06.3 Deeni

It didn’t take long. Mala was called to attend Gan for an interview. She wore a beige midi dress and climbed a boat with many men and women wearing libas and kandiki. Mariam Mala carried a certificate that even the SS had not seen.

Flt Sgt Henry Moon took a glance at it and thought she was a capable person though leaving a job like teaching worried him.

Mala countered, “I want to earn a good pay.”

“Fine,” he agreed, “surgeon will see you then.”

Flt Lt Marvin Edward approved to sign up for the job. “Ninety percent of the patients are natives,” he told her, “You take Saturday and Sunday off but if we have sick patients, you stay here overnight. You will assist us on emergencies and in every other way. You must wear this identity pass all the time. You will face serious consequences if you don’t. Go to the tailor and prepare your dress, young lady.”

“You can call me Deeni,” she said.

5^th Monday, she climbed a boat wearing a white knee-length shirtdress; fitted bodice, short sleeves, back yoke pleat, pointed collar, side seam pockets, a thin caramel brown belt and loafer shoes. She described it as a nurse dress but the seamster made something else. She was the only person at that time wearing a uniform. She remained standing on the boat not to soil her dress.

First day, there were few family callers and nothing serious. There came one Pakistani and she had to wear a dressing on him. She sat beside a thick old pedestal table painted grey, drinking coffee.

Next day, around ten in the morning, an emergency alerted the surgeon. He grabbed his gear and ordered, “Carry these and follow me!” Mala climbed a roofed Land Rover from the rear. A tall step with two bags in her hand. There were two other guys and seriously a big dog. It took off at fast speed that threw her off the seat. One of those guys grabbed her before she hit the bed.

They stopped at a point where a plane crash landed; a Hastings carrying 30 workers of the Richard Costain took a bumpy landing and its undercarriage collapsed. It ditched off the runway. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured. One was carried in an ambulance. She helped the doctor treating them on the spot in the mud, cleaning cuts and dressing.

By now new quarters of the new accommodation blocks reached completion. The surrounding remained scooped. Bulldozers and earthmovers worked around the clock to construct the new runway.

Marvin Edward took a haircut from her.

Days later, he brought a bunch of cuttings and asked her to stick them in the backyard in some order. “Make a garden before the next hospital is raised. I thought rose plants grow favourably in this climate.”

An hour later, he climbed down the steps and watched her at work, squatting on grass and planting them in rows, hands in the dirt, her dress tenting the knees and touching the ground from the rear. He began to realise that she could not cover the canteen under the tent.

A week later, another call demanded the doctor to a cargo ship called Maskeliya of the Brocklebank Line. He called Mala to join him. They left on a speedboat from the wharf. Wind caught her dress to blow up on her face and a crew noticed.

When the speed stopped alongside the ship, Marvin grabbed the hanging ladder and climbed. Mala followed. However, she couldn’t take two steps when the crew messed up her dress. Mala gripped a firm hold on the rope and began to ascend.

Marvin Edward had seen it or sensed it or someone told him, he mentioned about it a day later.

“Brits are wild,” he said over tea, both seated by the pedestal table, “Drink heavily and they find no woman. They go crazy.”

“I know,” mumbled Mala.

“Is that alright with you?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well,” he conversed, “I can understand natives without panties but it surprised me to find you without one.”

“Simple,” she reacted raising a brow.

“I know, but how do you cope with your days in period?”

“We use cloth diapers…folded several times and tucked under the crotch fastened to the girdle.”

“Wow!” he chuckled, “Women use pads and tampons. You can get them at NAAFI.”

“I’m kidding, I use pads.”

“Say, Deeni, how would you feel if I ask for a room call?”

“I will gladly do,” she said.

“My goodness! You must not do it for everyone. These guys go crazy!”

“You are my boss. I do it for you.”

“Good. And keep it between us. I want you to use my bathroom. And don’t go to the thunderboxes.”

Among a thousand men going through a hunger strike in dire need for sex, Marvin and Mala were pen and paper.

One day he asked, “I want to take some photographs of you. I like the dress you wore for the interview. A beige colour frock.”

She put it in her handbag and this soft fabric was creased as she wore it. A flare dress with cap sleeves, deep V-neck, a floral pattern with broad red flowers. She sat on the chair with an elbow on the table and head rested in her palm – an acquitted look. Hair layered in front and a mug on the table.

Marvin used a Rolleiflex camera with 120 film. He carried on capturing her innocent image. He asked her to sit faced with her dress slightly lifted. She raised enough to expose her hips.

“Hold it there! That’s pretty good,” he said, “Sit on the table with toes on the seat and hold your dress around the waist.”

Next her bums lifted and legs open. She opened up without a word and a charm on her face. It showed a birthmark on her left.

“Do me a favour! Will you take off that girdle?” he demanded.

Mariam Mala unwrapped the long silver girdle. A faint little coy look on a blank face that simplified everything and shown nothing going on in the brains. She did several reverse poses with buttocks elevated. Every time Mala fixed her eyes on the camera. Marvin Edward ran out of film and he ran to NAAFI to buy a dozen of fresh cartridges.