And the Tuttles were taken in! Shama could tell from the hardening of Mrs. Tuttle’s expression into one of outrage and self-pity, from the nervous little chuckles of W. C. Tuttle who sat with a mixture of Eastern and Western elegance on his morris chair, rubbing one hand over the ankle that rested on his left knee, twirling the long hairs in his nose with the other hand.

Mrs. Tuttle said to Myna, who had amputated the torchbearer’s torchbearing arm, “Hello, Myna girl. You forget your aunt these days. I don’t suppose you want to come round to my old house after this.”

Myna smiled, as though Mrs. Tuttle had hit on an embarrassing truth.

Mrs. Tuttle said to Shama in Hindi, “Well, it is old. But it is full of room.” She pressed her elbows to her side to show the constriction she felt in Shama’s house. “And we didn’t want to get into debt or anything like that.”

W. C. Tuttle played with the hairs in his nose and smiled.

“I don’t want anything bigger,” Shama said. “This is just right for me. Something small and nice.”

“Yes,” W. C. Tuttle said. “Something nice and small.”

And they had a moment of panic when he jumped up from his chair and, going to the wall with the lattice work, began measuring it by extending his fingers, gathering them up again and extending them once more. But it was only the length of the wall, not the quality of the work, that interested him. He measured, gave a little laugh and said, “Twelve by twenty.”

“Fifteen by twenty-five,” Shama said.

“Nice and small,” W. C. Tuttle said. “That, to me, is the beauty of it.”

And Shama had another uneasy moment when W. C. Tuttle asked to be shown upstairs. But it was night. They had enclosed the staircase with lattice work from banister to roof, with strips of wood from banister to steps, and it had all been painted. A weak bulb lit up the landing, threw the yard into darkness, and the effect of cosiness was maintained.

And how quickly they forgot the inconveniences of the house and saw it with the eyes of the visitors! What could not be hidden, by bookcase, glass cabinet or curtains, they accommodated themselves to. They mended the fence and made a new gate. They put up a garage. They bought rose trees and planted a garden. They began to grow orchids and Mr. Biswas had the exciting idea of attaching them to dead coconut trunks buried in the ground. At the side of the house, in the shade of the breadfruit tree, they had a bed of anthurium lilies. To keep the lilies cool they surrounded them with damp, rotting immortelle wood which they got from Shorthills. And it was on a visit to Shorthills that they saw the concrete pillars rising out of tall bush on the hill where Mr. Biswas had once built a house.

Soon it seemed to the children that they had never lived anywhere but in the tall square house in Sikkim Street. From now their lives would be ordered, their memories coherent. The mind, while it is sound, is merciful. And rapidly the memories of Hanuman House, The Chase, Green Vale, Shorthills, the Tulsi house in Port of Spain would become jumbled, blurred; events would be telescoped, many forgotten. Occasionally a nerve of memory would be touched-a puddle reflecting the blue sky after rain, a pack of thumbed cards, the fumbling with a shoelace, the smell of a new car, the sound of a stiff wind through trees, the smells and colours of a toyshop, the taste of milk and prunes-and a fragment of forgotten experience would be dislodged, isolated, puzzling. In a northern land, in a time of new separations and yearnings, in a library grown suddenly dark, the hailstones beating against the windows, the marbled endpaper of a dusty leather-bound book would disturb: and it would be the hot noisy week before Christinas in the Tulsi Store: the marbled patterns of oldfashioned balloons powdered with a rubbery dust in a shallow white box that was not to be touched. So later, and very slowly, in securer times of different stresses, when the memories had lost the power to hurt, with pain or joy, they would fall into place and give back the past.

Though Mr. Biswas had mentally devised many tortures to which he was going to put the solicitor’s clerk, he took care to avoid the cafй with the gay murals. And it was with surprise and embarrassment that he came back one afternoon, less than five months after he had moved, to find the solicitor’s clerk, a cigarette hanging from his lips, pacing with some method about the lot next to his house.

The clerk was unabashed. “How, man? How the wife? And the children? Still getting on all right with their studies?”

Instead of replying, what he felt, “Stop asking about my children and their studies, you nasty old crooked communist tout!” Mr. Biswas said that they were all well and asked, “How the old queen?”

“Half and half. The old heart still playing the fool.”

The lot next door was practically empty. At the far end it contained only a neat two-roomed building, the office of a friendly society; so that Mr. Biswas had no neighbours on one side. Mr. Biswas did not like the clerk’s concentration. But he decided to keep cool.

“You happy in Mucurapo?” he asked. “Eh, but what I saying? Is Morvant, not so?”

“The old queen don’t care for the area. Damp, you know.”

“And the mosquitoes. I can imagine. I hear that is bad for the heart.”

“Still,” the clerk said. “We got to keep on trying.”

“You sell the Morvant house yet?”

“Not yet. But I have a lot of offers.”

“And you thinking of building here again.”

“Want to put up a lil house like yours. Two-storey.”

“You not putting up any damn two-storey house here, you old jerry-building tout!”

The clerk stopped pacing and came to the fence, scarlet and green with a bougainvillaea Mr. Biswas had planted. Over the bougainvillaea he wagged a long finger in Mr. Biswas’s face and said, “Mind your mouth! Mind your mouth! You say enough to spend a nice lil time in jail. Mind your mouth! It look like you don’t know the law.”

“The City Council not going to pass this one. I pay rates and I have my rights.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You just mind your mouth, you hear.”

When the solicitor’s clerk left, Mr. Biswas walked about the yard, trying to imagine the effect in the street of two tall boxes side by side. He walked and looked and pondered and gauged. Then, before the sun went down, he called out, “Shama! Shama! Bring a ruler or your tape measure.”

She brought a ruler and Mr. Biswas began measuring the width of his lot foot by foot, starting from the half-empty lot and working towards the house of the old Indian, who had observed everything, rocking, his Chinese face wrinkled with smiles.

“He come to build another one, eh?” he called out, when Mr. Biswas was near enough. “That don’t surprise me at all.”

“He going to build it over my dead body,” Mr. Biswas called back, measuring.

The old man rocked, greatly amused.

“Aha!” Mr. Biswas said, when he got to the end of the lot. “Aha! I always suspected.” He stooped and started to measure back to the half-empty lot, while the old man rocked and chuckled.

“Shama!” Mr. Biswas said, running to the kitchen. “Where you have the deed for the house?”

“In the bureau.”

She went up to get it. She brought it down and Mr. Biswas read.

“Aha! The old tout! Shama, we going to get a bigger yard.”

By accident or design the fence the solicitor’s clerk had put up was a full twelve feet inside the boundary indicated in the deed.

“I always thought,” Shama said, “that we didn’t have a fifty-foot frontage.”

“Frontage, eh?” Mr. Biswas said. “Nice word, Shama. But you’re picking up a lot of nice words in your old age, you know.”

And the solicitor’s clerk appeared in the street no more.

“So you catch him then,” the old man said. “But you must say this for him. He was a sharp fellow.”