Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

I’d never go to sleep until Peter came back from work at the Spade Oak. That night, after Peter had got into bed, I heard dog contentment breathing in the room. That unmistakable grumbling sigh. ‘Is that you, Peter?’ I whispered. ‘No, Jay,’ he whispered back from his bed, ‘isn’t it you?’ No of course it wasn’t. It went on for about a week, and then it stopped, or we stopped being able to hear it. We didn’t tell Mum about it. It’s not as if we were frightened. R.I.P. Gipsy 1953–1970. Good girl.

Finally I decided it was time to put some more pressure on Dad to make good the promise he had never quite rescinded, the one about subsidised air travel. On previous occasions when I reminded him of his agreement to this plan he would only say, ‘We’ll have to see — won’t we? — when the time comes.’ Now the time had come.

First I had to decide whether to go through Mum or ask direct. Her Dad-handling skills weren’t altogether reliable, and it wasn’t even certain that she would want to throw her trifling weight behind my plan. In the end I decided to try the direct route, though nothing with Dad was ever all that direct.

A rather nasty little airline

He didn’t deny that he’d made some sort of undertaking about helping me to fly somewhere. It was my choice of destination that brought him up short. ‘ Madras , John? The place in India? Do you have a death wish? You’ve no idea what would be involved — it’s out of the question. Negative. Can’t allow it.’

I was twenty years old! It wasn’t a question of his allowing the expedition or not, it was a question of his helping me to get there. Dad had been there himself, shortly after the War, flying emergency blood supplies to hospitals in special tanks in the wings. Fuel capacity had been reduced to make more room for this cargo of mercy, and he had to be careful to fly relatively low, to protect the blood from extremes of pressure and temperature. Then Dad had been an angel with blood in his wings, but with me he was playing a rôle he much preferred — devil’s advocate.

He had already explained to me the way trade agreements between airlines worked. The child of a BOAC employee under twenty-nine paid only 10 % of the normal fare. I knew that 10 % of the price of a ticket to India was still quite a bit of money, but I had been saving and was sure I could muster the tithe required.

Dad abandoned his overall objection to my plan and started to take it apart piece by piece instead. ‘There’s one thing you haven’t thought of, John. BOAC doesn’t fly to Madras. Delhi, yes, but not Madras. So I can’t help you. Too bad. Ask me another.’

I didn’t see the force of his objection. ‘But you told me about trade agreements … agreements between airlines … ten per cent … child under twenty-nine.’ I could feel my voice trailing away.

‘Between normal civilised airlines, yes. But I’m afraid that doesn’t apply in this case. Air India is a rather nasty little airline. They haven’t signed the reciprocal agreements you refer to. Any time we want something from them we have to go cap in hand, and then we get a dusty answer as often as not. Or the beggars want favours in return. So there it is. Negative. And a good thing too, if you ask me. You have no idea what you’d be letting yourself in for, John. Even a flight to Paris would put a big strain on your system.’

Begging Dad for things had never played much of a part in our relationship, if only because it had a strong tendency to blow up in my face. Now there was no other option. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘this is very important to me. I want to go to India. I’ll never ask you for anything again.’ I groped for a word that would make it possible for Dad to relent. ‘Couldn’t you have a word with your … oppo … at Air India, please? Perhaps those beggars aren’t as bad as you think. At least give them a chance.’ Oppo was one of Dad’s favourite words. I’m not sure if it’s short for opponent or opposite number , but either way it was an important building block in his mental world. Oppo made much more sense to him than such floating categories as friend or wife. I suppose that’s the Forces mind for you.

He snorted, all the same, when I used the supposedly magic word. Oppo Sesame it wasn’t, apparently. There was no one at Air India who he could think of in those terms. When he had been in the Air Force during the War he had had oppos in the Luftwaffe, but Air India were untouchables to a man, pi-dogs not to be petted.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve thought about who would put you up in those parts, John. What makes you think you’d be welcome in the first place?’

Like a lawyer I had prepared paperwork to support my case. I showed him a letter from the ashram saying that any devotee of Ramana Maharshi was more than welcome to stay there. Could I inform them of my dates of arrival and departure? Signed by a Mr V. Ganesan, MA. I had flung an airmail letter blindly at the subcontinent, with nothing to guide it but the words ‘Ramana Maharshi’s Ashram, Tiruvannamalai, Southern India’. Indian postmen were obviously mystics to a man. Theirs is an inherently contemplative occupation — postmen have so much time to think their own thoughts.

Dad must have mentioned my crazy scheme to Mum, because she told me she’d put in a good word on my behalf. With any luck Dad would talk to the relevant person at Air India, whether oppo or beggar and renegade. Mum rather spoiled the effect of her intervention by saying, ‘I said to Dad, “If we don’t at least try, we’ll never hear the end of it — you know what he’s like.”’ They knew what I was like! That was the whole trouble — they did and I didn’t. Wanting to find out was my reason for going to India in the first place.

To John o’Groats for a pint of milk

Dad phoned and made an appointment with a Mr Dalal, the head of the nasty little airline’s beggarly London office. ‘Dalal’ — the name itself seemed to stick in his throat. Then Mum wanted more details. ‘Why do you want to go to this place anyway? To Madras?’

‘Not Madras, that’s just the nearest airport. I’m going to Tirunavannamalai.’

‘Heavens, that’s a bit of a mouthful. Where’s that and what’s there?’

‘It’s a hundred or so miles from Madras, and my guru is there.’

‘Is that like a Maharajah — I mean a Maharishi?’

‘My guru is the path I follow.’

‘But you don’t have to go all the way to India, do you? I mean, the Beatles had a — a guru, didn’t they? A Maharishi Yogi something. And they went to see him in Wales, I think. Bangor, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes they did. But then they went to India. And my guru has never been to Wales, or anywhere outside India, all right, Mum?’

‘Keep your shirt on, John, I’m just trying to understand.’ Trying to understand, possibly. Trying to suggest I was planning an unnecessarily elaborate trip, certainly. As if I was dead set on driving to John o’Groats to pick up a pint of milk.

All I could do was to impress on Mum the importance of certain words. I was sure that any right-thinking Indian would respond to my quest if it was presented in the proper language. ‘Make sure that Dad says I’m a devotee making a pilgrimage. “Devotee” and “pilgrimage”. Those are the words that will do the trick.’

Hearing the words pilgrim and devotee applied to me, even if it was only by my own voice, changed things for me. I grew to fit these new clothes. I liked myself in them, and seemed to recognise this person. The mental mirror showed me an image which did not estrange.

Mum wasn’t sure that Dad would stick to the script, and I had doubts of my own. I’d sent him off to Palm Beach Casino with strict instructions, and what had he come back with? A weekend job driving a van, that’s what.