‘They are oleander trees, aren’t they?’ She pointed through the nearest window but Gerald was plainly uninterested in the landscape.
They had never before had a problem with talking or at least Gerald had not. He had talked and she had listened. He’d kept her enthralled with stories of his childhood, his days at boarding school and most of all his tales of life in India. This new taciturnity was uncomfortable; it belonged to a different Gerald, belonged to a man she hardly recognised. But perhaps she was being too harsh. She should not be surprised they found themselves so awkward with each other. After all, theirs had been a whirlwind romance conducted in snatched moments against the backdrop of a great city. Now they were meeting for the first time in four months, and meeting in a very different world.
She waited a while and when he said nothing, tried another tack. ‘Have you known Mr Rana long?’
‘Lieutenant.’
‘Lieutenant?’
‘Lieutenant Rana. He’s a fellow officer in the 7th.’
‘I didn’t know your regiment had Indian officers,’ she said humbly.
‘We’re getting more each year. It’s called Indianisation.’
‘And did Lieutenant Rana attend Sandhurst with you?’
Gerald shifted in his seat and looked out of the far window. ‘He went to Dehra Dun.’ Daisy heard the boredom in his voice. ‘The Military Academy. It’s an Indian version of Sandhurst.’
‘He seems very nice.’ It was trite, she knew, but anything more original might again betray her ignorance.
The conversation fizzled to a close and they sat once more in silence. At length, Gerald stood up and repositioned himself, stretching lengthways along one of the bench seats. ‘We have a few hours to go, Daisy. Better try to get some sleep. It looks like we have the carriage to ourselves.’
‘How many hours?’ Already the journey seemed interminable.
‘Fifteen, sixteen, I reckon.’
Her ears did not quite believe what they were hearing. Sixteen more hours imprisoned in this broiling square of tin. When they’d joined the train, she’d seen First Class stamped boldly on the bodywork and felt guilty. She had wronged Gerald, unwittingly it was true, but she was undeserving of such palatial treatment. She need not have worried since it soon became clear that First Class was no indicator of comfort in this confusing country. The seats were hard, the carriage creaked and jolted over old Victorian tracks, and the heat was utterly overpowering. Only the smallest respite came from the faint whirr of an electric fan, that played constantly on a tub of melting ice, placed between the seats in a vain attempt to keep the compartment cool.
Door and window handles were soon too hot to touch and the studded leather benches grew slimy beneath her sweating limbs. A film of red dust percolated through the closed windows and settled on everything it touched: blinds, seats, passengers. She tried to doze but whenever she felt herself drifting, she was jolted awake by the train grinding to a halt. Stops were frequent, station after station seeming to have dropped from the sky into the middle of nowhere. As they drew alongside each platform, she could see long lines of sleeping men, swaddled in protective layers of white cloth, while their wives squatted patiently beside them. Once the train had pulled to a stop, the clamour was unbelievable. Passengers ran in all directions, trying to scramble onto the train, clinging to carriages, even clinging to the roof. Friends pushed each other through windows, families set up makeshift bedding in corridors. Vendors handed in trays with teapots and plates of bread covered with rancid butter and little green bananas. At one stop, Gerald alighted and returned with food from one of the itinerant sellers but she could not eat it. Her throat was parched, almost closed, and all she could do was sip the water he offered.
Her new husband slept heavily. He had the soldier’s ability to rest wherever he found himself, and he slept with barely a sound. His face had lost its earlier sallowness and the strands of fair hair falling over his forehead made him look very young. Daisy’s heart stirred. She forgave him his indifference, his impatience with her, even his drinking. He had so far offered no explanation for his discourtesy, but her mind had been busy supplying one. It was wedding nerves, she’d decided, that was all. Marriage brought change, a disruption to the world he knew, and Gerald loved his life in India, that was plain from every conversation they’d ever had. He was immensely proud of being chosen for the Indian Army, so competitive was entry. And proud of being a cavalryman. Whenever he spoke of his regiment, he lit with an inner glow. He must be worried that her arrival posed a threat to the life he loved. Her job was to reassure him, make clear that she had not come to unsettle his world but to build a loving home for them both.
By sunset, they were travelling through a different kind of landscape. In village after village columns of fire smoke wound their way upwards and spread out across fields of blue linseed. Preparations for the evening meal were clearly under way. She felt her heart open to the tranquil beauty of the land, to the thousands, no, millions of lives, lived beneath its broad skies. A pale, golden dust hung from above, outlining a straggle of cows making the slow journey back to their night shelter. In an instant it seemed the glittering heat of the day had been transformed into one of milky warmth. Darkness fell just as suddenly and, at last, through sheer exhaustion, she slept.
‘We’re here. Jasirapur.’
Daisy felt herself shaken awake, and with clouded eyes looked out on yet another platform. It was early morning but already she could feel the sun gathering pace, its stealthy fingers probing the compartment’s defences. Marwar Junction, she read.
‘We get out here,’ Gerald repeated.
Hastily she scrabbled her possessions together and in a few minutes had joined him on the platform. The train was already preparing to leave for its onward journey to Delhi. She looked around for her suitcase but the luggage had disappeared from sight. An aroma of cinnamon trailed the air, wafting in clouds from the steaming cauldrons scattered at intervals along the platform.
Gerald stopped in his walk towards the exit. ‘The bags are already in the trap but would you like tea before we set off? The chai-makers are pretty good here.’
His kindness revived her as much as the tea. She sipped at the cup slowly, readying herself for this last part of the journey. She had been travelling for twenty-four hours with little rest but she couldn’t complain. She had come despite Gerald’s warning that she would not be at all comfortable and her journey was unnecessary. He’d promised to return to England at the first opportunity and when he did, they would marry immediately. She could see she’d upset him by taking matters into her own hands, but he loved her and he would understand why she’d had to come. With his support, she would make a success of this new life. For a while the country would be strange, but she would adapt, she would learn as she went along.
Though the sun shone hotter by the minute, the pony and trap set a brisk pace. The track they were travelling was little more than a dirt road, rough and unfinished, and she was constantly jolted from one side of the carriage to the other. She saw Gerald looking anxiously at her but she said nothing. It was not the right time.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he encouraged.
This morning he seemed completely himself, looking and sounding the debonair young officer she’d met that morning at the perfume counter of Bridges. Debonair was not an adjective she could claim for herself, for the dress she had so carefully chosen for her wedding looked little more than a rag, and smothered now in the red dust that flew everywhere.
The driver swung onto a narrower track, following it down and round, the pony skilfully negotiating a series of corners and curves until they were at a rough mud wall enclosing what she took to be a compound. It was hard to discern how large the compound was or what lay within it, since weeds and grasses had been allowed free rein and were now almost thigh high. Patches of red oleanders here and there broke up the wilderness. And right in front of where Daisy sat perched on the trap’s small seat, an enorm
ous tree, its thick, drooping branches growing roots of their own and casting a circle of dense black shadow against the sunlight. Behind the tree and through its huge branches, she could just catch a glimpse of a whitewashed building.
Out of nowhere, it seemed, a light-skinned servant appeared at the side of the carriage. He was dressed from head to toe in starched white cotton and was bowing his head in welcome. Gerald jumped down and clapped the man on the shoulder.
‘Rajiv, this is your new memsahib. Daisy, you must meet my trusted servant, Rajiv.’
The man bowed his head again but she was aware of his eyes sliding sideways and up, observing her, watchful, even hostile. No, she must be wrong. He couldn’t be hostile since he did not know her. But if he had been with Gerald for years, she reasoned, he might resent her presence, might resent a woman stepping into his domain. She would need to make an effort to get to know him.
‘I am very new to India, Rajiv, but I hope you will help me settle in.’
‘Of course he will,’ Gerald said a little too heartily, and led the way into the building she’d seen in the distance.
A thatched roof sat atop its blinding white walls and a wide veranda wrapped itself around all four sides, the paint peeling from its decaying wood. She noticed a bicycle propped against one of the supports. It seemed as battered as its surroundings. Panels of plaited reeds had been hung at every window and, once inside the bungalow, she could see that though they made its interior overly dark, they also helped to keep it cool. Rush matting covered the floor and the furniture was sparse: a horsehair sofa, several chairs made from wicker, a table, a desk. They appeared to be standing in saucers full of water and she bent her head to look.
‘That’s to stop the ants from climbing up and eating the furniture.’ Gerald had seen her from the corner of his eye. ‘You’ll soon get used to the wildlife.’ And as though to test his theory, she heard sounds of scratching and scurrying above her head, making her look upwards to the ceiling of whitewashed hessian.
‘That will be the rats. We get the occasional bat too, but nothing to worry about. They won’t find a way in. They live between the thatch and the ceiling.’
‘But can’t you get rid of them?’
‘Not possible. Like I said, you’ll get used to it.’
When her face suggested this was unlikely, he shrugged his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’m sorry this isn’t the palace you might have been imagining. But you insisted on coming. And you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.’
‘No, Gerald.’ She walked up to him and took his hands in hers. ‘You’re right. The bungalow is delightful.’ After all what had she to compare it with, a bleak room shared with five others in the orphanage, a servant’s attic in Miss Maddox’s house or the miserable bedsit she had only just afforded in Paddington.
Without warning, Rajiv appeared once more at their side. He seemed to have his own peculiar form of locomotion, gliding out of nowhere, silently, effortlessly.
‘Chota hazri, sahib.’
‘Yes, of course. Daisy, you must have some food and drink and then I think a long sleep.’
Tea and fruit had been laid out on the table, which stood at the far end of what she imagined was the main room of the bungalow. The fruit and the small sweet cakes that accompanied the tea were delicious and she ate with appetite. Gerald only picked at the food and was soon on the veranda giving instructions to his servant.
She wandered into the larger of the two bedrooms. It was another spacious room with a high ceiling, but once again the furniture was sparse: a three-drawer chest, a small chair, a narrow cupboard, which had seen better days, and two single iron bedsteads draped with mosquito nets crammed together in the middle of the room. Was that to avoid what might be tempted to crawl down the walls, she wondered.
Her husband came in while she was opening her suitcase. ‘Leave that to Rajiv. He’ll do it later. The bathroom’s next door if you want to wash.’
‘And the kitchen?’
‘In the compound, separate from the house—more hygienic that way and no cooking smells. But that’s Rajiv’s domain. You don’t go there. He sleeps in the room behind the kitchen.’
‘What if I want—’
‘Whatever you want, he’ll get it. Just ring the bell,’ and he pointed to a small brass bell on the chest. ‘There’s one in each room.’
‘Shall I wash first then?’ She felt shy. They were a married couple now and she need feel no shame at their intimacy. Ever since that night in her room, she had been reproaching herself, for try as she might she could not forget her mother’s fate. But she was not Lily Driscoll; she had a husband and she was free to love as she wished.
‘I’ll wash in the other bathroom,’ he said quickly. ‘You can have this one to yourself. I need to get moving.’
She blushed at the thoughts that had been going through her mind. ‘But where are you going?’
‘To camp, my dear. Work to do. I’ve wasted three days going to Bombay and back. I’ll be home for lunch and in the meantime, I’d advise you to get some sleep.’
‘Gerald …’ But he had kissed her on the cheek, and gone.
CHAPTER TWO
She sunk onto the bed and could not prevent the tears. It was because she was so tired, she told herself, but she knew that was not the whole story. Since the accident on board she had held on to the thought that Gerald loved her, that he wanted to share his world with her, come what may. But so far he’d shown little sign of wanting to share, little sign even of wanting her here. She was trying to stay positive but a deep hollow had settled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. What would he say, what would he do, when she confessed the truth to him?
She wandered back into the main room. Everything was quiet. The servant had retreated to the kitchen, busy with preparations for lunch, she imagined. In England she’d heard tales of families in India employing an army of servants but hadn’t really believed them. The way Gerald ran his household certainly disproved it, since Rajiv seemed responsible for everything. She might, perhaps, take on some of his duties, if she could do so without offending him. There seemed little else for her to do.
Whatever coolness there had been in the bungalow had disappeared and beads of sweat began their slow trickle down her back. She wandered out onto the veranda, hoping to find a breeze, however slight. There was none, but there was a garden full of birds. Familiar only with grey streets and grey plane trees, she stood entranced. Pigeons she could recognise, even the bright green parakeets from pictures she’d seen, but what were those golden creatures flashing through the tree tops, and the smaller birds which flew in and out of the long grass, striped in orange, black and white, the crests on their heads opening and shutting like small black fans? She stayed for as long as she could, but the heat eventually overwhelmed her and she drifted back into the main room of the bungalow.
Gerald would return soon, she hoped, but in the meantime she must find some distraction. A few books sprawled untidily across the desk and she picked one up and flicked idly through it, but it contained nothing to keep her interest. There must be something in the house that she could settle to read: a magazine perhaps, or a local newspaper or guide. She must learn as much as possible—about her new home, about the regiment, about India. She was painfully aware of the social gap that existed between her and the man she had married, and was determined not to let him down.
A small pile of papers had been disturbed by her riffling, but they appeared to be correspondence rather than any reading matter. As she turned away, the address of a letter she’d dislodged caught her eye. It was a road in the East End she knew well. Did Gerald have friends there? That would be surprising since it was a very poor district, but for a moment she was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. She scolded herself for her stupidity. Eden House had been a harsh, unhappy place, unworthy of even a jot of remembrance.
She caught a glimpse of the salutation. My dear Jack, it read. That was strange. Wh
y would Gerald have a letter addressed to a Jack? It was none of her business. She should leave the letter where it was, but then she could not quite stop herself skimming to the bottom. The final words gave her a jolt, and for minutes she stood staring, making no sense of them. The letter was signed by a Joseph Minns but it was the line above the signature that mesmerised her. Your loving father. Why would Gerald have such a personal letter in his possession? She scanned the page again, casting adrift her scruples and reading it quickly. It was a plea for financial help. The elder Minns had sold his business some time ago. He had been a master tailor, it seemed, and the entire proceeds of the sale had gone to pay debts he had incurred. But it had not been enough and he was still in debt, forced to return to Spitalfields and live with his wife in a single rented room. He had done it all for Jack, done it so that his dear and only son could train to be the cavalryman he wanted to be. He hated to ask but could Jack please telegraph a little money to help his mother and father, since they had fallen into desperate straits.
She returned the letter to its place. This had nothing to do with Gerald after all. The letter evidently belonged to a private soldier, one of the young men in Gerald’s regiment. He’d told her how close relationships were between officers and their men, how they knew where each man came from, what his family were, had maybe even visited his village. In times of trouble the officers would be relied on. Gerald was looking after Jack Minns, helping the boy to sort things out. Feeling relieved, she sank into one of the two cane chairs. It felt as uncomfortable as it looked but fatigue was catching up with her and she hardly noticed. She should go to bed but she wanted to be sure she would see Gerald when he returned for lunch. They had barely spoken since their wedding vows and she was hoping for time together, an hour or two to talk, to explain, to recapture the emotion that had made them lovers.
The Girl from Cobb Street Page 2
