The Hedge of Allamanda

By Stanley Coutinho

Forty years, give or take, and he could still see her, traipsing up the rough drive-way. A quick shower and change from her work clothes – and she would be in her garden – revelling in the ambient fragrance of the Rangoon creeper that covered the porch, murmuring to the roses below the wrap-around balcony, softly caressing the luxuriant begonias.  Her house, once belonging to his cousins, now sold to “outsiders”, was on the other side of a hedge of allamanda, its bright yellow bells underlining the image of that which would brighten his mind, his imagination, his heart for a better part of his life. He could see her from his balcão – this outsider who had become so much a part of the scenery.

And the Mandovi flowed quietly by. 

ooo

Then they went away. The house was locked. The Rangoon creeper braved its neglect for quite some time until it just decided to give up and wither away; the roses and the begonias and a myriad spots of colour that had brightened up the world on the other side of the hedge, had faded away much earlier. The allamanda, his allamanda, remained – shamelessly luxuriant, framing nothing but an empty dream – a dream that persisted, unspoken, right through married life, widowerhood and a child now settled in Portugal. A dream that lay buried in the rubble of workaday life, in the rough and tumble of neglect – and propriety.

ooo

In the pervading silence that the village, and his house, were accustomed to, he woke up with the harsh sound of a gate being pushed open, hesitantly. Three distinct creaks. The cuckoo perched on his customary branch of the mango tree fluttered his annoyance giving way to a mating call – involuntary, unseasonal. He moved sluggishly across the space from his four-poster bed to the window, and squinted through his goopy eyes: over the allamanda … the gate was slightly open. 

Her gate was open! 

Forty years with no sign of life around it, and now? He wondered if the house had been sold to some despicable outsiders. Why the early-morning visit though?

Half curious, half irritated for some reason that he couldn’t quite explain to himself, he went out to see what was happening. She was standing there, outside her porch, looking hopelessly at the overhanging skeleton of the creeper that seemed to challenge any attempt at entry into the house. She became vaguely conscious of the gentle ripples of the Mandovi below, as it brushed against the rocks in a rhythm that she had heard a lifetime ago, and was dying to get but a whiff of the old fragrance on her porch. He watched with quiet amusement as she stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath her shoes. She pushed the main door and was surprised to see that it opened without much effort – only to fall away from its frame, with a crash that reverberated through the dusty halls within. He heard her quiet shriek. Dropping all the old barriers, he ran around the fence, through the rusty gate, up to the porch… he was amazed to see her, quite unperturbed by the near-catastrophic entry. She laid a tentative foot on the fallen door even as the dry leaves were sailing down around her, and was fanning the dust away with her palms. As he followed her, he heard her sniffing at the mustiness, saw her touching the piano lightly leaving her finger prints in the dust … and it was when she was moving towards the bedrooms that she saw his reflection in the large Belgian mirror standing in the corner. Like a ghost among the cobweb streamers. She turned with a jerk, and fell … his agility at 65 was tested in a flash. He caught her before she could hit the floor, picked her up and carried her over the threshold out of the house. She was conscious of the reverse bridal-carry and smiled to herself. His mind was on the house – if the door had fallen so easily, how long for the roof to come down?

He was panting by the time he reached the rickety old gate and edged his way through it. She chuckled, and said “Are you okay? I can walk!” her first words to him. Ever. His arms suddenly felt stronger, and he carried her up to his porch. The thought of carrying her up the flight of steps deterred him somewhat. So, they sat there on the red, cement seats on either side, until he could catch his breath. She sat opposite him, watching him, remembering the million times that she wanted him to start a conversation, across the allamanda…

 “My mother willed it to me,” she said.

“Hm?”

“The House.”

“Oh. Wasn’t that obv… er… I am sorry to know that she passed away.”

“That’s ok. She was ailing for a long time …”

“And?”

“I don’t know what to do with it.” She seemed to understand his question from that single word, but he was stuck for an answer. Could he suggest that she come back there to stay? Build it up again? It sounded quite stupid, even in his own mind. She might just laugh it off as something totally un-doable. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot all about your fall…”

Was it his attempt to change the topic? 

Was he again falling back on his sense of propriety? 

“I’m fine,” she said, shortly. “It was just the shock of seeing you in the mirror … and …thank you for carrying me across …all that way …” she looked half amused, half embarrassed. 

It felt good though. His touch. His strong arms. The chivalry of sorts. The fuss.

What would he have done, he wondered, if she had said that she had pulled a muscle somewhere in her back? What if she said that her tailbone was hurting? 

He called out to his man-Friday and asked for some coffee to be sent to the parlour. She didn’t mind him doing that without asking her. She stood up and started moving up the steps – as if it were the most natural thing to do. He followed her, ushering her to the parlour that she had never seen before. It was cool inside, and the oyster-shell windows cast a wonderful glow as the sunlight fell in patches on the intricate pattern of the old Italian tiles. A side-table with dragon-shaped legs held an array of photographs. The wife’s picture hung on the wall along with the huge portraits of ancestors. A wedding photograph caught her interest.

“That’s my daughter! She’s in Lisbon …”

“And, you … live … … alone …?” 

“Yeah, with Miguel who looks after the cooking and cleaning … and things …”

The coffee came, as if on cue, and Miguel watched a few seconds more than was necessary to place the tray on the table, and left. She bit into a bolinha and a soft sob of nostalgia escaped. He, hanging on to her every breath, heard it. 

“Have some hot coffee”, he suggested. “It helps …”

She picked up the rather ornate cup and saucer – puzzled at her own response. Was she obeying him or had she also felt that the coffee would “help”?  She sipped it. And then took another. And then gulped the entire lot down. She felt better, certainly. And took another bite of the bolinha if only to conquer the earlier feeling, or perhaps, to prolong it as far as possible … without breaking down …

He looked over his steaming cup of coffee to find her eyes on the photograph of his late wife – almost expressionless, but with the look of someone who had waited too long, lost too much, perhaps found her way back, and yet not quite sure.

"You don’t have to decide today," he said gently.  She looked at him. Not certain … but conscious of a yearning somewhere deep…

"Let the house breathe a little. There’s a lot of work to be done. Let the garden wake up to you." He knew he was talking too fast.

She smiled – not wide, not eager, but slowly, as the thought, the pleasure of putting life back into the house spread to her eyes. “Maybe I’ll start with the creeper,” she said. “Poor thing looked like it missed me!”

He laughed – an awkward, boyish sound that caught him by surprise. “And so did the roses. The begonias. I’m sure they’re just under the soil, waiting for the touch of your hand.”

There was silence then. 

The touch of his hands had stirred up something too. Something that had long been buried. And there was that silent promise of hope hanging in the air, the quiet excitement of a fresh beginning; possibilities hovered – thrilling, uncertain, and terrifying.

She stood up and walked to the door. Silently. As if in deep thought.

She turned around, and asked, “Will you help?”

He didn’t answer right away. He quietly picked up the now-empty coffee cup from her side of the tray and held it, like a promise.

“Will I?”

Outside, as the breeze picked up, the allamandas were nodding on their stalks in anticipation, celebrating something they were not quite sure of; all they knew was that spring is coming, and the garden would blook again. 

… while the Mandovi flowed quietly by.

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Balcão In Portuguese, "balcão" translates to counter, balcony, or bar in English, depending on the context. Goan houses built during the Portuguese regime have a balcony that goes around the front of the house (hence the word wrap-around). Such a balcony is known as a balcão.

“Outsiders”  This is a singular term that encapsulates the whole spectrum of xenophobic feelings toward people migrating to Goa from across the Western Ghats..

Bolinhas literally, “Little Cakes”. In Portuguese. This is a tea-time delight with its distinct taste and texture, that, for those who have been out of Goa for long periods, is filled with hosts of memories.

By Stanley Coutinho