A corner of Wiltshire where the Raj never died
Enchanting tale of the Countess and the Indian who’s devoted his life to her family for 60 years
THEY are one of the most devoted couples you could ever hope to meet. For the past 60 years, they have lived contentedly together and still care for each other with genuine affection.
Nothing is too much trouble for him — indeed, without her, his life would have little purpose. But June Badeni and Muthukanna Shamugam (known as Muthu) have never even shared a meal or had a drink together.
For theirs is a relationship like none other; a throwback to a different era completely at odds with today’s touchy-feely informality which sees hospital patients addressed by their first names and shop assistants more likely to call you ‘mate’ than ‘sir’.
But their companionship is no less sincere for all that — perhaps more so. The advent of John Major’s ‘classless society’ passed them by, as have a host of regrettable modern obsessions. They are, in short, gloriously untouched by the 21st century.
June is a highly intelligent Countess (by virtue of marrying a flyer named Count Jan Badeni) and Muthu is her loyal Indian ‘houseman’, as he would have been called in the days of the British Raj.
She has written biographies of the pastoral poet John Clare and the Victorian author Alice Meynell, while he cannot write, struggles to read and does not even know when he was born.
‘We didn’t really like each other at first,’ admits the Countess, who is 92 and remarkably sharp. ‘Muthu adored my husband Jan and saw him very much as the boss. But we got over that, and after Jan died in 1995 we became great friends. We depend on each other. I do not know what I would do without him.’ The feeling is mutual. ‘Madam is a wonderful English lady, very kind to me,’ says Muthu, whose made-up date of birth in his passport puts him at 81.
‘I promised my boss [the late Count] that I would look after the Countess, and that is what I will do until the day she goes to Heaven.’
On the face of it, the story of the Countess and Muthu has shades of Queen Victoria’s controversially close relationship with her Indian servant Abdul Karim, which is the subject of a major new film opening next week, starring Judi Dench and Bollywood star Ali Fazal.
But while the Queen and Karim’s friendship — which was never sexual — was quietly consigned by courtiers to the recesses of history, there has never been any tut-tutting about June and Muthu, whose companionship is entirely formal.
On the contrary. The whole Badeni family regard him as integral to their lives, treating him with utmost respect and gratitude.
In the village of Norton, near Malmesbury, Wiltshire, locals wave at Muthu when he goes for his walks, sometimes tooting their horns in response to his familiar joviality.
LATER this month, Michael and Sarah Badeni, June’s son and daughter-in-law, will host a family lunch for Muthu to mark his 60 years of dedicated service. They live next door to June in Norton Manor, which has belonged to the family for more than 100 years and where she used to live with her husband.
The speeches may be short, especially from Muthu. Because, despite living in Britain for so long, his English — the only language he speaks — is still sketchy.
‘I did try to teach him to read and write, but he got bored and so we stopped,’ says June. ‘But we manage perfectly well. Muthu learnt to cook quite soon after moving in with us and loves to make what he calls proper English food.’
In many ways Muthu behaves as the epitome of a proper Englishman, albeit one rooted in the Fifties. His shirts are immaculately ironed, his shoes meticulously polished, and when he goes to London for a few days’ break, staying in a Best Western hotel near Paddington Station, he always wears a suit and tie.
‘I love this country and never felt the need to go anywhere else,’ he smiles. ‘I like good manners, self-discipline, hard work and truthfulness.’
June’s values are remarkably similar, although their paths in life could hardly be more different.
MuTHu is a Tamil, born in Southern India, yet he speaks no Indian. His mother died when he was small, perhaps aged one or two, and although his father married again, his stepmother treated him so badly that his maternal grandmother took him in.
‘My grandmother, a very dear lady, was very short, no teeth. She brought me sweets and gave me hugs.’
Eventually, he went to live in Kuala Lumpur with an uncle and work in his cafe. The uncle was strict and beat Muthu if he told a lie, then sent him to toil in the RAF Officers’ Mess, so he could make good money.
He did, but his uncle would come each week to take Muthu’s wages.
Occasionally, Muthu would go to the cinema and see pictures of Piccadilly in the West End of London. ‘Pray God my foot one day walks this place,’ he said to himself.
June, meanwhile, had a governess and then went to boarding school, before working at the Foreign Office during World War II. She fell in love with Jan Badeni, who had transferred from the Polish air force to the RAF, and they married in 1956.
Jan’s great-uncle, Count Casimir Felix Badeni, was in 1888 appointed prime minister of the Austro-Hungarian empire by Emperor Franz Joseph I. His father, Stefan Badeni, fled from Poland to Hungary at the outbreak of World War II, where he joined the Polish underground. That led to his arrest and incarceration in Mauthausen concentration camp — which he survived.
Jan met Muthu in the Officers’ Mess after being posted to Kuala Lumpur later in 1956, and was struck by his sunny character. He wrote to June saying Muthu was keen to come to Britain, and what did she think about the idea.
‘I said it was a good idea, but never
actually thought it would happen,’ she recalls. ‘Before Jan came back on a troop plane, he arranged for Muthu to board a ship in Singapore, and it was a great surprise to see him walk down the gangway in Southampton. Coming off the ship just before him were the author Harold Nicholson and his wife, the writer Vita Sackville-West.’
June says that Muthu, then about 20, was in some ways her first child, but that when her own children were born — Michael in 1958 and Mary in 1960 — he felt no jealousy, but went out of his way to look after them.
Muthu’s jobs in those days included looking after the cars (although he doesn’t drive), bringing in wood, gardening, walking the dogs, doing odd jobs, playing with Michael and Mary and a certain amount of cooking.
Today, now Muthu lives alone with the Countess, he takes ‘the Boss’, as he calls her, early morning tea (milk always served in a small china or silver jug) and opens her curtains, then settles her downstairs, prepares breakfast, elevenses, lunch and dinner, tidies up around the house and makes June a gin and vermouth with two cubes of ice at 7pm.
Muthu, who takes a salary for his work, is a traditionalist who loves routine — or, as he puts it, ‘must do same things always’. With no family and no friends with whom he socialises, one might think he is lonely. But he says: ‘I am lucky person. Many people in the world suffer badly, but God has always been nice to me.’
In the past, June and Muthu would do the weekly supermarket shop together, but nowadays he does this with June’s domestic help, Frances, who has worked for the Badenis for 30 years.
All this leaves Muthu plenty of time to watch television, although he wishes there were more programmes involving his two great heroes, Elvis Presley and martial arts star Bruce Lee.
He lives rent-free in the converted barn June inhabits in the grounds of Norton Manor, and in addition to his bedroom he has a small upstairs sitting room where he has framed photographs of her children and their families.
There are also several of the Count and Countess.
June says: ‘I did recently ask Muthu if he thought we should eat together, but he was dead against the idea. I think we get along so well because we know where the boundaries are.
‘Within that, I trust him completely and tell him things I know he will never repeat. He is incredibly astute and a great judge of character.’
So why has the partnership endured so successfully? Mary, 57, says: ‘My father’s last words to me before he died were: “Look after Muthu.” He meant this primarily from a practical point of view, which we do, but in all other senses it is Muthu who looks after us. He has always enriched our lives with his selfless devotion.
‘When I see him now, caring for my mother with such gentleness, it is all too obvious that the conventional relationship of employer and employee was abandoned many years ago, replaced by mutual trust and respect, friendship and support.
‘In both my mother and Muthu, there is an unwavering integrity, increasingly rare in today’s world — and perhaps it is that more than anything which binds them together.’
Muthu says: ‘The Countess always say that common sense is more important than education, and that God gave me common sense.’
Some 40 years ago, while the Count was still alive, the Badenis bought Muthu a cottage in Malmesbury, which he rents out. If June dies before he does, that’s where he will live for the rest of his days.
‘Sometimes we joke that the best solution would be that we die together,’ says June with a wry smile.
And Muthu, listening to her intently — as he has for decades — nods quietly in agreement.