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- 8 - |
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A Painful Encounter and a Joyful Encounter
“It’s dark and quiet,” thinks Simon to himself, “damned quiet. I wonder what time it is - five in the morning?” He draws back the warm blanket, gets out of bed and begins to dress - not quickly but quietly … very quietly. Still very cautious, he opens his bedroom door, goes downstairs, and before he knows it, he is standing on the street and facing Covent Garden, the object of his curiosity. Sitting on the steps in front of his grandfather’s house, he quickly slips into his shoes and ties his laces.
A few minutes later, Simon is pushing his way through the crowd among the Covent Garden market stalls. Noisy people bustling around, exotic fragrances that he has never smelt before and sounds he has never heard before - all this casts a spell over him. Simon looks at all the people. There are fine gentlemen in coats and hats who are carrying canes, as well as people in only shirts and pants - some of whom have no shoes and are walking around barefoot. Some people have very pale faces; while others are tanned or even almost black. Simon hears languages he doesn’t know, despite the fact that he can speak German, English, French and Spanish. Intrigued, he goes from one stall to the next, gazing at the displays and looking over all the goods on offer. He skilfully manages to skirt the people standing directly in front of the stalls, popping up only to soon disappear once more.
“Cardamom, my boy, that’s cardamom,” answers the dark-skinned, exotic looking merchant after Simon asks the same question twice.
“Cardamom - what’s that?”
“Cardamom belongs to the ginger family. Malabar cardamom comes from southern India and Ceylon cardamom comes from the island of Ceylon, south-east of India.”
“Excuse me, I have one more question.” Simon points with his right hand at something at the other end of the stall. “That over there, the really expensive stuff - what exactly is it?”
The merchant turns his head, following the direction of Simon’s hand with his gaze. “That’s saffron. Saffron comes from Persia and is one of the most expensive spices in the world. It blossoms for only two weeks in autumn and a picker harvests two to three ounces a day at most.”
Simon quickly thanks the man and wanders off to another oriental stall, where he can open his eyes, ears and nose to its wonders. There are such finds here as pepper from the Indian Malabar Coast, and the finest vanilla from the islands of Madagascar and Réunion; there is aromatic Ceylon cinnamon, as well as Cassia cinnamon from China.
At a large market stall, Simon reads names on a seemingly endless array of wooden crates. Some of the names are ones he has already seen at Fortnum & Mason, such as Yunnan, Huo Shan Huang Ya, Luan Gua Pian, Sencha, Bancha … A friendly and smiling older gentleman speaks to Simon in articulate English, but with an accent that makes it clear he doesn’t come from England. His pitch-black hair and sun-tanned skin also indicate that he must come from a country somewhere in the south.
“Good morning, sir. You’re up early!”
“Yes," replies Simon with a smile.
“What brings you here, then? This is not really the place for a boy of your age, and also not the right time, is it?”
Simon shrugs as he replies, “Pure curiosity. All the different people and the things that are sold here interest me greatly. Do you sell tea? I recognise some of the names on the crates. Huo Shan Huang Ya, for example, is a typical, traditional Chinese black tea. It’s roasted in a pan and is slightly sweet to the taste."
“Tell me, young man, you’re not from England, are you? Your English is perfect, but I somehow get the impression …”
“I come from Germany but my mother is English. May I ask where you come from?”
“I come from the British crown colony of India but have been working for an English tea merchant for many, many years.”
Simon asks more and more questions, some of which go into fine details, which seems to amuse his conversation partner. Whenever someone steps up to the market stall, Simon politely steps aside so as not to disrupt the vendor’s conversations with his customers.
“What’s your name?”, asks the salesman in between customers.
“Simon Balthasar Braun.”
“I’m known as Abhay, which means 'fearless'.”
“You may certainly call me Simon. After all, you’re an adult and much older than me.”
The time flies by and Simon finally says goodbye to Abhay in order to visit the rest of the market stalls. He suddenly realises that he’s already walked halfway down Southampton Street.
A thought jumps into his mind: “It’s not far to the Thames from here.” Minutes later, Simon is sitting on a big log and his eyes are running over the first row of Southwark riverside houses on the other side of the Thames. Lost in thought, he watches the large and small sailing ships passing by.
Suddenly someone shouts, “Hey you!” behind Simon. Torn from his daydreams, he turns around. Standing a few yards behind him are six young boys. Their clothing is dirty and tattered. Simon sees no trace of friendliness in their faces. No, it looks like trouble.
Simon rises from the log, the panic inside rising with him. “Yes?”
“Give us your money and valuables or else you’ll cop it!”
“I have three shillings and ten pence, but nothing valuable. Here, take it.” Simon holds out the coins he has just pulled out of his pocket and offers them to a boy with blond hair, who in turn grabs the money quickly with his left hand while gripping Simon by the collar of his jumper with his right. Dragging him downward, he knees Simon in the stomach. Stifling a cry, Simon falls to the ground. The blond boy starts to kick him and, gaining strength, the other boys join in. Simon curls up like a hedgehog, covering his face with his arms and clenching his teeth. He can’t completely suppress his cries because it’s painful. He hears shouts and then … nothing - nothing at all.
“Hello Simon! Simon, wake up!”
He slowly opens his eyes. His head is spinning, he’s in pain and he can feel every bone in his body. The blurry silhouette of a man shimmers before his eyes. It is Abhay, the Indian.
“Hello Ab …" - Simon has lost consciousness once more. When he comes to again, he can feel his back, his arms and his legs. Everything is there - but oh the pain! After a few minutes, Simon begins to survey his surroundings. He is lying on a mattress with a woman and young girl sitting next to him. The woman is wiping his face with a cool cloth.
“You’re safe. I am Abhay’s wife, Harsha, and this is our daughter, Marala.”
“Hello Simon,” whispers Marala with a smile.
“You’re probably in a lot of pain, but it’s not really so bad. Tomorrow you’ll be able to walk again. You have a lot of bruises but you haven’t broken anything,” says Harsha in a gentle voice.
“Home - I have to get home. They don’t know where I am!”
“Simon, it’s dark outside. You can’t go home now.”
“But my family will be worried!”
“Marala will take you home tomorrow. Can you sit up far enough to drink a cup of tea?”
Harsha sees that Simon is in pain as she helps him to sit upright, but the boy doesn’t make a sound. He slowly tastes the revitalising tea. He sizes up Harsha, Marala and the entire room with his eyes. It’s modest, clean, tidy and decorated in much brighter colours he is accustomed to.
"Where is Abhay?"
“He’ll be back soon. He’s bringing more water because you need to drink a lot,” says Harsha.
“What do your names mean?”, Simon wants to know.
“Marala means 'beautiful swan' and the meaning of Harsha is 'the happy one'. You’re an inquisitive one!“ With these words, Harsha strokes Simon’s right cheek.
Simon looks at Marala. “She must be about my age,” he thinks to himself.
Harsha holds the teacup in front of his mouth and Simon sips the hot tea. Then he hears a door open and shut. A moment later, Abhay is kneeling next to him. “How are you, Simon?”
“All right so far.”
“What happened?”
While Simon tells of what happened to him, Harsha serves him a small meal that she calls 'thali'. It consists of chapatti – a flat, unleavened Indian bread - spicy, hot rice, chickpeas, onions, peppers …
"Where is Simon? Has anybody seen Simon today?”, asks Grandma Mary at the dinner table. But neither Grandpa Simon, nor Uncle Charles, Aunt Betty or their daughters, Elisabeth and Janet, have anything to say. Betty jumps up from her seat, dashes out of the dining room and is back within a couple of minutes. “I just had a look in his room and I think he’s been gone since the morning. And none of the servants have seen him all day.”
“I hope nothing’s happened to him!” Mary Hill gives her husband a worried look.
“Mary, what do you want me to say? It’s already past seven o’clock. All we can do now is wait. If he's not back by midday tomorrow, I’ll visit the police station."
“Can’t we do anything? And how are we supposed to reach Simon’s father? He should be in York on his business trip by now!”
“No Mary. Your husband is right,” says Charles, agreeing with his father-in-law. “Where do you want to search for Simon? And how do you suppose you can contact his father? You know what Simon is like, so let’s just wait until tomorrow.”
When Simon opens his eyes the next morning he once again has a brand new perspective on the world. He has regained his courage, curiosity and optimism. While it’s true that he can still feel every movement he makes, it’s bearable. As he sits up he notices Marala sitting in a corner watching him.
“Good morning, Marala!” - his smile is back, too.
“Shubh prata, Simon. How are you?”
“Better, much better.”
“Amma has made breakfast. You may eat with us if you like. Appa is already at Covent Garden.”
"Yes, please. I’m really hungry.”
“Shall I help you out of bed?”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
In the dining room, Marala and Harsha sit on rugs at a small table teeming with dishes.
“Shubh prata, Simon,” says Harsha, smiling.
“Shubh prata - what does that mean?”
“It means good morning. Please take a seat here.” Harsha pours Simon a cup of tea.
“I would sincerely like to thank you for looking after me like this. I feel very comfortable here!”
“You are very welcome, Simon! You’re a very polite boy and Abhay and I appreciate that.”
Marala smiles at Simon. “So do I!“
“Abhay told me you come from Germany. Where are you living in London, then?”
“At my grandparents’ house in James Street. AT Hill’s - the wine and spirit shop.”
“Oh, that’s right near Covent Garden.”
“Yes, I can walk home.”
“Marala will come with you - just to be on the safe side.”
“Let’s stop for a moment here on the bridge, Marala. Look at all the ships coming into London on the Thames! I wonder where they all come from and what kind of cargo they have? Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Some could come from where my mum and dad come from – from India. That’s pretty far south on the globe and is very far away.”
“Were you born in India?”
“No, here in London. My father works for a London tea merchant and has had a good job here for many years. Appa and amma were married in London and then I was born. We’re doing very well here.”
“By the way, how old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“So am I!”
“Come on, let’s go! Your grandparents are most probably very worried.”
At Covent Garden, Simon and Marala visit Abhay’s stall. He smiles when he sees them. Marala leaps into her father’s embrace. “Hello appa! I’m taking Simon home.”
“Shubh prata, Simon.”
“Shubh prata, Abhay. Thank you for taking me home yesterday. Thank you for your help.” Simon offers Abhay his hand. Abhay lets go of Marala and accepts Simon’s gratitude with a smile.
A few minutes later, the two children are making their way between the Covent Garden market stalls, continuing toward Simon’s grandparents’ house. They barely make it through the heavy front door and into the hallway before news of Simon’s return spreads like a wildfire throughout the house. And in no time at all, Simon’s whole family and the servants alike have surrounded the pair.
“Where were you, Simon? Where did you come from? What have you been doing? Are you all right? Did something happen to you? What are those bruises on your face and grazes on your hands? What stopped you from coming home???”
“Everyone keep calm,” Grandpa Simon’s incisive voice cuts through all the fuss. “Let’s go and sit in the drawing room, where Simon can slowly tell us the whole story.”
“James, please take the little girl to the kitchen where she can have a cup of tea and something to eat,” says Aunt Betty to the butler.
“No, no," interjects Simon, “that’s Marala and she’s coming to the drawing room.”
“Don’t be silly! She’s an Indian – they’re backward!” retorts Aunt Betty.
Grandpa Simon silences Aunt Betty, “That may be well and good, but Simon doesn’t understand you and you shan’t dissuade him. So let’s just retire to the drawing room.”
Betty holds him by the sleeve and whispers, “But father, it’s just not possible!” Grandpa Simon leans over and replies into her ear, “If we want to find out what happened to Simon, we will have to take the girl into the drawing room. She appears to be able to behave herself. Otherwise you won’t be able to get a word out of the boy. I’m sure of that.”
Right up until lunchtime Simon keeps the family fascinated by his tales of adventure. He tells how he left the house early in the morning, careful not to wake anyone, about his experiences in Covent Garden, by the Thames, and at Marala’s house. He tells of how warmly he was received and how sympathetically he was looked after there.
For weeks I thought about the affair with the six boys by the Thames. Why did it escalate so? And is there something I could have done to avoid it? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and they used that to their advantage. Next time I will have to react faster, search for the strongest or the weakest of the lot and actively attack them.
My Grandma Mary and my Aunt Betty tried a couple of times to explain what the difference between 'privileged society' and the 'underclass' is. I wanted to hear as little about it back then as I do today. For me, a person’s character is what’s important, not his appearance. Over the decades I have met so many 'noble' but stupid idiots, that I would rather spend my time with people who know what they are talking about and who do as they say.
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