked shocking onlookers when she cycled through the crowded markets of Srinigar when heavily pregnant with Liz. With Martin ensconced in Devon Liz will feel bereft. As will I, she thought. Finally, there was a part of her that was also captive to the notion of three being the socially acceptable minimum.

Hugo was barely awake when Alwine coaxed him to roll over onto his back to take advantage of his morning ardour, as they say in a Mills and Boon. 

My Mother, Alwine

After the requisite number of tedious bulging months, I popped out in a Bombay hospital. 6 weeks later after my regulation 4 hourly feed burp and minor vomit I was wheeled to a shady part of the garden. The large wheels made light work of the uneven lawn surface and the elaborate leather suspension creaked to a steady rhythm which put me to sleep as I gazed up into the face of my Ayah. While unengaged by the absence of a string of bright plastic rattly baubles I was mildly taken with blurry images of clumped bamboo leaves fluttering in the breeze. As instructed the Ayah returned to Alwine after leaving the infant a good distance away hidden behind the bamboo and reported the welcome news that ‘baba’ was sleeping, gesturing with both hands to one side of her inclined head. “Shukriyaa, Chandrima.” Alwine thanked her warmly in basic Hindi as she was brought up until the age of ten in Kashmir.

She had asked the cook to buy some inexpensive fish to make a kedgeree for lunch. “I like a lot of sultanas and slithered almonds thrown in and don’t hold back on the ginger and turmeric but do hold back on the chilli, Anish.”  
“Oh yes, Memsahib I am knowing what you are liking!” Anish replied.

Along with the generous bowl of kedgeree were a pile of freshly baked chapatis with butter melting between each one, a tomato and lettuce salad, various chutneys, some figs and paneer. The modest spread covered a table dappled in shady sunlight– straight out of a Renoir painting minus the long dresses. 

 A long glass swizzle stick protruded from an ample layer of fresh mint atop large chunks of ice floating in a jug of Pimm’s crammed with slices of cucumber, oranges and lemons. Picking up the jug, to offer to pour a glass for her only guest, Monica, Alwine said “In lieu of all the correct botanicals I like to chuck in some star anise. Sort of gives it a Christmassy feel.” 
“Oh yes please, Alwine. But its mid-March– bit late for Christmas.” Quipped Monica.
“Yes, I know. I just like to give the Pimm’s a bit of a kick.”
“I should have thought that was the gin’s job.” Monica replied laughing.
“Ha! Well, you know I take my spirits long.”
“Yes, sometimes I wonder why you bother. The way you drown a perfectly good Jonny walker in vast quantities of soda.”
“To be honest I’ve never really much cared for the taste of whiskey. Also, I simply can’t bear feeling even the slightest bit wobbly.” She is keen to not give the impression she has any moral objections to alcohol.
“I can seriously feel the effects of just one glass.”
“Well, cheers anyway, Alwine. To children away, babies asleep and husbands making money.”

Monica assembled a delicious looking bonbon of fig and paneer and popped it into her mouth. While she chewed slowly, she paused aghast at the rapidly vanishing pile of rice and fish Alwine was forking mechanically down her gullet. Monica remarked, not in a critical way, out of genuine amazement.
“Crickey, that disappeared fast! Are you starving?”
“No, not hugely.”
“Must be a legacy from that posh boarding school in England where you had to eat fast to get seconds.”
“Far from it! Many’s the time I had to discreetly remove a foul piece of gristle into my handkerchief. We were not allowed to have dessert until our plates were empty. But yes, mealtimes were never leisurely affairs.” 
Alwine leaned back in her chair in front of her now empty plate so that her large post-natal breasts were clearly visible trying to bust out of a tight-fitting short sleeve muslin top. Ever the frugal shopper she refused to admit she needed to buy larger sizes. She would just have to make do until she regained her decent figure.
“You do look well Alwine. Positively glowing! And bonus large bosoms.” Said Monica transfixed by the sight of Alwine’s top half.
“Frankly, I’ll be relieved when they revert back to normal size.”
In between scooping up rice with her fingers Monica asked Alwine what she was going to do about losing weight.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t bear exercise regimes– I just love walking and climbing. Sailing over to Mundwa Beach every weekend with Hugo and the children is great for them…” She trailed off with a sigh. Monica leapt on that. 
“Of course, don’t we all. How much longer do you have to feed the Babs?”
“They say 6 months, and that’s exactly 3 and a half months away.” She had already put the date down in her diary.
 “Christ, that’s a long time but it’ll be July and we’ll all be up in Kashmir where the Himalayas beckon. The Niligri Hills are like foreplay but the Himalayas are the climax!” Not understanding this last joke Alwine chose to ignore it.
“Come on Monica! You know we’re all off back to England to take Martin to boarding school the end of this month.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d be back by July.”
“Early August, I think.”
“Speaking of Niligri Hills, I almost forgot the chief reason I came for lunch,” as Monica pulled out a wad of black and white photos each slightly smaller than postcard size. “You must see these of our last trip to Ralph’s.”
“Lovely.” On seeing pictures of Hugo and Bob enjoying a drink amongst the clutter of plants and stuffed birds on the veranda Alwine was reminded of something Hugo confessed to her in June last year.
“Monica did I tell you this already? One evening last summer Hugo admitted he had a plan re the timing of Brookie’s birth. One reason he had to do the deed when he did was because he would have been too embarrassed to engage in any funny business at Ralph’s.”
“Ha, ha! How too funny. However, I don’t think my father, being a naturalist, would have been offended by sounds of nocturnal passion.” Monica paused to drain the last of her Pimm’s while Alwine glanced down at her amethyst, jade and amber rings she wore to remind her which was her left hand. 
“But I must say I was surprised when you announced you were going to have a third– given we both agreed we could never go back to all that nappy soaking again. Honestly, I can cope with the extra drudgery but it’s the turning my mind to mush I couldn’t stand.”
Shaking and nodding her head in furious agreement, Alwine replied, “Well Exactly.”
“So, what, or rather how did he persuade you?”
“We nearly had a blazing row. I defended you to the hilt. He tried to tell me your decision was all based on lack of finances then he reckoned you just wanted to climb mountains. At that I practically exploded!”
“Good for you, Alwine. Bloody men! They don’t get how easy they have it.” True to form, Alwine has been affected by the Pimm’s but is rather loath to admit she quite likes it. She’s also stuck for a true answer to Monica’s question. Slumping forward slightly and opening both her hands to left and right she said with a wry smile, “I suppose he simply charmed his way into my knickers.”
“How sweet.”

Right on cue the conversation was brought to an end by plaintiff cries which easily penetrated the clump of bamboo.

“Will Chandrima get that?” asked Monica.
“It’s the baby not the doorbell, Monica!” The cries have developed into that vibrating head shaking, eyes tight shut, tongue wobbling in mouth followed by a momentary silence as my tiny lungs filled to let out an even more heart-rending sound.
“I know you’re supposed to let them exercise their lungs but this I can’t bear any longer.” With that she got up and briskly strode towards the source of that infernal racket.

Chapter 1. Total Institutions

19 years later, the result of that pre-monsoonal copulation walked slowly up the stairs passed the very familiar bison head and into Pa’s study where the door was open….