Where Earth Meets Sky

by Annie Murray

  ‘Are you all right, Hodgkins?’ Captain Fairford, who had been striding towards Sam, diverted for a second.

  ‘Yes, sir. Quite all right, sir.’ Once again, Hodgkins scrambled to the vertical, hat in hand, bending to right the pots of fledgling chrysanthemums.

  ‘Splendid.’ Captain Fairford held out his hand, eyes not quite managing to convert their twinkling amusement at Hodgkins’s antics into something more formal. ‘Captain Fairford, Twelfth Royal Lancers. You’re the Daimler mechanic? So glad you’ve arrived at last. The house has been on tenterhooks.’

  The captain was younger than Sam had expected, lightly built with dark brown, wavy hair and a sensitive face that would have seemed more in place on a scholar than a soldier. And he had a modest, neat ’tache, much like Sam’s own. There was keen intelligence, shrewdness, and the dark brown eyes, though still tinged with laughter, took Sam in at a glance. However swift the glance and with whatever upper-class etiquette, Sam knew he was being measured up. But he felt himself relax. He liked the look of Fairford, so far.

  ‘Ironside. Motor mechanic.’

  ‘Well – welcome to Ambala.’ He looked properly at the car then. ‘I say,’ he breathed.

  The captain circled his new acquisition, making admiring noises and firing questions and the rest of the household edged forward. Most of them seemed to be native servants. Among them, though, Sam’s attention was caught by a European woman holding a sleepy-looking boy in her arms. She was dark-haired, her features voluptuous and extraordinarily striking. He thought he had never seen a face with so much life in it, the dark eyes seeming to flash with energy as she looked at the car, and yet there was a closedness in her expression which he found immediately intriguing. She held the boy to her very tenderly, his fair curls bright against the dark stuff of her blouse. After a moment Captain Fairford seemed to remember something and looked round.

  ‘Where’s Sus— er, Mrs Fairford?’

  ‘She’s with Ayah and Isadora,’ the dark-haired woman said. Her voice was soft and well-spoken.

  Captain Fairford nodded, and turned his attention back to the car. The servants were gathered round now, chattering quietly, inquisitive fingers marking the dust on the hot bonnet.

  ‘Well, Ironside,’ the captain said, hands on hips. Sam could see the man was excited and he liked him for it. He was a car man, all right. It just got hold of some men and wouldn’t let go. ‘We must get you a drink, and as soon as you’ve had a wash and brush up, we’ll take her out for a spin.’

  ‘Why not before?’ Sam said, holding his gaze. ‘Sir.’

  A grin spread across Captain Fairford’s face. The fact that the establishment where Fairford was educated would have been far superior to Sam’s Coventry Board School was of no account in those seconds. They were like two eager lads in a school yard.

  ‘Well, Ironside, if you’re game – why not?’

  Chapter Nine

  Charles Fairford was a gentleman. From the moment Sam arrived in the cantonment the captain went out of his way to put him at his ease, treating him almost like an equal. The same, however, could not be said of his wife.

  Sam disliked Susan Fairford on sight, and it was pretty clear she felt the same about him. Of course, he thought, it was hard to tell with these stuck-up little English misses what their actual feelings might be about anything, but she certainly went out of her way to pull rank and put up every social and class barrier she could get away with.

  That first afternoon Sam took the captain out for a quick spin. They weren’t alone. From the crowd of servants, Charles Fairford called out a tall, thin native fellow. With everyone else watching – that was something Sam was discovering about India, the way everything seemed to be done to an audience – he introduced the fellow as his syce, or groom, Arsalan. He had been chosen to learn about a new ‘horse power’ they were developing in the modern world of industry.

  ‘I want you to teach me, and Arsalan here, everything you know,’ Captain Fairford said. ‘He’s my right-hand man.’

  Sam hadn’t expected that, not entrusting the Daimler to a native. The chap had probably never learned to read and write, so it seemed a bit rich to expect him to get to grips with the workings of the internal combustion engine! But it wasn’t his place to argue. As they got into the car he caught sight of the dark-haired woman carrying the sleeping boy along the veranda. Something about the way she moved drew him and he had to be careful not to stare.

  This Arsalan fellow sat up at the back and Sam drove the two of them out along the cantonment roads, which all looked pretty much the same to him. The sun had sunk low as they made their way back and the light turned bronze, then pink.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen light quite like this before, sir,’ Sam said, very taken by it.

  ‘Best time of day in India,’ the captain replied. They had to speak up to be heard over the engine but even so, Sam could still hear the fondness in his voice. ‘Nothing like the Indian sunset, except the dawn, of course, which is beautiful almost beyond description. Or at least by me.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I’m no poet, I do know that.’

  ‘You must miss home though?’ Sam said.

  ‘Ah, but this is home. I was born here, you see. So talking about England as “home” is merely a turn of phrase for me. Though I was at school there, naturally. For my wife, it’s quite different, of course. She grew up in Sussex. Where do you come from, Ironside?’

  ‘Coventry, sir.’

  ‘Of course. How ridiculous of me. And you don’t have to keep calling me sir.’

  When they braked back outside the house, Captain Fairford said something over his shoulder to the syce, who leaped from the car and hurried off into the dusk, then turned to Sam.

  ‘Well – it’s marvellous: just what I was hoping for! I can hardly wait to find out all about it and take the wheel myself. Now—’ He leaped energetically from the car and turned on his heel to say, ‘We dine at seven-thirty, and you’ll join us, of course. Consider yourself one of the family while you’re here, eh? Now – let’s get someone to show you your quarters.’

  Sam made sure he was dressed and ready by seven-thirty. He’d brought his Sunday suit, thanks to Helen.

  ‘They’re bound to dress for dinner,’ she’d said. ‘You’ve got to look right. And there’ll be church on Sundays.’

  He felt pretty intimidated when he first went into the house. This was how the other half lived all right! Posh was hardly an adequate word to describe it. As for his quarters, he had never slept in a room like it before, although by their standards it was probably quite simple. There was a deep red carpet on the floor, a wide bed draped in mozzie netting and an array of dark, polished furniture and a long gilt-framed mirror, all of first-class quality. On the washstand stood a pitcher decorated with pink roses, all ready, full of warm water.

  Before leaving the room he checked his appearance. The suit was quite run-of-the-mill and he wondered if he would measure up. Pulling his shoulders back he was at least reassured by his strong, manly stature. Keen as mustard, that was the impression people had. And he didn’t come across as some office-wallah, that was for sure. Sam knew he was good-looking. Smooth dark brown hair, alert grey eyes, strong brows. And he knew he was good at his job. ‘Cocky sod, isn’t he?’ he’d heard himself described at the works. But he was going places – he knew it. And he wasn’t going to be intimidated by the wealth of the Fairford mansion.

  Opening the door, he jumped, startled by a small figure peering up at him outside. The corridor was rather dark and Sam was unnerved for a moment. It must be a girl, since she had long, dark hair and was wearing a white frock. And she had some sort of doll tucked under one arm. But she stood in a strange pose, knees and feet turned out and her face was . . . well, not normal: it was partly the way she stared at him, not smiling or speaking, that was disturbing.

  ‘Izzy? Isadora!’ It was a native voice calling along the passage, high pitched and exasperated. ‘Naughty girl, where are you? Come
here, now!’

  At that moment a mellow-sounding gong ran through the house and the male servant appeared to take Sam to dinner, shooing the child away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Sam asked, carefully.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Fairford’s daughter,’ the man said. ‘Her name is Isadora.’

  ‘Is she . . . well, all right?’

  ‘She is a mongol, sir.’ He spoke with a slight inclination of his head, as if to acknowledge this as a personal sorrow.

  ‘I saw another child? How many are there?’

  ‘Only Miss Isadora and Master Cosmo, Sahib. Miss Isadora stays with her ayah – Master Cosmo is undertaking his education with Miss Waters.’

  Sam immediately thought of the dark-haired woman carrying the child. ‘I see. And the boy, Cosmo. Is he . . . ?’

  The servant’s face broke into a broad smile.

  ‘Master Cosmo is perfectly all right. Oh yes, very much so, thanking God.’

  The Fairfords were already in the dining room, standing each side of a long, shining table laid with silver and glass. A heavy chandelier cast a gentle pool of light on to the table, leaving the edges of the room in shadow. Sam knew he had not imagined that as he came in the two of them stopped talking abruptly. There’d been some disagreement, it was obvious. Sam was a married man, after all: he knew the sort of thing.

  After a second’s silence, they summoned smiles to their faces, but the atmosphere was strained. Captain Fairford seemed pleased to break away.

  ‘Ironside! Found your way all right? Fancy a Scotch?’

  ‘Darling,’ Mrs Fairford reproached him. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ She had one of those pure, cut-glass voices which set Sam on edge to start with. And after all, wasn’t it pretty obvious who he was?

  ‘Sorry – remiss of me. Darling – this is Mr Ironside, the mechanic from Daimler. Ironside, this is my wife, Susan.’

  She glided closer to shake his hand, and said, ‘Yes – Mrs Fairford.’ This sounded like a put-down to Sam, after her husband had used her Christian name. ‘How d’you do?’

  She was wearing a sapphire-blue dress which swept the floor, a long string of pearls swinging sinuously as she moved. In the dim light, Sam saw her as very pretty. Of course, she was a beautiful woman, with that slender, curving figure and the pale hair, swept up and decorated with tiny jewels which caught the light as she moved. Her face had all the requirements of prettiness: wide blue eyes, even features, with a distinctive sharpness about them and a definite, smiling mouth. Her neck was long and slim, and the overall impression she made was striking. And yet, when she came up close, somehow the prettiness turned to something else, as if there was a wall around her built of defensive snobbery which drew the life from her features and, to his eyes, made her look pinched and calculating.

  ‘So pleasant to meet you,’ she purred, without it sounding so at all.

  Her smile communicated no warmth and her eyes contained a subtle contempt which did not allow her gaze to meet Sam’s for more than a second, in case, it seemed, she might be soiled by even fleeting contact with someone of inferior standing. Trade, of course, was all he was to her. She allowed her hand to touch just the tips of his fingers, then withdrew.

  ‘How d’you do, Mrs Fairford?’ Sam said, already knowing that he loathed the stuck-up bitch for looking at him like that. Or, more precisely, for refusing to see him at all.

  ‘I hope you had a safe journey?’ she asked, though her attention was turned to the table, which was laid for three. She straightened one of the place settings.

  ‘On the whole,’ Sam said, though he directed the answer at the captain, who was handing him a glass of Scotch. ‘Though I must say, sea travel doesn’t suit me completely.’

  ‘Oh!’ To his surprise, Mrs Fairford agreed fervently. ‘Isn’t it simply awful! I remember feeling so desperately ill on the journey out here! It almost puts one off the idea of going home to dear old England again, if that were not such a terrible thought!’

  The two of them gestured towards the table, and as if some signal had been given, though if there was Sam never saw it, a cohort of servants, each dressed in a similar maroon and white livery, began to bring in the food: a tureen of soup, some wide, white dishes and a tray of bread.

  Captain Fairford sat at the head of the table and Mrs Fairford and Sam were opposite each other. Mrs Fair-ford fretted at the servants about details of the meal – could they not have cut the bread more elegantly, and had they remembered to strain the soup properly? Two of them stood silently in the shadows by the wall as they ate. Sam wondered what on earth they should talk about. Had it been just himself and the captain, they could have talked all evening about the car. There was no stopping him on that subject! And it was clearly what the captain would have liked to discuss as well. But of course, that wasn’t women’s talk. So Sam kept the conversation light, not technical, talking about things which he thought would amuse.

  ‘Tell me, Ironside,’ the captain said, as they began on the soup. ‘Surely there isn’t still the same fierce opposition to the motor car in England now? While I was at Eton I seem to remember there were all sorts of protests going on – outrage about freedom of the roads, terrorizing of neighbourhoods and so on.’

  ‘Well, yes – we haven’t lost that yet,’ Sam said, trying to get used to the strange, spicy flavour of the soup. ‘There’s the Highway Protection League, who’d like to ban the motor car altogether. With attitudes like that, no wonder the French and Germans have been quicker off the mark than us! They’re always complaining about the dust and noise – and of course there are always those that will complain because they can’t afford a motor, so it’s sour grapes against anyone who can.’

  ‘And all those with investments in the railway, of course,’ Susan Fairford added. ‘Like my dear father, who could never say a single good word about the motor car!’

  She gave a genuine smile, seeming to relax for a moment, and Sam thawed towards her fractionally.

  ‘I seem to remember they were hardly allowed to get up any speed at all,’ Charles Fairford said.

  ‘We’ve come on a bit since the early days of steam engines. Remember the early vehicles – only go at two miles an hour in town, and don’t go out without a stoker and the fellow walking ahead with a red flag to warn everyone! At least we’re allowed to get up to twenty miles an hour now . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, thanks to Lord Montagu’s bill.’

  ‘A good Daimler customer,’ Sam said. The conservative MP Lord Montagu had brought the Motor Car Act onto the statute book in 1903. Montagu was a Daimler driver and motor enthusiast. ‘He’s brought it home that we’re here to stay,’ Sam said. ‘Even if there are still people jumping into ditches when they hear a motor coming round the bend!’

  Charles Fairford laughed and his wife gave a faint smile.

  ‘It’s no easier here,’ the captain said, chuckling. ‘A fellow I know goes up to Mahabaleshwar in the hot season – that’s a hill station down near Poona. The whole town is utterly hostile to the motor car and there are signs everywhere. He said his favourite is one that says, “Any motor car found in motion while travelling to its destination will be vigorously dealt with”! I mean, I ask you!’

  As they were laughing, the servants came to remove the soup bowls and bring in the next course, which proved to be beef olives.

  After this hiatus, Susan Fairford began on Sam, with a battery of questions between mouthfuls of beef and potatoes. She had evidently had enough of talking about motor cars.

  ‘So where is it you come from exactly, Mr Ironside?’

  ‘From Coventry.’ He was about to add ‘ma’am’ but decided against it. He sipped his drink. The meat had a rather more fiery filling than he was used to.

  ‘Ah, the industrial Midlands! Rather like Charles!’ She gave a little laugh, as if the idea of Fairford and himself coming from anywhere remotely similar was too ridiculous for words. ‘Charles’s family have an estate in Warwickshire – Cranbourne – some mil
es from Rugby.’

  ‘Not that it’s anything much to do with me,’ Captain Fairford added. He refilled Sam’s glass with Scotch. He’d have to watch it and not get tight, Sam realized. He was pretty tired and he wasn’t used to much in the way of spirits. A couple of pints of ale was more his style. These colonials all drank a great deal, he had heard, what with the heat and nothing much else doing.

  ‘I spent school holidays up there,’ the captain was saying, ‘but apart from that, it’s a foreign land to me – as I was telling you earlier.’

  ‘And are you married?’ Mrs Fairford continued. She was very direct in her questioning, as if she had some right to know everything.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Our first child is expected in June.’

  He thought he saw a flicker of some emotion cross her face, but all she said was, ‘How nice. I wonder whether it will be a girl or a boy.’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘No, of course not. How silly of me. And how old are you, Mr Ironside, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Darling!’ Her husband reproached her.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ He already thought her rude and condescending and this made no difference. ‘I’m just twenty-one.’

  ‘And your wife . . . ?’

  ‘Helen? She’s twenty.’

  She paused, finishing a mouthful.

  ‘And have you always been a mechanic?’

  ‘I’ve recently completed my apprenticeship with Daimler.’ For a moment he was homesick for something familiar: the great machine shops at the works, the lathes turning. It was all part of him. ‘I joined the firm at fourteen. So, yes, I suppose I have.’

  ‘And your wife? Presumably she’s not a mechanic?’ She gave a silly little laugh. Sam just looked back at her. He wasn’t going to let her get under his skin.