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Authors: Frances Osborne
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providing a mere support system for the business of bringing money home—had become a primary industry in itself. And this reverence for bureaucracy spilled over into everyday life. The British in India were a conformist caste. Things were done by the book, in the right way. British was best.
Lilla was British in name, but she’d been born in China. And, barring a couple of years of so-called education in England and on the Continent, she’d grown up there. True, the British had been predominant, had even stuck together to a certain degree, formed an Anglo-Chinese culture of their own. Anglo-China, however, was not introspective, quite the opposite. It was surrounded by a melting pot of Western nationalities. Most of them had their own stakes in the place. Many of them took part in the fairly lax self-government. And all of them openly pinched the best from one another’s cultures. Whether it was the latest trimmings from French fashion, heart-opening notes of Italian music, foaming pitchers of malty German beer, the treacly sponge of Austrian cakes, or mind-numbing Russian vodka, it all blended into a single treaty-port way of doing things—the newer the better. When treaty porters deferred to a greater power, they did not look to London, they looked to Shanghai. And who you were or where you stood in the general run of treaty-port life depended simply on how well you were doing in business.
In comparison, British social life in India was a labyrinthine affair, a complex equation of rank, military or civil, family background, and income. The British in India defended their respectability—an attribute at risk merely by being in India and not England—with a ferocious set of prejudices. Principal among these was a general feeling of superiority over, even a suspicion of, those from less prestigious parts of the British Empire. This meant everywhere except India. When it came to China, they drew a deep breath. China was certainly interesting, possibly adventurous, but best kept at arm’s length. It wasn’t even a question of being less smoky gentleman’s club and more smoggy East End barrow boy—it wasn’t even officially part of the empire. China, and Lilla with it, was off the scale. And Lilla’s foreign status was aggravated by Ernie’s decision to call her not Lilla, but the more oriental-sounding Lily.
Waiting for Ada to join her in the noisy, dusty, clammy city where every corner revealed an unfamiliar street and her clothes stuck to her skin as the dirt fought its way into her eyes and nostrils, Lilla must have felt all the loneliness of a stranger surrounded by thousands of people. The rest of her family was back in Chefoo, all together, preparing for Ada’s December wedding. It must have been terribly hard for Lilla even to think about it. Not once in her nineteen years had she ever been so far from Ada for so long, and now she would even miss her wedding. She couldn’t go. It would take at least three weeks to return to Chefoo, if she left now—almost as soon as she’d arrived in Calcutta. She’d only just make it. Besides, Ernie would make a fuss about the expense, and it would hardly look right to abandon her husband just one month into their marriage. So be it. Ada would be coming to Calcutta with Toby soon. Two months apart were worth it if it meant more time together afterward.
Lilla must have desperately tried to find something to distract her during the wait for Ada. And perhaps for a lack of anything concrete to busy herself with, I think she decided to focus herself entirely on Ernie—and his qualities expanded to fill her empty hours.
Ernie knew the city in which Lilla felt so lost like the back of his hand. And the rest must have followed—his heavy build making her feel quite protected when she stood close to him, his thick mustache tickling her upper lip reassuringly whenever he kissed her. Shortly, Ernie must have become her whole world, unable to do wrong and knowing exactly
Lilla was British in name, but she’d been born in China. And, barring a couple of years of so-called education in England and on the Continent, she’d grown up there. True, the British had been predominant, had even stuck together to a certain degree, formed an Anglo-Chinese culture of their own. Anglo-China, however, was not introspective, quite the opposite. It was surrounded by a melting pot of Western nationalities. Most of them had their own stakes in the place. Many of them took part in the fairly lax self-government. And all of them openly pinched the best from one another’s cultures. Whether it was the latest trimmings from French fashion, heart-opening notes of Italian music, foaming pitchers of malty German beer, the treacly sponge of Austrian cakes, or mind-numbing Russian vodka, it all blended into a single treaty-port way of doing things—the newer the better. When treaty porters deferred to a greater power, they did not look to London, they looked to Shanghai. And who you were or where you stood in the general run of treaty-port life depended simply on how well you were doing in business.
In comparison, British social life in India was a labyrinthine affair, a complex equation of rank, military or civil, family background, and income. The British in India defended their respectability—an attribute at risk merely by being in India and not England—with a ferocious set of prejudices. Principal among these was a general feeling of superiority over, even a suspicion of, those from less prestigious parts of the British Empire. This meant everywhere except India. When it came to China, they drew a deep breath. China was certainly interesting, possibly adventurous, but best kept at arm’s length. It wasn’t even a question of being less smoky gentleman’s club and more smoggy East End barrow boy—it wasn’t even officially part of the empire. China, and Lilla with it, was off the scale. And Lilla’s foreign status was aggravated by Ernie’s decision to call her not Lilla, but the more oriental-sounding Lily.
Waiting for Ada to join her in the noisy, dusty, clammy city where every corner revealed an unfamiliar street and her clothes stuck to her skin as the dirt fought its way into her eyes and nostrils, Lilla must have felt all the loneliness of a stranger surrounded by thousands of people. The rest of her family was back in Chefoo, all together, preparing for Ada’s December wedding. It must have been terribly hard for Lilla even to think about it. Not once in her nineteen years had she ever been so far from Ada for so long, and now she would even miss her wedding. She couldn’t go. It would take at least three weeks to return to Chefoo, if she left now—almost as soon as she’d arrived in Calcutta. She’d only just make it. Besides, Ernie would make a fuss about the expense, and it would hardly look right to abandon her husband just one month into their marriage. So be it. Ada would be coming to Calcutta with Toby soon. Two months apart were worth it if it meant more time together afterward.
Lilla must have desperately tried to find something to distract her during the wait for Ada. And perhaps for a lack of anything concrete to busy herself with, I think she decided to focus herself entirely on Ernie—and his qualities expanded to fill her empty hours.
Ernie knew the city in which Lilla felt so lost like the back of his hand. And the rest must have followed—his heavy build making her feel quite protected when she stood close to him, his thick mustache tickling her upper lip reassuringly whenever he kissed her. Shortly, Ernie must have become her whole world, unable to do wrong and knowing exactly
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