Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Acknowledgments
Touchstone
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Julia Gregson
Originally published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion Books
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-1780-4
ISBN-10: 1-4391-1780-2
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East of the Sun
East of the Sun
Chapter One
London, September 1928
Responsible young woman, twenty-eight years old, fond of children, with knowledge of India, will act as chaperone on Tilbury-to-Bombay run in return for half fare.
It seemed like a form of magic to Viva Holloway when, having paid three and six for her advertisement to appear in the latest issue of The Lady, she found herself five days later in the restaurant at Derry & Toms in London, waiting for her first client, a Mrs. Jonti Sowerby from Middle Wallop in Hampshire.
For the purposes of this interview, Viva wore not her usual mix of borrowed silks and jumble sale finds, but the gray tweed suit she loathed but had worn for temporary work as a typist. Her hair, thick and dark and inclined toward wildness, had been dampened and clenched back in a small bun.
She stepped into the genteel murmurings of the tearoom, where a pianist was playing a desultory tune. A small, bird-thin woman wearing an extraordinary blue hat (a kind of caged thing with a blue feather poking out of the back) stood up to greet her. By her side was a plump and silent girl who, to Viva’s considerable amazement, Mrs. Sowerby introduced as her daughter Victoria.
Both of them were surrounded by a sea of packages. A cup of coffee was suggested but, disappointingly, no cake. Viva hadn’t eaten since breakfast and there was a delicious-looking walnut cake, along with some scones, under the glass dome on the counter.
“She looks awfully young,” Mrs. Sowerby immediately complained to her daughter, as if Viva wasn’t there.
“Mummy,” protested Victoria in a strangled voice and, when the girl turned to look at her, Viva noticed she had wonderful eyes: huge and an unusual dark blue color almost like cornflowers. I’m sorry, I can’t help this, they were signaling.
“Well, I’m sorry, darling, but she does.” Mrs. Sowerby had pursed her lips under her startling hat. “Oh dear, this is such a muddle.”
In a tight voice she, at last, addressed Viva, explaining that Victoria was shortly to go to India to be a bridesmaid for her best friend Rose, who was, and here a certain show-off drawl entered Mrs. Sowerby’s voice, “about to be married to a Captain Jack Chandler of the Third Cavalry at St. Thomas’s Cathedral in Bombay.”
The chaperone they had engaged, a Mrs. Moylett, had done a last-minute bunk—something about a sudden engagement to an older man.
Viva had set down her cup and composed her features in what she felt to be a responsible look; she’d sensed a certain desperation in the woman’s eyes, a desire to have the matter speedily resolved.
“I know Bombay quite well,” she’d said, which was true up to a point: she’d passed through that city in her mother’s arms at the age of eighteen months, and then again aged five where she’d eaten an ice cream on the beach, and for the last time at the age of ten, never to return again. “Victoria will be in good hands.”
The girl turned to Viva with a hopeful look. “You can call me Tor if you like,” she said. “All my friends do.”
When the waiter appeared again, Mrs. Sowerby began to make a fuss about having a tisane rather than a “normal English tea.”
“I’m half French, you see,” she explained to Viva in a pouty way as if this excused everything.
While she was looking for something in her little crocodile bag, the daughter turned to Viva and rolled her eyes. This time she mouthed “Sorry,” then she smiled and crossed her fingers.
“Do you know anything about cabin trunks?” Mrs. Sowerby bared her teeth into a small compact. “That was something else Mrs. Moylett promised to help us with.”
And by a miracle Viva did: the week before she’d been scouring the front pages of the Pioneer for possible jobs, and one Tailor Ram had placed a huge advertisement for them.
She looked steadily at Mrs. Sowerby. “The Viceroy is excellent,” she said. “It has a steel underpinning under its canvas drawers. You can get them at the Army and Navy Store. I can’t remember the exact price but I think it’s around twenty-five shillings.”
There was a small commotion in the restaurant, the clink of cutlery momentarily suspended. An attractive older woman wearing faded tweeds and a serviceable hat had arrived; she was smiling as she walked toward them.
“It’s Mrs. Wetherby.” Tor stood up, beaming, and hugged the older woman.
“Do sit down.” She patted the chair beside her. “Mummy and I are having thrilling talks about jods and pith helmets.”
“That’s right, Victoria,” Mrs. Sowerby said, “make quite sure the whole restaurant hears our business.” She turned to Viva. “Mrs. Wetherby is the mother of Rose. The one who is going to be married in India to Captain Chandler. She’s a quite exceptionally beautiful girl.”
“I can’
t wait for you to meet her.” Tor was suddenly radiant with happiness. “She is so much fun, and so perfect, everybody falls in love with her—I’ve known her since she was a baby, we went to school together, we rode ponies…”
Viva felt a familiar pang—what a wonderful thing to have a friend who’d known you since you were a baby.
“Victoria,” her mother reproved. The blue feather poised above her eyebrow made her look like a slightly miffed bird. “I’m not sure we need to tell Miss Holloway all this yet. We haven’t quite decided. Where is darling Rose by the way?”
“At the doctor’s.” Mrs. Wetherby looked embarrassed. “You know…” She sipped her coffee and gave Mrs. Sowerby a significant look. “But we had the most exciting morning before I dropped her off,” Mrs. Wetherby continued smoothly. “We bought dresses and tennis rackets, and I’m meeting Rose again in an hour at Beauchamp Place—she’s being fitted for her trousseau. The poor girl will be absolutely dead tonight; I don’t think I’ve ever bought so many clothes in one day. Now, who is this charming young person?”
Viva was introduced to Mrs. Wetherby as “a professional chaperone.” Mrs. Wetherby, who had a sweet smile, put her hand in Viva’s and said it was lovely to meet her.
“I’ve done the interview,” Mrs. Sowerby said to Mrs. Wetherby. “She knows India like the back of her hand, and she’s cleared up the trunk business—she says the Viceroy is the only one.”
“The girls are very sensible,” said Mrs. Wetherby anxiously. “It’s just quite comforting to have someone to keep an eye on things.”
“But I’m afraid we can only offer you fifty pounds for both girls,” said Mrs. Sowerby, “and not a penny more.”
Viva literally heard Tor stop breathing; she saw her mouth twist in childish apprehension, big eyes trained on her while she waited.
She did some quick sums in her head. The single fare from London to Bombay was around eighty pounds. She had one hundred and twenty pounds saved and would need some spending money when she arrived.
“That sounds very reasonable,” she said smoothly, as if this was something she did every day.
Tor exhaled noisily. “Thank God!” she said. “Oh, what bliss!”
Viva shook hands all round and left the restaurant with a new spring in her step; this was going to be a piece of cake: the gawky one with the blue eyes and the mad-looking mother was so clearly desperate to go; her friend, Rose, was about to be married and had no choice.
Her next stop was the Army and Navy Hotel to talk to a woman named Mrs. Bannister about another prospective client: a schoolboy whose parents lived in Assam. She scrabbled in her handbag to check the piece of paper. The boy’s name was Guy Glover.
And now she was sitting with Mrs. Bannister, who turned out to be an irritable, nervy-looking person with buck teeth. Around forty, Viva estimated, although she wasn’t good at guessing the age of old people. Mrs. Bannister ordered them both a lukewarm cup of tea with no biscuits or cake.
Mrs. Bannister said she would come to the point quickly because she had a three-thirty train to catch back to Shrewsbury. Her brother, a tea planter in Assam, and his wife, Gwen, were “slightly on the horns of a dilemma.” Their son, Guy, an only child, had been asked to leave his school rather suddenly. He was sixteen years old.
“He’s been quite a difficult boy, but I’m told he’s very, very kind underneath it all,” his aunt assured Viva. “He’s been at St. Christopher’s for ten years now without going back to India. For various reasons I don’t have time to explain to you we haven’t been able to see him as much as we’d like to, but his parents feel he’ll thrive better in India after all. If you can take him, they’re quite prepared to pay your full fare.”
Viva felt her face flush with jubilation. If her whole fare was paid, and she had the fifty pounds coming from Mrs. Sowerby, she could buy herself a little breathing space in India, thank God for that. It didn’t even cross her mind at that moment to inquire why a boy of that age couldn’t travel by himself, or indeed, why his parents, the Glovers, didn’t come home to collect him themselves.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know about me, references and so forth?” she asked instead.
“No,” said Mrs. Bannister. “Oh well, maybe yes, you should give us a reference, I suppose. Do you have people in London?”
“My present employer is a writer, a Mrs. Driver.” Viva scribbled down the address quickly for Mrs. Bannister, who, fiddling with her handbag and trying to catch the waitress’s eye, seemed half in flight. “She lives opposite the Natural History Museum.”
“I’ll also send you a map of Guy’s school and your first payment,” said Mrs. Bannister. “And thank you so much for doing this.” She produced all her rather overwhelming teeth at once.
But what had most struck Viva, watching the back of Mrs. Bannister’s raincoat flapping in her haste to enter her taxi, was how shockingly easy it was to tell people lies, particularly when it was what they wanted to hear. For she was not twenty-eight, she was only twenty-five, and as for knowing India, she’d only played there innocently as a child, before what had happened. She knew it about as well as she knew the far side of the moon.
Chapter Two
“She seems all right, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Sowerby said to Mrs. Wetherby after Viva had gone. “She’s very good-looking,” she added, as if this decided everything, “if you discount that appalling suit. Honestly, Englishwomen and their clothes.” She made a strange hood of her upper lip when she said the word “clothes,” but for once Tor couldn’t be bothered to react.
How balloon—they had a chaperone, phase two of the plan had fallen neatly into place. Her mother’s pantomime of careful consideration might have fooled the others, but it hadn’t fooled her. They’d fought so bitterly that summer that a hairy ape could have applied for the job and her mother would have said “He’s perfect,” so desperate was she to see Tor gone.
And now, the excitement was almost more than she could bear. The tickets had come that morning, and they were leaving in two weeks. Two weeks! They had a whole day ahead of them in London in which to buy clothes and other necessities from a thrilling list that their Bombay hostess had provided.
Her mother, who normally had all kinds of rules about things—for instance, only lemon and water on Tuesdays, and no cake on Wednesday, and saying “bing” before you went into a room because it made your mouth a pretty shape—had relaxed them, even to the extent of allowing her walnut cake at Derry & Toms. And now she knew she was definitely going, all the other things that normally drove her completely mad about Mother—the way she went all French and pouty as soon as she got to a city; the embarrassing hats; her overpowering scent (Guerlain’s Shalimar); not to mention the other rules about men, and conversation—seemed almost bearable, because soon she’d be gone, gone, gone, hopefully never to return, and the worst year of her life would be over.
After coffee, Mrs. Wetherby flew off to pick up Rose at the doctor’s.
Tor’s mother was sipping a hot water and lemon—no tisane had been found—she had her silver pencil and notebook out with the clothes list inside.
“Now jods. Jodhpurs. You’ll probably go hunting in India.”
It seemed to Tor that her mother was speaking louder than usual, as if hoping the people at the next table would know that, for once, they were the exciting people.
“Ci Ci says it’s too stupid to buy them in London; she knows a man in Bombay who’ll run them up for pennies.”
Ci Ci Mallinson was a distant cousin of her mother’s and would be Tor’s hostess when she arrived in Bombay. She had also heroically agreed to organize Rose’s wedding without ever having met her. Her letters, written on thrilling brittle writing paper in a slashing hand, spoke of constant parties, gymkhanas, days at the races, with the occasional grand ball at the governor’s.
“Such a good idea,” she’d written in her last about a recent ball at a place called the Bombay Yacht Club. “All the decent young Englishmen
are rounded up, and the girls spend ten minutes with each of them and then get moved on—great fun and usually quite long enough to know if one can get on.” Before she’d signed off she’d warned, “People out here really do try to keep up, so be sure to send out a couple of issues of Vogue with the girls, and if it’s not too much of a bore, one of those divine silk tea roses—mine was munched upcountry by a horde of hungry bog ants!”
“Quinine,” her mother was ticking away furiously, “face cream, darling, don’t forget, please. I know I nag about unimportant things, but there really is nothing more ageing and you are already quite brown.” This was true; Tor had her ancestors’ smooth olive-brown skin. “Eyebrow tweezers, darling, I am going to take off your own caterpillars before you go.” Eyebrows were an obsession of her mother. “Evening dresses, a camp stool—oh, for goodness’s sake! I think that’s too Dr. Livingstone…I’m going to strike that—and…” she lowered her voice, “she says you’ll need packets and packets of you-know-whats. They’re wildly expensive there and I—”
“Mummy!” Tor frowned at her and moved away; any moment now she felt her mother would blight her beautiful morning by talking about “Dolly’s hammocks,” her code for sanitary towels. “Mummy,” Tor leaned across the table, “please don’t cross out the camp stool. It sounds so exciting.”
“Oh, how pretty you look when you smile.” Her mother’s face suddenly collapsed. “If only you’d smile more.”
In the silence that followed, Tor sensed a series of complicated and painful thoughts taking place under her mother’s hat; some of them she was all too familiar with: had Tor smiled more, for instance, or looked more like Rose, all the expense of sending her to India might have been saved; if she’d eaten less cake; drunk more water and lemon on Tuesdays; acted more French. Her mother seemed always to be adding her up like this and coming to the conclusion she was a huge disappointment.
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