Lilla's Feast by Frances Osborne Page B

that hung around the streets—the fumes would have clung to her, woven their way into her clothes, penetrated every pore of her skin. As an Englishwoman from abroad, Lilla should have regarded London as the capital of her imperial universe. Instead, she must have found it gray, bland, and uniform compared to Shanghai or even Calcutta. She would have missed the bustle of the foreign cities, their not-quite-right British- or European-ness, their vivid colors, pungent spicy smells, and chaotic singsong of human cries. Shanghai and Calcutta might have been intended to emulate London’s finer qualities, but, as far as Lilla was concerned, the copies were a great improvement on the original.
    And, here in London, she still longed for a home, even just a kitchen of her own, but the beastly question of expenses growled on. Rather than resort to the “misery of squalid lodgings in the Hereford Road,” as Barbie describes the temporary accommodations on offer to expatriates returning to London on leave, Ernie insisted on staying in the house in Kensington Gardens Square. Like the Howell sisters’ houses in Shillong, it must have struck Lilla as horribly uncomfortable. But far worse than physical discomfort was the loss of privacy.
    In Calcutta, she and Ernie might only have been living in a boarding house, but nobody—apart from an inevitably slightly curious Mrs. Bridges, no doubt offering Lilla endless cups of tea—had intruded into their lives. But in London, if Lilla tried to cheer up her in-laws’ house by bringing back flowers, tearing off the excess green leaves, cutting the stems to just such a height and angle, and arranging them in elegant, simple displays, she would have been told that she was far too extravagant. Her mother-in-law must have seemed to be always right behind her, looking over her shoulder, telling Ernie what to do, taking him off shopping with her, checking that he was comfortable, asking him what he’d like to eat, making Lilla feel redundant as a wife. Or, even worse, making her feel that Ernie would rather be married to his mother.
    Although number 5 Kensington Gardens Square had a kitchen within Lilla’s reach, it would certainly not have been at her disposal. Its boundaries were prowled by a cook doubtless selected for her ability to satisfy the Howells’ taste for parsimony. Lilla yearned to make some mouthwatering, gooey cake whose sweet smell would float up from the basement, reminding Ernie of how happy they could be. She yearned to find the courage to make a dash for it and tiptoe downstairs to the ill-lit basement room, search the gray cupboards for flour, sugar, eggs, chocolate powder, or lemon—anything with which to bake something sweet. And dreaded being caught midway by the Howells’ cook, or even Mama.
    At dinner each evening, Lilla struggled with overdone vegetables and drying meat surrounded by the Howells’ endless colleagues from India and a bevy of maiden aunts recounting stories about the old days and life in the Raj—the revelation that Lilla was from China producing at best an “Ah, I see” and a mention of pigtails and bamboo. When it was just the family at home, the conversation wandered to the achievements of the Howell relations, the progress of the army officers and academics in their ranks, and the occasional inquiry as to whether there were any scientists in Lilla’s family.
    Whenever Lilla was forced to respond to these seemingly unanswerable questions, her stutter welled up, trapping her few words in the roof of her mouth—anything she said only disappointing Ernie. Every word she uttered broadcast what she didn’t know, hadn’t seen, what she found difficult to understand. And now that her husband was with his parents, the stark contrast her conversation provided with theirs made her attentions seem more irritating than ever to Ernie. His disapproval radiated across the table, as chilling as the damp London air, as he drew away from her, shuffling his