Читать книгу The Girl From Cobb Street - Merryn Allingham - Страница 8

The jeep was retracing the road that yesterday she had driven along in the pony and trap. She was struck anew at the isolation of the bungalow, for there seemed not a single habitation within miles. Just acres of dry, glistening grass and rock and red dust, and in the distance a range of hills, their rims fudged and melting in the haze. In twenty minutes they had reached the small town. They wound their way through narrow streets and past huddled dwellings and hidden courtyards, till they reached a maze of small alleys milling with people and crowded with rickety stalls. Anish offered her his arm and steered her carefully through the mêlée. Sanitation was rudimentary and there was a strong smell of open drains. But there were other odours too, aromas of spice and pepper and incense from the shops they passed. Crowds of hot, sweating people jostled their way in and out of the narrow alleys, gathering around stalls which appeared to sell everything that any one person could want: rice and chillies, spices and saris, leather work sandals and bangles of fragile glass in rainbow colours. There were stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and stalls with mountains of sticky sweets wrapped in silver paper. In the thin strips of space between, several old men sat cross-legged, stitching clothes or boiling things in huge cooking pots. ‘They are called dekshis,’ Anish told her. ‘And the food is very good.’ Everywhere, heat, movement, people, colour.

He came to a halt at a shop slightly larger than the rest, and with a banner overhead that read Johari Bazar. ‘You will enjoy yourself here. The owner’s name is Sanjay and he will look after you well. He’ll find you a trunk of materials for a few rupees, see if he doesn’t.’

She felt a stir of panic and blurted out, ‘I’ve been very stupid, Anish, and brought only a little money with me.’ She did not want him knowing that all she had was a few grubby notes from her time on board ship, since Gerald had not thought to leave her anything.

‘You won’t need money. Gerald is sure to have an account and you must order what you want and the sum will be added to whatever is owed. This afternoon Sanjay will deliver your materials to the bungalow. It is all very civilised.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’

She thought she discerned that edge again but then wondered if she was imagining it. She wanted to reassure him that it was not the Indian way of doing things that made her hesitate but the fact that she had never in her life ordered anything on account. From where she came, you paid cash for whatever you wanted, and if you didn’t have the cash, your wants went unsatisfied.

At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.

Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.

‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’

‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’

‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’

‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.

‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’

She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’

‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’

‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.

‘Perhaps they should, but this is an alien culture, and it can lead people to foster—well, let’s say, an extra Englishness. And that’s not all bad.’

Daisy took up the cudgels, though she had only the haziest notion what prompted her. ‘On the contrary, it sounds a very bad idea to me.’

‘That’s because you don’t know India. European women have to have guts to live here. They need that extra to stick it out and the mems are first class on fortitude. They have to be. To keep their children safe, they’re forced to send them home to England at an early age. There are thousands of child graves scattered across this country, you’ll find. But when parents and children meet years on, they hardly know each other. It’s a rotten choice, don’t you think? Return home with your offspring or slug it out by your husband’s side.’

Daisy acknowledged the truth of this but she was still smarting. ‘And what happens if you disagree and don’t follow their rules?’

‘You must, my dear, you must fit in. When you married, this is the life you chose. Attitudes may be changing. A few mems have taken up nursing or teaching, usually as voluntary work, but most are still stuck in the old ways. So be charming but vapid, that’s the ticket. Remember, women who are difficult or cause a scandal, damage their husbands’ prospects, and you wouldn’t want to do that, I’m sure.’

She wouldn’t, Daisy thought, but her new future was looking less than promising in all kinds of ways and by the time Sister Macdonald had pumped her hand in a hearty goodbye, she’d lost much of her enthusiasm for buying materials. But Sanjay was not going to allow a likely customer to escape so easily and she found herself spending the next thirty minutes in a daze, wandering back and forth with him among the rows of crowded trestles. The building was long and narrow, stretching far back, and with every counter they came upon, her memory of the nurse’s conversation faded a little, while her delight in the shop grew. So did painful indecision: cottons, fine lawns, embroidered materials and the most exquisite of silks all called to her. But the frugality she’d been forced to practise all her life prevented her losing her wits altogether, and she bought only cottons she thought would make into several frocks for the day and a length of silk for any formal occasion to which she was bidden. In the end she found she could not resist the splendid array of trimmings that Sanjay showed her, and squirrelled away several ribbons and a card of silver braid.

Flushed with success, she asked the shopkeeper for his pattern book. She would make a start this very day, once the sun’s warmth had begun to wane. Sanjay shook his head and instead showed her a picture from a magazine. She was repeating her request, thinking he’d not understood her, when a voice from the front of the shop called her name.

‘Miss Driscoll?’

She was taken aback to see Grayson Harte standing a few feet away. When they’d spoken on the ship, he’d told her little of his plans and she hadn’t realised that he, too, was headed for Jasirapur. If she’d thought about his destination at all, it would have been to imagine him many miles away by now. His tall, slim figure looked absurdly cool in linen slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, as though the punishing heat of the bazaar had decided not to take up his time but instead slide gently from his shoulders.

‘Mr Harte, how nice to see you. But I’m no longer Miss Driscoll. I’ve become Mrs Mortimer since we last met.’ If only in name, she thought, and blushed slightly.

‘Of course, forgive me. You were to be married immediately we docked, now I remember.’

‘Mr Harte …’

‘Grayson,’ he corrected.

‘I wonder if you could help me, Grayson? I can’t make this gentleman understand that I need paper patterns for the materials I’ve bought.’

He stepped forward and spoke in what Daisy imagined was fluent Hindi. ‘You don’t need a pattern apparently,’ he translated. ‘You choose a picture that you like, a dress you see illustrated in a magazine, for instance—like the one Sanjay was showing you—and the durzi will make it for you.’

Her mouth fell open at this news. ‘It is pretty amazing, isn’t it,’ he went on. ‘I knew you could get a suit made in that fashion, but I wondered whether ladies’ clothes might be a bit more tricky. Not so, though.’

She turned to the stallholder to say goodbye and Grayson translated for her. ‘He thanks you for your custom and he’ll deliver your purchases later today. What’s your address by the way? He probably has it, but better to check.’

She gave it and he looked surprised. ‘You’re not in the cantonment then? I would have thought you’d be living alongside the other military families. But perhaps your bungalow has its own attractions?’

She wouldn’t have described the cheerless house as having any attractions, but felt compelled to defend Gerald’s choice, though why if there were accommodation within the cantonment he’d not taken it, she was at a loss to think. ‘I believe Gerald—my husband—chose it for its tranquillity,’ she managed to say.

‘It will certainly have that,’ Grayson agreed. ‘It must be the last building on that side of Jasirapur.’ But he had a frown on his face as he spoke.

‘How is your job going?’ she asked abruptly, hoping she might deflect him from finding fault in Gerald.

‘I have the feeling that it will suit me very well, but thank you for asking—Daisy? I hope I may call you that.’

They were standing outside the bazaar and Sanjay had retreated into his small, airless office.

‘Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s working out for you. I expect you much prefer it to sugar cane.’ She remembered his telling her that one small personal detail, that he’d spent three years in a neighbouring region, working in the sugar business and hating every minute.

‘I was never cut out to be a businessman but the experience hasn’t been a complete waste of time. The languages I learnt eased me into the Foreign Office and then helped me land this job.’

‘I suppose you’ll use them when you start travelling. I don’t expect you’ll be staying in Jasirapur for long.’ From what Gerald had said, a District Officer spent most of his time on the road.

He seemed uncertain of how to answer. ‘At the moment I’m not sure of my movements. But even in town, it can be useful to speak the local language. As we’ve just discovered.’ He grinned and waved his hand towards the shop behind them. She was following his direction when a severe crash from a stall several yards to their left startled her. The crash was followed by a body hurling its way towards them. A bareheaded man in a dirty white kurta came rushing down the alley, knocking everything and everybody aside, a uniformed policeman in hot pursuit. Grayson grabbed her arm and pulled her out of harm’s way.

‘You seem fated to attract wrongdoers. But this time fortunately you’ve stayed on your feet.’ He was holding her in a loose clasp.

She felt herself trembling and when she attempted to reassure him with a smile, it didn’t quite make it to her face. The memories were too painful for her to do better.

He let go of her arm but his expression was anxious. ‘You don’t look at all well. You should make for home.’

‘I’m fine, really I am. Gerald is meeting me and he’ll be here very soon.’ She made herself say it with a conviction she didn’t feel.

Grayson looked relieved. ‘In that case, I hope you won’t mind if I leave you. Please forgive the sudden departure but I should go. Have fun with your dresses.’

And in an instant he’d disappeared in the wake of the fleeing man and his uniformed pursuer. It happened so quickly that Daisy could only blink. One minute he was standing beside her, shielding her with his arm, and the next he had melted into the crowd that had gathered to debate with great volubility the incident they’d just witnessed. Grayson Harte was in the civil service, a pen pusher, Gerald had said, but his conduct hardly seemed to match the job and raised all kinds of questions. What was he doing still in Jasirapur when rightly he should be miles away, dispensing justice to a clutch of outlying villages? And why had he taken off after the two running men? It seemed very odd and she could only conclude that somehow she’d got things wrong. Perhaps District Officers had to train in town before being let loose on the population, and today he’d simply remembered that he needed to be back at his desk for an important meeting.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Gerald waving at her from a nearby alleyway. She felt real gratitude that he’d managed to come, and walked towards him as swiftly as the heat allowed. The burning air was dancing ever more energetically through the bazaar and she felt drained by its onslaught. Drained, too, by the recent unwelcome reminder of what had happened on board ship. The memory was never far away and for the moment she was thoroughly shaken.

Beneath the shade of his topi, Gerald’s expression was unreadable, but his words made his feelings clear. ‘Buck up, Daisy. I’ve been waving at you for an age. I borrowed a regimental motor to come, and it has to be returned straight after lunch.’

He marched forward, leaving her to follow meekly behind. In single file they retraced their steps to the road and the waiting car. She didn’t see Grayson Harte, once more mingling with the crowd and all but invisible. Didn’t see that from beneath the awning of a nearby stall, he was watching them and watching them intently.

Their journey back to the bungalow was conducted in silence, both of them exhausted by the oppressive atmosphere of early afternoon. The once bright blue sky had turned leaden but a pewter sun was no less powerful, bouncing its rays off the topi she’d remembered to wear. She tried to blot the discomfort from her mind and concentrate instead on gathering her thoughts into some kind of order. She was looking forward to eating dinner with her husband that night. ‘Looking forward’ was perhaps optimistic; the prospect was making her apprehensive, even a little scared, but she knew she must make the attempt to clear the air between them, and very soon.

She had been in India three entire days and the conversation she’d been waiting to have remained unbroached. She would have liked the meal to be special but this morning she hadn’t felt brave enough to give Rajiv a menu. Ten to one he would pretend he didn’t understand, or the food she chose would not be available. And then Anish had arrived and taken her to the bazaar and she’d pushed the thought of the meal to the back of her mind. So whatever Rajiv chose to cook tonight would have to suffice. And the food itself was unimportant, it was what she must say to Gerald that was vital. What would she say? How would she say it? She could begin perhaps by recounting the details of her day. He wouldn’t be interested in cottons and trimmings, she knew, but it might give her the confidence she needed, the courage to speak the difficult words.

The driver swerved to a halt in front of the bungalow and Gerald said something to him in Hindi.

‘He’ll be returning at five,’ he explained. And before she could question him further, he’d strode up the front path and across the veranda, calling loudly for his servant.

‘We won’t require dinner tonight, Rajiv.’

Her heart gave a small lurch. There was to be no meal after all and the words she had been rehearsing dissolved into the sticky air.

‘Where are we eating, Gerald?’

‘At the Club. Sorry—I should have mentioned it but things have been a bit hectic at camp.’

She was tempted to ask what things. They might explain why Gerald had decided not to share her room last night, but he’d turned away from her and strolled across to the table to fill two glasses with the lemonade that Rajiv had mixed for them.

She felt an immense frustration. She needed to put things right as soon as possible and tonight had been her chance. But perhaps she could still persuade him to stay. There had been a time when he hadn’t wanted to leave her side. Very deliberately, she walked towards him and laced her arms about his neck.

‘Couldn’t we spend this evening here?’ she asked quietly, giving a little tug to pull him close. ‘We could go to the Club another night.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ He was fidgeting beneath her touch. ‘It’s all arranged—I can’t mess things up now.’

She tried to hug him tight, then stood on tiptoe and grazed his cheek with her lips, catching the corner of his mouth as she did so. ‘Surely it won’t matter if we miss one dinner,’ she persisted. ‘I’d like to stay home, Gerald. We’ve hardly spent any time together.’

‘We will,’ he said briskly, looking over her head at the wall beyond and unwrapping her arms from around his neck. ‘But tonight it’s important we go to the Club. You’ll enjoy it. It’s in the cantonment and the centre of social life on the station. There’s lots happening. Dancing, cards, billiards. And a great bar. It’s the Club dinner tonight—there’s one every week—and everyone comes. I’ll be able to introduce you around. It’s a chance for you to meet the other wives. You’ll want to do that.’

She didn’t share his certainty, but as it appeared she was destined to spend a good deal of time in their company, it might be better to get the ordeal over as soon as possible. And the Club dinner couldn’t go on for ever, she reasoned. When they returned, Rajiv would be gone and they would be alone. She would have the opportunity to open her heart. Gerald would be shocked at her news, but sympathetic, she was sure. He would soothe her with words and kisses. They would curl up in bed together and sleep in each other’s arms. She sank down on the sofa, smiling softly at the picture she’d conjured.

The cold trickle of lemonade was reviving her a little. ‘What should I wear?’ she asked.

It was an important question. She wanted to make him proud of her and if she were about to meet the women she would live among for the next few months, it was essential she look her best.

‘The dress you had in Bombay. The one with splashes of colour.’

So he had noticed. She felt her bruised soul sing just a little. Even in his disoriented state, he had noticed what she’d been wearing for their wedding. And that dress was now freshly clean and pressed and hanging in her wardrobe. Thanks to Rajiv, she thought. She must try to feel more charitably towards him.

‘You need some company,’ Gerald was saying bracingly. ‘It’s not good to be on your own too much. The mind can start playing tricks. Rajiv tells me you’ve been seeing ghosts in the garden.’

Her impulse to charity withered. It seemed that Rajiv carried every tale he could to his master, but she was not going to be coerced. ‘I did see someone,’ she said firmly. The more she’d thought about it, the more sure she’d become. ‘And it was no ghost. Unless ghosts are heavy smokers.’

‘Unlikely. Almost as unlikely as seeing a real-life trespasser at that hour. You were over-tired, Daisy, and when you saw what you thought was a figure, you could only have been half-awake.’

‘I was awake enough to be scared that I was alone,’ she retorted. ‘You were nowhere in sight.’

‘I slept in the other room—I didn’t want to disturb you—and I heard nothing.‘

It was just as she’d thought, and there was really no need for him to sound defensive. The mystery remained unexplained, but perhaps Gerald was right when he said she’d been in a dream.

He wandered to the table with the empty glasses and seemed keen to change the subject. ‘It will be good for you to get to know a few of the wives before you travel up to Simla.’

There it was again, that place. First Anish and now Gerald. ‘Anish mentioned Simla to me this morning.’

‘I hope he painted its delights for you.’

‘He praised the town highly.’ She debated whether to say more. ‘He also said I’d be going without you.’

Gerald looked taken aback. ‘Whatever made you think I’d be coming? My work is here, you must see that.’

‘And is that so for the other women? They don’t mind leaving their husbands behind?’

‘They’re only too delighted to get out of this heat. You should be too. While you’re there, you can think of me slaving away on the burning plains! In any case, I’ll visit when I can, but it’s a two-day journey and I’ll need a block of leave to get there and back.’

She sat staring ahead, lost in a solitary future. He was watching her closely and an irritated frown furrowed the smoothness of his face. ‘What’s wrong? Why on earth would you not want to go?’

‘I’ve only just arrived, Gerald, and we are only just married.’ It shouldn’t be necessary to remind him, she thought.

‘I realise that. It’s why I haven’t packed you off immediately. By the time the last group of women leave next week, you’ll have had ample space to recover from the journey.’

Was he deliberately misreading her concern? Making out that it was the travelling rather than their marriage that was worrying her. She couldn’t be certain, but she was certain she had no wish to be ‘packed off’, no matter how enticing the place. The set look on his face, though, signalled it would be difficult to refuse.

‘You’ll try to visit while I’m there?’

‘Whenever I can.’ His response mixed relief with cheerfulness. ‘But really you won’t need me. The women get all sorts of things going. Parties, picnics, concerts, amateur dramatics. Even fashion shows. And every Sunday you can wear your best clothes for morning service—the cathedral is always packed—and be certain they’ll stay crisp. The climate is wonderful.’

‘So Anish told me.’

‘He was right. The scenery is wonderful too. You can see the Himalayas through the clouds and they go on for mile after mile. Great masses of ice and snow almost hanging in the sky. It’s majestic. The gods are supposed to live in the mountains, did you know that? And when you see them for the first time, you’ll believe it.’

She smiled faintly. He was so enthusiastic and he was concerned for her. He wanted her to be happy and comfortable in her new life and that was reassuring; that was more like the old Gerald. She would do as he wished, she decided, and if she were ever tempted to waver, the thought of escaping an overpowering heat would be sure to persuade her back into line.

The driver was at the door at five o’clock sharp. She saw the pleat of his turban bend and flutter as he talked with her husband on the veranda. Gerald had warned her not to dress until the last minute and she was glad of the advice. Even though the early evening air was balmy, the warmth still bounced off the ground, hitting legs and body with unbelievable energy. Her entire skin was aflame and once the dress was on, the lightest of silks felt like a hot glove.

The Jasirapur station had so far been only a word to her but as they drove through what Gerald told her were the civil lines, she had a sense of the power and reach of the administration of which she was now a very small part. Row after row of bungalows spread before them, the homes of civil service personnel, of police and forestry officers, and their families. On the other side of the road, further lines of bungalows stretched into the distance, each whitewashed and red-ochred and separated one from the other by splashes of tired grass. This was the cantonment, her husband told her, the home of the military. Beyond the bungalows, a hotchpotch of interlinked buildings signalled the barracks for the Indian soldiers.

Daisy glanced across at her husband. He looked splendid in blue and gold, his slim, upright figure admirable in the close-fitting dress uniform. For an instant she was filled with a surge of pure pleasure. It was wonderful to be dressed so prettily, to be sitting beside the man she loved, and to be going into company for the very first time as a couple. Her heart felt lighter than it had since those heady moments in London. These last few days, she’d become wary of betraying her ignorance and swallowed most of her questions, but a new sense of wellbeing encouraged her to ask, ‘Have you always rented the bungalow or did you once live on the station?’

‘I lived in the Mess. It’s over there.’ And he pointed vaguely in the direction of the barracks. ‘It’s home to the unmarried officers. Some of the married officers too—if they want to get away from their wives. The centre of regimental life really. Everyone sleeps, eats, spends their spare time there.’

‘Then Anish must live in the Mess. Will he be coming tonight?’

It seemed important that he was. His was a kind face, she thought, kind and familiar and friendly.

‘He won’t be at the dinner. Indians aren’t allowed in the Club.’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘It’s beginning to change but it’s still difficult,’ he said tersely. ‘Last year the Colonel put up an officer for membership, a cadet from the Indian Military Academy—the same as Anish. He was turned down, so the old boy won’t allow other Indian officers to apply.’

‘But surely …’

‘It’s the way it is, Daisy.’ His voice rose in annoyance. ‘And you better get used to it. There are all kinds of distinctions to life here and it’s important you learn them. The military and the ICS—the civil service—are on a par, top of the social tree, but planters and businessmen are not quite the thing. If you hear anyone called a box-wallah, that’s who they’re talking about. Tea and indigo planters have more status than the sugar and jute wallahs. They’re trade and aren’t allowed to join the Club either. They have their own place.’

Daisy knew all about distinctions. She had been on the wrong end of them all her short life and had had little option but to accept that was the way things were. But it didn’t mean she was ever going to think them right. And certainly not a distinction that barred a man like Anish from mixing socially with those he worked beside day after day. But she knew, too, that she was helpless in the face of conventions she imagined had held rigid for centuries, so she said no more.