Читать книгу The Girl From Cobb Street - Merryn Allingham - Страница 9

The Club was housed in a spacious, white building with a long, deep veranda running its full length. A sloping red roof provided shade and as much coolness as was possible. Cane tables and chairs were scattered along the veranda’s expanse and several groups of people were chatting there, heads bathed in the light that spilled from open windows and doors. Drink was flowing freely and repeated calls of ‘Koi-Hai!’ interrupted the buzz of chatter, as one or other of the Club servants was called to attend. The scratchy sound of an old record filtered through the air and Daisy felt her husband’s arm guiding her towards the sound. As they mounted the wooden steps, she felt the drinkers’ eyes swivel in their direction, their stares variously curious and indifferent. A tall woman rose from a nearby table and came towards them. She appeared to be wearing a floral dressing gown, its skirts flowing around her ankles. At second glance, Daisy could see it was an opulent evening gown, and she immediately felt underdressed.

‘Gerald, my dear, how good to see you here. And with your new bride. Such a pretty girl you’ve found!’

‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs Forester.’ He certainly looked glad, Daisy thought. Glad and relieved. ‘Daisy, this is Mrs Forester. Colonel Forester is my commanding officer.’

‘Call me Edith, my dear. It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You must let me take you in hand and introduce you to as many wives as we can manage. Gerald, get your wife a chota peg.’ She saw Daisy’s anxious expression. ‘On second thoughts, a gimlet might be better—gin and lime my dear, most refreshing.’

Daisy felt a confusing mix of emotions as they passed into the Club meeting room. It seemed she was approved by this august matron and that had to be good, but she was not at all sure she wished to be taken in hand by her. It was Gerald who should be by her side. But where was he? Making straight for the bar, she saw, along with every other man in the room. And it was an enormous edifice, its huge polished surface filling at least a quarter of the available space.

In general the clubhouse was not inviting. Its walls were wood panelled and decorated with the heads of various dead animals, interspersed here and there with sepia-tinged photographs of past company. In the middle of the central wall was a full-length portrait of the new King and Queen, looking almost as nervous as Daisy felt. At one end of the room a huddle of women were bunched tightly together, and it was towards this ocean of floral silks and flashing jewellery that she allowed herself to be gently pushed. Edith was propelling her with one hand while with the other she waved to friends on either side, as the women divided obediently at her approach. Like Moses and the Red Sea, Daisy thought.

For the first few minutes, the excited babble of female voices would have blocked out Edith’s introductions, even if Daisy’s nerves had not. ‘This is Rosemary Laughton, Daisy,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Her husband is the Adjutant.’

‘Rose, this is Lieutenant Mortimer’s new bride.’ She had a rank now, Daisy thought, she was the wife of a Lieutenant. Sister Macdonald’s stringent words came back to her: the women have no role of their own, they are simply accessories to their husbands’ lives. She noticed that Rosemary had almost bowed to Edith Forester as the Colonel’s wife and she supposed that, in turn, she should be bowing to Mrs Laughton, for it appeared that Gerald was a very junior officer.

Rosemary drew slowly on her cigarette and looked at her through the rising smoke. ‘Well, you’re a surprise, my dear.’ She seemed to absorb Daisy in a single glance. ‘We had no idea that Gerald had you tucked away somewhere—quite the contrary, in fact. It must have been love.’

Before she had time to puzzle the meaning of this, Rosemary was asking, ‘And how are you settling in?’ Her voice expressed a distinct lack of interest but Daisy tried diplomacy. ‘It’s very strange, of course, but I’m sure I shall enjoy living here.’

‘You’ll enjoy the regiment, my dear.’ Her smile was superior. ‘The cavalry are the cream of the Indian Army and they are the best of all soldiers. It’s India that’s the pits.’

The woman’s rudeness startled Daisy and pushed her to a small challenge. ‘Is that true of Simla too?’

Rosemary looked taken aback. ‘Not Simla, no. Certainly not Simla. Life is wonderful there and you’ll enjoy yourself enormously. We leave next week, and I imagine Gerald will have made arrangements for you to travel with us. You’ll need to nag your servants into action, though, or you’ll find yourself packing for them.’

Confronting this frightening memsahib had made Daisy’s heart beat too fast but now she saw the woman was simply ridiculous. How difficult was it to pack a suitcase? Of course, Rosemary Laughton couldn’t know that the girl facing her had in all probability packed more suitcases than any Indian retainer. And she must never know.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ve only the one servant and I imagine Gerald will wish to keep him here.’ Leaving Rajiv behind was one delight of Simla she hadn’t considered before.

‘Only one servant! What is Gerald thinking of! What about the mali, and the jemader and a cook?’

‘It’s a very small bungalow.’ She was once more driven into defending Gerald’s housekeeping. It was becoming a habit. And what on earth was a mali and a jemader? ‘Rajiv does all the cleaning and the cooking.’

Rosemary snorted. ‘I shall speak to Gerald. It’s quite ludicrous.’

The conversation had reached a dead end and Daisy was unsure how to restart it. Did these women talk about nothing other than their servants? Rescue appeared in the shape of Edith who returned to her side at that moment and whisked her away from the terrifying Rosemary.

‘It will be good for you to meet some young women of your own age,’ Edith enthused, her long skirts swishing in tune with a powerful stride. ‘Amelia Simmonds married only last year and you’re sure to have a lot to talk about.’

They arrived in front of a thin, young woman who had been lingering uncertainly on the edge of the group. Even in the dim light of the clubhouse, the vivid fuchsia of her tea gown was startlingly at odds with the pale, pinched face above.

‘Daisy is Lieutenant Mortimer’s wife, Amelia,’ was all Edith offered, before marching away to join an exclamatory group of women gathered beneath the head of a particularly morose gazelle. Daisy was left to smile hopefully at the new introduction.

‘My husband has just been made Captain,’ Amelia said proudly.

There wasn’t much you could say to that, Daisy thought, and retreated to the old, trite question, ‘And how are you enjoying India?’

‘I love it.’ Amelia gushed enthusiasm. ‘So will you, particularly when we get up to the hills. Such fun! So you’re Gerald’s wife … I’m so pleased to meet you … I’d thought that Gerald …’ Her voice tailed off and then she repeated a little desperately, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. It can get a bit dull here to be honest, a bit claustrophobic. Same old clubhouse, same old activities. Of course, it’s far too hot to do anything much at this time of the year.’

‘I can imagine. I’ve found even reading to be a chore. But that’s probably because I’ve had nothing very interesting to read. Is there a library in the cantonment?’

Amelia looked blank. ‘Books,’ Daisy prompted.

‘Oh yes, there are books. There’s an annexe somewhere around the back of the clubhouse, I believe. I’ve never been there myself. There are plenty of magazines hanging around the Club itself, oh and catalogues from the Army and Navy.’ She paused looking doubtfully at her new acquaintance. ‘You’re not a blue stocking, are you?’

‘I enjoy reading,’ Daisy said simply.

She had never thought herself in any way clever. Gerald was clever, he had been to public school so he must be. Grayson Harte was clever. He’d talked to her of Indian history, Indian culture, and he knew all kinds of languages. That was clever in a way she was not. But neither was she as shockingly ignorant as these women appeared to be. Eden House had given her a decent grounding and Helena Maddox had continued her education, even though she’d been a servant in the house. And it had gone well beyond books. Miss Maddox had taught her to walk and talk in a genteel fashion; to appear as much of a lady, she thought proudly, as any of the women in this room.

‘So what do the wives do all day?’

‘Do?’ Amelia shook her head slightly as though this was an extraordinary question. ‘Oversee the house, I suppose, organise the servants. Give cook the menu for the day, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have coffee together.’

‘That’s not likely to take up much time.’ Daisy was regretful. She had genuinely wished for a clue as to how to fill her days, but Amelia was now staring at her as though she were a species she had never before encountered.

‘I’m not used to being idle,’ Daisy tried to explain.

Amelia considered the matter. ‘I believe some women have become nurses or teachers, but only for a short while—to fill a gap maybe.’ She moved closer and put her lips to Daisy’s ear. ‘If you want to be accepted, you had better stick to the house, that’s my advice. The senior wives would hate the idea of you working.’

‘The senior wives?’

Amelia looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. ‘The Colonel’s wife in particular,’ she whispered, ‘but also the wives of all the senior officers. They run the show, you’ll soon find out. And as wives of junior officers, you learn to let them. They wouldn’t approve of you working.’

Daisy bristled inwardly but kept her voice even. ‘What else might they not approve?’

‘I’m making them sound horrid when they’re not. They’re very nice—really, they are. They’re just keen on all the women fitting in and, as long as you do, there’s no problem. You’ll find the regiment is very close-knit, like a family. Everyone has an opinion so you have to be careful not to upset people. With the way you dress, for instance, or the friends you make.’

‘And who shouldn’t I have as a friend?’ Daisy asked. But even as she posed the question, she knew the answer.

‘Indians for one thing. And Anglo-Indians too. Some of them are nearly white so you have to be careful.’ The whisper deepened. ‘They’re not people we mix with, not now at least. It used to be different once, I think. But now too many lower class British have married women from the bazaar, that kind of thing, and we don’t recognise them.’

So that was Anglo-Indians as well as Indians and who else did Gerald say—sugar and jute planters? There was no end to the categories that were unwelcome. And she would be just as unwelcome if they knew the details of her history: a girl without parents, a girl sent into service when she was little more than a child, a girl who had burst with pride when she became a shop assistant selling perfume in a department store.

A loud gong cut their conversation dead, the sound outpacing the now raucous voices. Daisy drifted with the crowd towards an adjoining room where two long refectory tables stood parallel to one another, each bearing twenty place name cards and twenty sets of strictly ordered cutlery.

She found herself seated in yet another cane chair beside a man with a very large moustache. The cutlery bothered her but by dint of watching her fellow diners, she managed to acquit herself without incident. The first course was soup but a soup she had never before tasted. She glanced sideways to gauge her neighbour’s reaction. The soup seemed to catch in his side-whiskers and Daisy had to stop herself from watching in fascination as bubbles of the dark liquid slid slowly down his moustache.

‘As always, good mulligatawny,’ he said at last, when he’d emptied most of his bowl, ‘but God-awful bread, don’t you think, m’dear?’

The bread was the least of Daisy’s worries. The hot, spicy liquid was burning her throat and she had to force herself to finish what was in front of her.

‘Made with yeast from Bombay, you know. Comes in the post every month—no wonder it tastes like dung.’

She laboured painfully through the soup and then it was on to tough, curried chicken and another helping of hot spice. She filled and refilled her glass with water but nothing seemed to souse the flames.

‘Have you stayed on, then?’ was her companion’s next gambit.

‘Stayed on?’ That was a puzzle. ‘No, I’ve just arrived.’

‘Can’t have done, m’dear. Wrong time of the year.’

She was minded to contradict him but then recalled the various pieces of advice that had come her way. The man might be an eccentric but she must try to suit his humour. ‘Why is that?’ she asked, as though she genuinely wished to know.

‘It’s April. You couldn’t have arrived with the fishing fleet.’

‘I didn’t. I arrived with The Viceroy of India.’ And what on earth was the fishing fleet?

‘Bless your heart, the fishing fleet isn’t the name of a ship! It’s the girls. Girls just like you, husband hunting. They come out from home in the autumn and the young men go wild for them. Lots of ’em stay. Plenty of husbands to spare, you know. But come spring, those that haven’t made it, go back. Returned empties, we call them.’

‘I’ve not come to fish and I’m not a returned empty,’ Daisy said with dignity. ‘I came to India to marry. My husband is Gerald Mortimer.’

The man banged his spoon loudly on the table and laughed. ‘Sorry about the mix up. Young Mortimer’s gal then? Good! Difficult business but glad to see him hitched.’

She was unsure what he meant by a difficult business but he seemed well-meaning. And now that the dessert had arrived, it was taking all her attention. She eyed it hungrily. Two delicious woven toffee baskets, each filled with fresh mangoes and cream. It was the only part of the meal she’d managed without her eyes watering, and she had to stop her glance wandering enviously towards her neighbour’s plate. From several places along the table, she saw Gerald smiling. He was looking at her as though she had passed a test, though what that might have been, she had no idea.

Two decanters were placed in the middle of the two long tables, and she could just make out the writing on the silver labels which hung around each bottle neck: Marsala and Port. A duo of waiters made their solemn round of the guests, the women being offered the marsala and the men the port. When every schooner was filled, her neighbour stood with glass raised and all the men followed suit.

‘The King Emperor.’

There was a muffled rumble as everyone mouthed the words and held their glasses aloft. Daisy took a cautious sip. The wine was thick and sweet and clung to her tongue. The other women seemed to have no problem with it but she was delighted when she saw Mrs Forester rise from her seat at the head of the second table, and could stop pretending to drink.

‘Shall we, ladies?’

And then all the women stood up, with Daisy following uncertainly. Edith led the way through yet another polished oak door to a much smaller room and stood waiting on the threshold.

‘This is the snug, Daisy. We have our coffee here, and the men will join us after the port has finished doing the rounds. How are you enjoying this evening?’

She managed to murmur something that sounded like enjoyment, and then she was being taken by the hand and walked up to yet another young woman. ‘I would like you to meet my daughter,’ Edith was saying.

A smiling fair-haired girl was at her mother’s side. ‘This is Jocelyn. Jocelyn, this is Gerald’s new bride, Daisy.’

The girl’s red lips opened to an even broader smile, showing two rows of perfect, white teeth. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she dispensed with the hand Daisy had offered, and instead clasped her warmly around the shoulders. Immediately Daisy smelled it. The perfume. She knew that perfume—Shalimar. The very perfume Gerald had bought from her counter at Bridges. Could you get Shalimar in Jasirapur? Somehow she doubted it. So where had it come from? Gerald had said the perfume was for his aunt and she’d thought then that it was a strange choice for an older lady. Now it seemed she might have an explanation: it had not been for his aunt, if indeed he had one, but for this girl. And there could be one reason only for such an intimate gift, she decided, and that was courtship.

Jocelyn continued to talk cheerfully but Daisy hardly heard her. Her mind was too busy roving over remarks that had earlier made no sense. Was that what Rosemary Laughton had meant when she’d said Gerald’s marriage had come as a surprise, that the regiment had expected something else? Had they expected Jocelyn to be his bride? Surely not, for she was the Colonel’s daughter and from Daisy’s small experience of Jasirapur, the social hierarchy was even more rigid than in England. Jocelyn would be destined for a man of much higher rank than Gerald. She was allowing her imagination to run amok, she chided herself. Yet there was also Amelia Simmonds. She had been surprised by the marriage, so surprised that she’d been flustered into incoherence.

‘And what have you been doing since you arrived?’ Jocelyn was saying.

Daisy brought her mind back with a jerk and tried very hard not to show how bad she was feeling. ‘Not a great deal. I’m still getting used to the weather. But I did go to the bazaar today and bought material for new dresses. I find I don’t have sufficient lightweight clothing.’

‘No one ever has sufficient,’ the girl said, echoing Anish’s words. ‘Have you spoken to the durzi?’

‘I thought I might sew the dresses myself,’ she ventured, ‘but I didn’t think to bring patterns with me. Perhaps I can send for them.’

‘You don’t need patterns. All you need is a durzi, and I know the very man. I’ll bring him to you—tomorrow if you like.’

Her first reaction was to refuse, to make an excuse, say anything not to spend time with the woman she was beginning to think of as Gerald’s lover. But the girl was so pleasant and unaffected that rejecting her overture of friendship was difficult. She wondered if Jocelyn still cared for Gerald, and hoped it wasn’t the case. She might feel badly wounded, but she had no wish for the girl to be hurt too.

A second cup of bitter coffee was making the rounds before the men trooped through the door, some of them decidedly unsteady. Gerald was looking slightly flushed but came straight to her side.

‘You did well.’ She couldn’t imagine why, but if her husband was pleased, she was happy. ‘You were seated by the Colonel, you know,’ he whispered. ‘They must have thrown precedence out of the window tonight. Edith’s doing, I imagine. A great honour though. I guess it was because you’re fresh from England. It won’t happen again but the old boy seemed really interested in you.’

She was trying to think of a suitable reply when the room fell quiet. For some while it had been filled with loud chattering and the noise of chairs and stools being rearranged, until everyone was seated just where they wished. Then, breaking through the sudden hush that followed this burst of activity, a voice drawled, ‘She’s quite dark, don’t you think. Touch of the tar brush, I reckon.’

And what seemed like a hundred eyes swivelled in Daisy’s direction. She felt herself turn hot and red, and wanted more than anything to disappear through the battered floorboards. What had the woman meant? For naturally it had been a woman’s voice. The room buzzed furiously until Edith took charge of the situation, clapping her hands and silencing the wagging tongues.

‘Don’t forget, ladies, we’ll be taking the six o’clock train on Thursday. Come prepared with food and drink. And not too much luggage, please. The last thing we want are corridors overflowing with trunks.’

Voices subsided and passed on to quieter topics. But Daisy could not pass on. She felt Gerald sitting rigid beside her and couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The woman had meant her and everyone had known it. Was she too dark, too different? Her hair and eyes were a deep brown and her skin perhaps a shade darker than many of those she’d lived and worked beside, but she had never given much thought to her colouring. And neither had anyone else until this moment. What was the woman suggesting? That she was not English? She was as English as any one of them in this room, she thought indignantly. She had only one keepsake from her mother, a faded photograph but, beneath the starch of a nurse’s uniform, the woman portrayed was clearly English. But her father? Had he been English too? She had no idea. And she never would, for there had been only one name on the tattered birth certificate the orphanage had reluctantly handed to her when she left. She was an outsider and used to being so. As a poor girl without known family, it was inevitable. Miss Maddox’s friends had counselled her against favouring Daisy, and her fellow shop assistants had looked down their noses at a girl they knew instinctively was not one of them. But now apparently there was another reason for her exclusion. She was the wrong shade.

Mortified, she found she could no longer make conversation, no longer mouth the trivialities that seemed necessary to the evening. But rescue was close. Colonel Forester announced that he and Edith were about to leave and, as their departure was a signal for the rest of the company to make their way home, it was only minutes before Daisy was able to hide her burning face in the darkness of the night.

Rajiv had primed a solitary kerosene lamp to light the bungalow and she undressed by its shadows. Her heart was so full she could hardly get the breath to her lungs and tears were constantly pricking at her eyes. It had all gone so horribly wrong. She’d been highly nervous, terrified of making a mistake, but she had been managing the evening well. She’d smiled, she’d listened, spoken a little and swallowed food that made her feel ill. She had made a good impression or so she’d thought, and Gerald had been pleased with her. This would have been the time to tell him what she needed him to know. But then that one devastating remark and everything had been thrown into the air.

She unclasped the necklace she had been wearing and packed it carefully away among her clean underwear. Her only necklace, the string of pearls Miss Maddox had given her when she’d won the job at Bridges. How far away that seemed now. Then she hung the silk dress back into the wardrobe, feeling she never wanted to see it again. Despite all the hopes she’d invested in the garment, it had not brought her luck. Lifting her hairbrush, she began half-heartedly to pull it through waves that, as always, had grown limp from the sultry air. In the mirror she glimpsed Gerald framed in the doorway. He was fresh from the bathroom but his pyjamas were already damp with sweat.

‘Just come to say goodnight,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s hotter than ever, don’t you think? Best I give you a bit of space, my dear.’ And he turned to head towards the spare room.

‘Gerald!’

He looked back at her, a frown carved into his forehead. It was clear he didn’t want to stay and she felt too broken to try and detain him. But there was one thing she had to say before they parted.

‘I’m not going to Simla, Gerald.’

The frown deepened. ‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’

‘Just that. I can’t bear to be with those women.’

‘This is nonsense. What’s got into you?’ He leaned heavily on the doorframe and she remembered he had drunk lavishly.

‘I don’t want to spend the next few months hundreds of miles away from you and with no other company than people who hate me.’

‘No one hates you. If this is about that stupid remark, you should forget it. Margot Dukes is a bitch and well known for her unpleasantness. Nobody will take the least notice of her.’

‘It’s not just her. It’s all of them.’

And it was, she realised. Only a few of the women tonight had been unfriendly, several in fact had been amiable, but to be constrained to spend her days in such shallow, wearisome company was wretched. It would be weeks of trivia, of gossip, then if her knowledge of women living on top of each other was anything to go by, the inevitable fault finding, the backbiting. She would be the target, she was sure. And she was not strong enough to take it; she would buckle for certain. She tried telling herself that she was as good as anyone she’d met in Jasirapur; tried convincing herself that she should be proud of what she’d achieved against all the odds. But deep inside she knew that she didn’t really believe it.

Gerald started to walk towards her. She caught a glimpse of his figure reflected in the mirror and it was taut with tension. His voice, too, was tight and hard. ‘That’s ridiculous. I saw you talking quite happily with any number of the wives. You’ll go, and you’ll enjoy yourself.’

She shook her head and was near to tears again, but she was determined not to capitulate. As he drew closer, she rose to meet him. ‘If I go, Gerald, it won’t be willingly. You’ll have to bind and gag me to get me on that train.’

‘There’s no need for these dramatics.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘I know this country far better than you, which is something you seem to forget. And if I tell you it’s for your own good that you go, you have to believe me.’

When she said nothing, his exasperation seemed to build in the silence and then spill over. ‘I’m your husband, Daisy, which means you’ll do as I wish.’

‘Why is it so important to you that I go?’

The question had come to her out of the blue but it left him looking discomfited. She could see he was struggling with the situation and wondered why. He moved even closer and took the hairbrush from her grasp, then captured both her hands in his. His voice had a note of tenderness she hadn’t heard before.

‘If you won’t do this for me, then do it for the baby. Simla is perfect. You must have heard that from everybody. And there couldn’t be a better place while you’re in this condition. You’ll love the gardens. You’ll love the walking. There are dozens of gentle strolls to take. And when you get too tired, you can call a rickshaw. At night—think of it—you’ll be able to sleep soundly in cool air. How can you not want to go? How can you deny our child the very best start in life?’

His tone had grown more coaxing with every word and she felt herself warm against his body. She wanted his arms around her, wanted to hold him so tightly he would never escape. Instead she eased her hands from out of his clasp. This was not the way she’d wanted to tell him, but she had no choice now.

‘There is no child, Gerald. There is no baby.’