A Bonus of £1.3 million …
A couple of years ago, a good friend of mine told me that her son who works in “Futures” had received a bonus of £1.3 million from the financial institution he works for. I opened my mouth wide to show my surprise and hide my jealousy.
‘But he worked so hard,’ she said, ‘he deserves every penny.’
*
This reminded me of a story of my childhood, seventy odd years ago, in Port-Louis, Mauritius. We lived in a modest house of four rooms, the ten of us in the family, but considered ourselves well-off compared to the old “Tantine Gâteau”_ Cake Aunty, who lived opposite us. The rich family who owned dozens of houses in our neighbourhood, including the one we were renting, had recently bought a big Chevrolet, and the small garage they had used for their small Austin was too small. They built a bigger one, and the small shed which passed for a garage was thus freed. They then rented it out to Tantine
Gâteau. She had been living a fairly comfortable life with her toddler and milkman husband, when he died suddenly, leaving her destitute. So she moved into the garage with her little boy.
She never had to earn a living, and now widowed she had to find something to feed herself and the little boy, or starve. She started selling peanuts.
When I was six or seven, she was a well-established figure, and her boy was almost twenty. Children in my neighbourhood called her Tantine or Auntie. The house-garage had a door at the back which led into the grounds of the house of the proprietor, and the tenants had access to an outside lavatory and water from a tap. Tantine had no chairs, tables or beds, but sat on a wooden stool when she prepared stuff or cooked on the charcoal rechaud, a cooker, which was fashioned out of petrol tins. Mother and son slept on a mat woven from palm fronds.
Her day started with the first morning crow. She would be up before dawn and would quickly begin to tackle all her chores. Lighting the fire and boiling her peanuts in salt water. These were sold at 4 for one cent. Inflation had not been invented then, our Mauritian currency, the rupee was linked to the pound sterling, and for the years of my childhood, £1 was worth Rs.13.40. A pound of raw peanuts, about 200 shells, cost 35 cents in the Central Bazar, ensuring her a healthy profit of 15 cents per pound. She would dry some raw peanuts in the sun for a few days, and then they would be ready for roasting. This was carried out in hot sand in a wok. Although it was much more laborious, the roasted nuts also fetched a cent for 4. A third allotrope was salted peanuts, whose processing was rather more complicated, having to be shelled first. They were sold in small paper wrappings at two cents a packet. Then there were the chickpeas, called gram. Again there was roasted gram, and boiled gram. The tekwa was made from a dough of flour, sugar and aniseed, rolled out and deep fried. The treat sold for two cents. Another popular offering was the sweet potato pie which had a sugary coconut filling, which was so elaborate that it is doubtful whether they were even profitable. Other goodies were coconut pieces, banana halves, and mango slices. She also had a special rice cake maker, producing poutous, but understandably, as the process was a lengthy one involving steam cooking, she did not rely on this, except on festival days. Obviously she did not start from scratch every day, but her preparations required two or three hours.
After lunch, she would place all her wares in a round wicker basket which she would deftly balance on her head and wend her way to the Luna Park, where there usually was a matinée performance starting at 1.30 p.m. She would expect to sell a few goodies to the filmgoers going in, who often needed to munch on something during the projection. There would usually be an interval of fifteen minutes at quarter past three, when she would find some more customers, being equipped for the rigours of the second film. The show finished just after five. She would wait for straddlers before rushing home, to cook dinner for herself and her son. The latter was a bit of a layabout, an occasional bread seller, but usually out of work, and often seen in the Chinese tavern round the corner. He not only did not contribute for his keeps, but was known to steal from the old lady for his drinks.
After cleaning and washing, and tidying, it was time to return to the Luna Park, for the evening show. On weekdays there usually was a fare of two “French” films starting at 8 or 8.30. They were not always really French, but American films dubbed in French. Tantine needed to be in place at half past seven, and would stay at her post until midnight. On Saturday nights, however, they usually showed two Indian films, which often were almost three hours long each, which means that she never got home before two in the morning. Sunday was not a day of rest for film goers. Tantine never took time off.
This was her routine every single day of the year, rain, thunder or cyclone, Divali, Eid or Christmas.
She never smiled, but had a certain dignity, and was respected by everybody. I do not remember her falling ill. As she left the garage door open whilst attending to her chores, I often went to watch her, and she would give me one peanut, which might have been my motivation.
The Horse-racing season lasted three months every year, and took place in the Champ de Mars, which was five minutes from our homes, usually on Saturday afternoons. Tantine would obviously never dream of not working the hippodrome where rich pickings were to be found, without neglecting her duty to the Luna Park.
How she split herself in two to be at the Champ de Mars and under the eaves of the Luna Park has always intrigued me
