bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 2 (1987) — Summer 1987 // Été 1987, p. 10
As usual, Ottawa officials had all scheduled their visits to sunny climes to coincide with the lingering depths of the Canadian winter. We had had, in succession, an inspection team, a group of MP’s, the SSEA and now, at the tag end of the visitor season, the leader of the opposition.
The High Commissioner had, with experienced foresight, arranged to tour his far-flung domaine during this period. As wife of the “left-in-charge”, it fell to me to oversee the appropriate hospitality.
“You not worry, Memsahib,” said Samuel, by houseboy. “When you come, dinner be ready.”
A frisson of things remembered pattered down my spine. Not only Bobby Burns knew about the best-laid plans of mice and men, or, in this case, memsahibs.
Instead of reassuring me, Samuel’s words had reminded me that it is not what we anticipate that creates trouble, but what we do not.
As I surveyed the immaculate linen and sparkling crystal, the memory of jellied salad rings unexpectedly collapsing and sliding off their plates onto the terrazzo floor, flashed be tore my eyes.
I remembered the occasion when I had believed my husband’s assurances that none of the Indians coming to lunch were vegetarian. To a man they had blanched and stopped chewing when I calmly assured them that the dish contained not dried beans but small shrimp. To spit or swallow, that was the question.
Then there was the time two amorous house lizards had set up housekeeping in my mulberry-Kirsch compote, only to be discovered when Frau Kleiner came to tea. Her English and her composure had fled simultaneously.
I sighed. The current hot weather heralded the onset of the long rains and there was little I could do about the heat, but everything else seemed to be under control.
“Rain tonight,” commented Samuel. “I close the the windows?” he queried.
I wondered why he should ask such a thing when it was obvious that closed windows would only make it hotter.
“No,” I instructed, and left to attend an early reception.
Oh, foolish me.
When I dashed into the residence three hours later, five minutes ahead of their excellencies and honourables, I found the house staff, the gardener, their wives and children frenetically sweeping tables, chairs, floors and window sills with makeshift brooms and dustpans.
“What are you doing?” I cried. “It rained, Memsahib.”
“Yes, I know.”
Not even babes in the womb could have missed the roof-denting downpour. However, I had missed something — two things, in fact. Firstly, I had forgotten to follow the instruction to leave the windows open with the instruction to close them if it rained. Secondly, I forgot about the termites.
Stimulated by the first of the rains, East African termite ants leave their underground tunnels and take to the air in prenuptial flight. They swarm in their millions, then fall to earth to mate. My dining-room had become a gigantic wedding palace. It looked like a miniature sausage factory gone mad.
“I close the windows, Memsahib?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, “close the windows, and make sure there are no termites in the wine glasses.”
As I went off to serve a delaying round of drinks, Samuel assured me, “You no worry, Memsahib. When you come, dinner be ready.”
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 2 (1987) — Summer 1987 // Été 1987, p. 10. Read the rest of this issue →
