MERRYN ALLINGHAM was born into an army family and spent her childhood on the move. Unsurprisingly, it gave her itchy feet and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world. The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university.
Merryn has always loved books that bring the past to life, so when she began writing herself the novels had to be historical. Merryn’s books are set in the early twentieth century, a fascinating era that she loves researching and writing about. History still holds sway for her, mixed in with a helping of intrigue and a sprinkling of romance.
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To my mother and father, who married in April 1937 at St John’s Afghan Church, Colaba, Bombay
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
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
Endpages
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Bombay, 1938.
The ceiling fan pushed against torpid air, the low growl of its rusty blades a counterpoint to the shrilling telephones and excited Hindi emerging in bursts from beyond the glass screen at the end of the room. From the quayside below, a rhythmic crunch of boots on stone sounded faintly through the open door, a steady train of soldiers chugging its way ashore.
Daisy Driscoll sat in a bubble of silence, a large cardboard suitcase at her side. Her skin gleamed with sweat and her hair hung limp, the carefully pressed finger waves in a state of dissolution. Her make-up had slipped and the crimson lipstick was now an uneven gash. Nervously she fiddled with the ring, fourth finger, right hand, looking constantly from open door to glass partition, shifting from side to side in the shabby Windsor chair.
A shadow darkened the room. A military figure had appeared in the doorway and was walking towards her. She started to her feet, her smile feigning brightness, but a glance at the newcomer’s face and she crumpled back onto the chair.
‘Miss Driscoll?’
The young Indian’s voice was soft and cultured, and his expression a mixture of dismay and compassion. She wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t dared to go in search of a mirror for fear of missing Gerald when he came. She’d donned her very best dress for the occasion but that was hours ago on board The Viceroy of India, and the heat and dust had already taken its toll on the silk print for which she had saved so hard.
‘Yes,’ she answered uncertainly, ‘but Gerald …’
‘He will be waiting at the church. My name is Anish. Anish Rana. I am a friend of Gerald’s and I’m to take you to him.’
Her face fell at the news but he affected not to notice and continued in a smooth voice, ‘He apologises for not coming himself but he had several important matters to attend to before the ceremony.’
She found herself wondering what could be more important than meeting the woman you were to marry after she had been three long weeks at sea, but she said nothing, grateful at least to have an escort. Getting to her feet once again, she bent down to retrieve the bulging suitcase but Anish was quicker and scooped it up with ease, the knife-edged pleats of his uniform hardly wavering. Everything about him spoke ease, the kind of ease that came with authority.
‘Please, follow me.’ His tall figure strode towards the open door. ‘The port is very busy today and we must find our way through the crowds to the main road. I have a conveyance waiting.’
Dispirited by the unexpected turn of events, Daisy followed him obediently. At the door, he paused. ‘Do you have some kind of head covering, Miss Driscoll? The April sun is very hot.’
‘Only this,’ and she took from her bag the fragile confection of feathers and net she had chosen for her wedding. His raised eyebrows made her horribly aware of how ill equipped she was for this strange country.
‘Then we must make all haste,’ he said, and flashed her an encouraging smile.
Together they walked from the waiting room and down a flight of steep stone steps onto the crowded quayside. The air was stifling and the sunlight so blinding that it hit her like a physical blow. For a moment she was overpowered by the heat, the noise, the smells. Spices and dust, she thought, jasmine and drains. People swirled, pushing, begging, shouting in a hundred languages and dialects. There were men in white uniforms and women in saris almost as brilliant as the sun itself. Small children, their naked bodies bristling with flies, eyed the pair speculatively. Sellers of ‘jolly decent fruit’, of sticky sweets, of flower garlands, announced their wares at the top of their voices. Undeterred, Anish Rana strode ahead, scattering to one side vendors and children, and weaving his way expertly through family groups.
Ahead of her, Daisy saw the quay narrow and guessed they were nearing the road. She touched Anish lightly on the arm. ‘Before we leave, Mr Rana, I’d like to visit a washroom. I think we may have just passed one.’
‘You must be quick then. We should be at the church in a quarter of an hour.’
A few minutes before the cracked mirror and she had blotted the shine from flushed skin and corrected her lipstick, but a brush pulled through the drooping waves left them still sadly limp. Then out into the savage heat once more and into the seething city. She had thought the port crowded but here on the street, the smell and movement of a mass of humanity stopped her in her tracks. Everywhere, buses, horses, rickshaws jostled for space. To Daisy’s eyes, there hardly seemed an inch of road unoccupied. Trucks with signs painted on their sides requesting everyone to ‘Please Blow Horn’ swerved between overloaded donkeys, stray dogs, and the occasional camel or bullock-drawn cart. Even the traffic island in the middle of the road was occupied, several cows lazily flicking long ears as they chewed on invisible grass.
Anish’s voice broke her trance. ‘We should go. See here, I have managed to acquire a topi for you.’
She reached out her hand for the khaki helmet. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Better not to ask!’
He grinned and she thought how attractive he was with his white teeth and smooth brown skin. For the first time, her eyes smiled back. He hurried her forward to a four-wheeled carriage waiting by the kerbside. The horse between the shafts looked half-starved, and she felt guilty that the poor creature must carry her in this temperature. But Anish was bundling her into the Victoria and she could do nothing but settle herself as comfortably as she could within its musty leather.
As they swung out into the road, a man waved to her from the other side of the street. Grayson Harte. When he’d first introduced himself, she had thought it such an elegant name, the kind of name that would have invited instant punishment at Eden House. She had always been glad that hers was so down to earth. Not that she could be sure it was hers.
‘Who is that?’ Anish was looking surprised.
‘His name is Grayson Harte. He was travelling on my ship and has a job with the Indian Civil Service. I believe that’s what he called it.’
‘One of the “heaven born” then.’
Grayson would be on his way to report for his new post and she wis
hed him well. He had been kind to her, very kind, picking her up from that catastrophic fall and trying to persuade her to see a doctor. She’d accepted a cup of sweet tea and told him all was well. But it hadn’t been. A stab of anger surprised her by its ferocity, though it was pointless to feel rage. The men who had sent her sprawling on deck in their bid to escape, could not know what they’d done.
‘Will Gerald be wearing a very smart uniform?’ she asked after a while. ‘I’m afraid I might let him down.’
‘Gerald will be in plain service dress. Anything else would be far too hot at this time of the year. And you must not worry, you look splendid.’
She was grateful for the lie. Since she’d left the ship early that morning, her nerves had steadily grown more frayed, whispering loudly that she was travelling under false pretences and had no right to be in India. Should she even, at this late stage, ask Anish to stop the carriage and take her back to the port where she might beg a passage on the first liner leaving for Southampton? But that was a fantasy. She had no money for a ticket and if, by some miracle, she could raise the funds to return, what would she be returning to? There was no home and her precious job was lost to her. It would be all right, she made herself believe, it must be all right. Gerald would understand. He would be at the church and she would confide everything to him before the ceremony. How much easier it would have been, though, if he had come to meet her.
‘I’d hoped Gerald would be here,’ she said. ‘To help me, you know. Everything is so strange.’
‘You will be with him very soon,’ her escort said soothingly.
He talked on, pointing out places of interest, feeding her small glimpses of military life, slowly putting her at ease. He was a comfortable companion, interesting and amusing, and gradually she lost the tension that had been building. They were passing through a quieter neighbourhood now, one of wide, tree-lined roads, and in a short while drew up outside a large building of honeyed stone. Daisy craned her head upwards to follow the slender spire which emerged from the surrounding trees, so tall it almost touched the sky. A golden cross sat at its summit.
‘This is the church we are to be married in?’
‘It is. St John’s Afghan Church. Built to commemorate the officers and soldiers who died in the Afghan campaigns. It has special memories for the military.’
It was unnerving to think of death on this day of all days but the church was exquisite, an oasis of calm, and far distant from any battlefield. She took a deep breath, trying to absorb some of its tranquillity, trying to stop her tired mind chasing down dark avenues. These would be the most important few minutes of her life and the thought was making her feel slightly sick. She loved Gerald and she believed he loved her in return. But it was months since she had last seen him and there had been—well, complications. But she must not allow herself to be deflected. The marriage would work, she thought fiercely; it had to, for she had nothing to go back to.
Anish offered her his arm and together they passed through a square, stone porch and plunged into the cool darkness of the church. A narrow ribbon of red carpet covered the floor’s geometric tiles and made a pathway to the brass rails of the altar. They walked along the nave, between a procession of archways of intricately traced stone and, behind these, window after window of glorious stained glass.
Figures were moving in front of the altar and she picked out a white-frocked priest, half-hidden in the gloom, and two soldierly forms, one it seemed attempting to support the other. One of the figures turned as she made her way down the aisle. It was Gerald, but Gerald as she had never seen him: dishevelled, unsteadily clutching at his comrade, his face a blank mask. He was ill! Daisy felt panic rise. This was why he’d not been at the port, why he’d sent Anish, who had not wanted to alarm her by telling her the truth. The confession she’d been rehearsing died on her lips and she quickened her step. She must get to him, take care of him. As she drew nearer to the group, the unmistakable smell of liquor assailed her. She might be young and naïve, but she recognised the ‘illness’ immediately. He was drunk, drunk on his wedding day. She was seized with the impulse to turn tail and run. Except that she had nowhere to run to.
Drunk or not, her bridegroom managed his part in the brief ceremony with barely a hitch, needing only the occasional prompt from one or other of his friends, his responses slightly slurred but sufficient. In under ten minutes they were man and wife; a brief brush of lips on her cheek and Daisy was again outside in the molten day. The heat had grown even more intense and the air seemed to solidify around them. You could almost cut it with a sharp knife and step through the opening, she thought. The carriage was still waiting by the kerbside and with Gerald beside her, she took her seat once more, while their two witnesses waved them a relieved goodbye.
‘Victoria Station, jaldi!’
Gerald gave the order, sitting stiffly beside her. She closed her eyes against the searing sun and against the unwelcome thoughts that came thick and fast. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, for it was as though she shared the carriage with a stranger. The last time she had seen Gerald, their final goodbye in the London dawn, he had been warm and tender. She’d bought a platform ticket for the Southampton train and stood watching as his dear face slowly disappeared into the distance. He hadn’t wanted to go, had promised that very soon they would be together again, together for life. She glanced across at him. A bead of sweat had dripped from his brow to the end of his nose but he made no attempt to wipe it away. Perhaps after a while you grew not to notice the discomfort. His skin was sallow and his fair hair seemed unusually dull—and surely he should not be bareheaded—but the same wide hazel eyes and full mouth told her he was the man who’d waved her goodbye at Waterloo. It was her heart that told her he was not.
They came to a halt outside a large building of red brick. Gerald half-stumbled from the carriage and the driver helped her down. Her new husband strode impatiently ahead while she stood on the forecourt, still and bewildered. Seemingly every soul in the country was on the move. People streamed past, people of all shapes, sizes, genders, people walking or riding bicycles. A pushcart, laden with rolled rugs, bundles of washing and small children, narrowly missed colliding with her. She sidestepped quickly and followed Gerald towards the entrance of the Victoria Railway Terminus.
It was a monumental building, three tiers of arches, endless small domes and turrets and, above all, a much larger dome in the shape of a crown. The clock, she saw, showed half past one. She had been in India for six hours, and she was consumed with loneliness. She wasn’t sure why since she’d been alone all her life. It was easier that way, easier not to get too close, not to lay oneself open to inevitable hurt. The one friendship she’d braved had been unequal and was now broken. Helena Maddox had been forced to close the London house to nurse a sick sister in Wales and her employer’s news had shattered Daisy’s world. Since then she’d pasted together the pieces of her life but the experience had left its dents and cracks, and these were added to older scars. To the heedless gaze of those she met daily, though, they remained invisible. And that was how she wanted it.
But then Gerald had come into her life and broken down the barriers she had so carefully erected. When she’d first met him, she could hardly believe her good fortune; it had to be the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. He was kind and handsome and loving. He accepted her for the girl she was and seemed not in the least to care where she had come from. Gerald was to be her future and she would never be lonely again. The thought had brought tears to her eyes, and every night in the weeks after he’d left, she had daydreamed for hours in the tiny room she rented, imagining the home they would make together. Now all she felt was emptiness.
She pulled herself up sharply. She must shake off this crushing sense of disappointment. There would be an explanation for Gerald’s conduct, she did not doubt, and in good time he would tell her. Meanwhile she must not fall into an abyss of self-pity, for India meant a new opportunity, a new li
fe. She squared her shoulders and walked after her husband.
In later years she preferred not to think of the journey to Jasirapur. She noticed that most other Europeans travelled with a personal servant who brought them tea or soda or hot water for washing. She had not washed or changed since early that morning and once settled in their compartment, there was no chance of doing so. The floors had been swabbed by a brutal disinfectant and her head soon ached from the smell, and from the noise of passengers filling the train: soldiers returning to their barracks and civilians travelling she knew not where.
‘Who are all these people?’ she asked, when they had sat in silence for the first half hour of the journey.
‘Officers in the ICS.’ Then, when he saw her confused expression, ‘The Indian Civil Service. They push pens around pieces of paper.’
He had the soldier’s contempt for men who spent most of their lives within four walls. Grayson Harte was to be a District Officer in the ICS, she remembered, his first posting in India.
‘What does a District Officer do?’
Gerald seemed surprised by her question. ‘He’s in charge of a district. Collects taxes, settles disputes, does the paperwork—that kind of thing.’
Grayson had enthused over the role he was to take on but she wondered if he would enjoy the reality. She sensed he was a man who had come to India for adventure, and keeping files or adjudicating village quarrels did not seem quite to fit his personality. But what did she know of this immense country or of those who ran it?
She gazed out of the window. It was early afternoon and a white incandescence hung over the endless plain. From time to time toy villages sprang into being, barely distinguishable from the earth itself except for the occasional temple or mosque. On either side of the train, great dun landscapes rolled themselves out like an endless carpet, sometimes flat and featureless, sometimes rocky with small, spiky bushes but always stretching to an unreachable horizon. It made her feel as small as the smallest of insects. Here and there, a few dusty trees broke through the monochrome beige and, more infrequently, a flaming patch of scarlet would flash into sight.
The Girl from Cobb Street Page 1
