‘They’re demanding independence?’ From what Daisy had seen of village life, it seemed unlikely.
‘Not in so many words. They’re asking for power over their rents and taxes, which is as good as. In my book at least. It all adds up to a bad situation and not what I thought I’d ever see.’
‘But why do you think the parade will be affected?’
‘I don’t, not particularly. But the senior officers have received reports of unrest in and around Jasirapur, and there’s some nervousness about how things will go. Nothing solid, just vague threats of disruption. It’s unfortunate given that we’ve learned General Pearson is our guest of honour. If there are difficulties, it won’t reflect well on the regiment.’
He relapsed into silence as Rajiv clattered their empty plates together and made for the kitchen. Then still silent, he took his seat on the lumpy horsehair sofa and looked blankly into the distance.
‘There may not be anything to worry about,’ she said coaxingly. ‘The police will be there, won’t they, and they’ll surely stop any trouble.’
He turned his head to look at her, a flicker of the old irritation in his face. ‘They’ll be there, of course, but they’re not always able to hold the line. Then it’s the poor bloody army that has to step in.’ Gerald’s language was a measure of his anxiety. ‘We can’t be sure what might happen and we need to be prepared.’
As soon as the wind died, Daisy began to look forward to the parade, taking little heed of Gerald’s gloom. When she woke on Friday morning, it was to feel a small tingle of excitement. She dressed carefully in the cream cotton sundress, arranging her hair in a topknot rather than the loose waves she usually wore. The topi would make short work of the style, she knew, but she had the satisfaction of at least starting the day looking her best. She was ready for the occasion and Jocelyn would be here very soon. The girl was as good as her word, arriving at the house with pony and trap just as Daisy finished a hurried breakfast. She got up quickly, wanting to save her visitor from a painful walk to the door but Jocelyn beat her to it.
‘See, I’m crutches free!’ she exclaimed. ‘Limping but otherwise perfectly fit.’
‘Is your ankle still painful?’ Daisy hauled herself into the passenger seat.
‘A little,’ the girl admitted, ‘but nothing to stop me from going to Simla. I’m off tomorrow. I must admit I’m not sorry to go. The heat has been horrendous hasn’t it and I’m even beginning to miss Ma! I do so love going back. It’s like being a child again. I remember how pale I’d grow after months on the plains but then we’d go up to the hills and in a short while, lo and behold—red, rosy cheeks.’
She cracked the whip and the horse turned obediently back along the overgrown path and out of the garden. ‘So what have you been up to since I saw you at the library? That was days ago.’
Daisy wasn’t sure how much to confide. Her solo visit to the temple had faded a little from her mind and she had no wish to bring the memory back, certainly no wish to confess the panic she’d been in that day. She decided on caution.
‘I haven’t been out for days—the weather has seen to that—but just before the wind arrived, I did get back on the bike. Or I did until I came a cropper,’ she finished brightly.
‘What happened?’
‘I fell off. Something scared me as I was riding. A peacock, I think, flying up into the trees.’ A white lie was permissible, she told herself. ‘Anyway the noise startled me and I skidded across the road and ended upside down.’
‘How dreadful! Were you badly hurt?’
‘Only my pride, but it did put paid to any more rides. On the bicycle at least. I’ve other plans now. I’m about to learn to ride a different beast.’ She wasn’t sure, in fact, if Anish’s offer still held.
‘You’re going horse riding! That’s wonderful. Learning to ride is essential, but who’s going to teach you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Daisy answered carefully. ‘Probably Gerald—when he can.’ It was better not to mention Lieutenant Rana, knowing how disapproving Jocelyn would be.
‘Perfect, my dear.’ Her evident relief that Gerald would be spending time with his wife made Daisy wonder how much the girl knew about their marriage. If Jocelyn suspected problems, she might be feeling guilty for her part in any estrangement.
‘I have to admit I’m a trifle nervous, but I’m determined to give it a try. I’m not sure what I should be wearing, though.’
‘Jodhpurs, of course.’ Jocelyn smiled. ‘But I don’t suppose there’s much call for jodhpurs in London. That’s where you’ve come from, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t seen a pair walking down Oxford Street, that’s for sure.’
The girl giggled. ‘Would you like to borrow some, until you can get your own made? I’ve three or four pairs and I won’t be needing them in Simla, it’s much too steep for any decent riding. Rickshaws only. Unless you’re the Viceroy, then you get a car.’
‘Thank you, I’d be really grateful. We’re much the same size.’
‘Wishful thinking on my part, Daisy. You’ll find them a bit big but you can always put a belt around the waist, so you don’t lose them mid-ride.’
They both joined in the laughter, then settled to a discussion of Jocelyn’s plans once she arrived in Simla, which lasted until they reached the outskirts of the town. The smell of mustard cooking oil was everywhere in the streets, mingling headily with the smoke of burnt cow dung. The smell of sunshine, Daisy thought, vigorous, intense, alive.
‘We’ll need to wind our way round to the maiden through some of the alleyways,’ Jocelyn said, ‘and I thought we’d park up beneath the trees when we get there. There are several on the south side where we can watch the parade from the buggy. The ground is sure to be very crowded and we’ll get a much better view from the carriage.’
She was disappointed. She’d been looking forward to mingling with the crowd, which was already beginning to spill out of the narrow streets, making its way towards the large open space on the southern edge of the town. But she bowed to Jocelyn’s experience and within a short while they’d found a niche between several of the open air stalls, already doing a brisk business in fritters and fried chickpeas. An appetising aroma floated their way and after a small breakfast, Daisy was tempted.
Her friend was quick to dissuade her. ‘You should never eat from a roadside stall, even if the food is hot. You can’t count on the hygiene, and you could end up very ill. Dysentery would be the least of your worries. Cholera is a real threat—you can get it from any water they may have used—and it’s deadly. It can kill within a few hours.’
The British were evangelical about hygiene, Daisy already knew. Even though Gerald appeared to trust Rajiv implicitly, he still insisted on checking daily that the milk and water had been boiled, the fruit peeled, and the vegetables washed in permanganate of potash, the pinky pani of every European household. She tried to forget her rumbling stomach and settle to watch the magnificent pageant unfolding before her. It was a moving caravan of dazzling white kurtas massed against a kaleidoscope of saris. Brilliant oranges and reds, shrill pink, and every shade of green and blue. Such beautiful people, she thought, all smooth brown skin and black hair ashine with coconut oil.
Very soon the small space in front and either side of the pony trap had been filled by an eager, excited audience. From the corner of her eye, Daisy caught sight of a face she thought she knew. She looked again, and was certain. He was one of the Indians who had come to her door days ago. The older man, the one with such a distinguished air. He must have felt her gaze for he looked across at her and bowed graciously in her direction. She’d had no further visits from Gerald’s creditors and the man seemed genial enough. Did that mean her husband had paid his debts? If so, she had no idea how he’d managed to do so. Where could he have found the money? The first answer that came to mind, her first fear, was from gambling. According to both Jocelyn and Anish, gambling in the past had landed him in worse trouble. But almost instantly
she dismissed the idea. Gerald had not visited the Club for days: he had been too taken up with preparations for the parade. So where had the money come from? It was yet another mystery.
The first strains of music sounded across the arena and the lead musicians of the regimental band wheeled into view, heading the parade and marching directly to the centre of the maiden. The music was followed minutes later by the sound of hundreds of horses’ hooves beating a tattoo on the rough ground. The regiment had arrived, and in full regalia. Blue and gold uniforms with pennants flying from lances, and magnificent horses gleaming in the early morning sunlight, their harnesses jangling as they tossed their heads in a cloud of dust. On and on, the double line of mounted soldiers rode past, a conveyer belt of military splendour.
By now the maiden was throbbing with hundreds, if not thousands, of people: eating, drinking, chattering, jostling for room. An ant heap come alive. From the road that circled the arena, a car swept into the one remaining open space and pulled to a halt just short of a white dais that stood at a distance from the parading soldiers. A portly man clambered from the vehicle’s back seat. He smoothed the creases from his uniform jacket, tucked his military baton beneath one arm and offered a smart salute to the Colonel.
‘Doesn’t Pa look magnificent?’ Jocelyn whispered.
But Daisy’s eyes were not on Colonel Forester but on Gerald riding at the head of his troop. He, too, looked magnificent but distracted. His face was half-turned towards them, the slightest of movements, which did nothing to disturb the symmetry of his troop’s line but, as his gaze focused, Daisy realised with a crushed feeling that his eyes were not seeking her, but Jocelyn. They rested on the girl for a second only but the tell-tale flush on his cheeks told its own story. She tried not to notice and Jocelyn, sitting close beside her, seemed completely unaware. She was intent on watching her father accompany the General on his tour of inspection, a proud smile on her face.
General Pearson, acting as the King’s representative, addressed the mounted lines of cavalry. He spoke at length, praising the men for their sterling work and looking forward to many more years of the regiment keeping the peace for India. The crowd listened politely, though Daisy suspected they understood little of his speech and were interested in less. They had come for the spectacle, for the colourful uniforms and the magnificent beasts. One or two of the horses began to fuss and shy as the General reached his peroration. The regimental sergeant major called for three cheers and then, the climax of the ceremony, the presentation of new regimental colours. The old flags were folded and laid to one side, the lances raised in salute, and the order given for the cavalry to march again, back once more through the town to the cantonment. There had been a hushed silence during the short ceremony but now the crowd burst into a noisy hum of gossip and laughter.
‘We’d better wait for the place to clear a bit,’ Jocelyn advised, ‘unless you’re in a desperate rush to get back.’
‘No, not at all.’ Daisy’s mind was still on the glance she’d intercepted. She hoped very much that Jocelyn wasn’t involved. She’d made a rare friend and didn’t want to lose her. ‘But are you packed and ready to go?’
‘More or less. I—’
She never finished her sentence for the happy buzz of the crowd had given way to a more sinister noise, the sound of loud shouting, and of people pushing their way forcibly through their fellows. The shouts were repeated. Slogans possibly, Daisy thought, but in a language she didn’t understand. The sun was now almost vertically above them and the shade they’d enjoyed was rapidly disappearing. She held her hand up to ward off the glare. She could see figures moving through the crowd, mowing a path towards the soldiers who had turned in unison and were now riding forward and away from the maiden. The figures were waving flags and holding up banners. She heard what seemed to be a rallying call—in English this time—‘Mother India!’
Jocelyn was looking perturbed but kept the horse calm, soothing it in a quiet voice. A police superintendent appeared from their left and faced the crowd. He was dressed in full ceremonial uniform and wore a revolver on each side of his body.
‘He’ll be sufficient to settle any disturbance,’ Jocelyn said comfortably. ‘And look. He’s brought several constables with him.’ A couple of uniformed men had waded into the crowd and were busy confiscating the banners and flags.
But it wasn’t enough. The protest continued and the shouts became louder and more forceful. The atmosphere had changed from carnival to ugly in a matter of minutes. Women wrapped their arms around their children or cradled babies tightly against their saris. A larger group of police arrived, ready to fortify their colleagues, and ordered people to disperse. A good number of the crowd slid quietly away, but there still remained a sizeable group. Without further delay, the police strode directly into them, lathis raised.
CHAPTER TEN
One of those who had been shouting loudest was caught, the policeman grabbing him around the waist and felling him with a loud crack of the long, wooden pole. From her vantage point, Daisy could see the scuffle unfolding. The body lying prone on the ground seemed little more than a boy’s but as he lay motionless, a much larger form intervened and pushed the policeman roughly out of the way. She screwed up her eyes trying to see his face. Something about him seemed familiar. She dredged her memory and then it came to her. He was the man who’d run through the bazaar on her very first day in Jasirapur, the man who’d been chased by a policeman and was again their quarry. The policeman turned his attention from the boy on the ground and began to beat the would-be rescuer around the head with his fists, then took the wooden pole he carried and brought it down in a cruel arc across the man’s back. Those nearest in the crowd sent out an angry mutter and when the other police joined in the mêlée and began to labour the crowd indiscriminately, the mutter turned to a howl. As one, the crowd turned on their tormentors and several of the policemen disappeared in a welter of blows, their lathis useless on the ground. Their fellow officers waited no more and made for cover, the crowd swallowing them as they ran.
‘We must try to get out of here,’ Jocelyn said, her voice a little shaky. ‘I don’t like the way things are going.’
But they were still hemmed in on all sides, and the horse, docile until this point, began to toss his head impatiently and paw at the ground, clearly unsettled. There was now a pitch battle going on just yards in front of them. Bodies threshed in anger and curses were hurled, along with bricks and soda water bottles. Sticks were wielded, cracking down on unprotected skulls with a sickening crunch. A figure caught her eye. It was Grayson Harte. He was not engaged in the fighting, but seemed to be trying to find a way through to the small circle of protestors who had begun the mayhem. A slightly built young Indian was by his side, and neither of them was making headway through the sprawling mass of fighting men.
Then soldiers appeared out of nowhere. Not mounted, for the cavalry had left the maiden before trouble had taken a real hold, but soldiers with rifles. The police had been unable to quell the disturbance and they had been summoned, no doubt unwillingly, to restore order. They made no attempt to infiltrate the crowd but instead herded them, pushing them back into a tight circle by dint of dropping their rifle butts on thinly shod feet. The once belligerent crowd were cowed, and began to file away as the soldiers directed. But then one Indian disentangled himself from his fellows and, escaping the circle, began again to shout the inflammatory slogans that had started the riot. The soldier nearest him swung his rifle butt and the air echoed with the thud of wood on bone. The man slumped to the ground. For a minute the crowd held its breath, then that howl of anger again, and people surged forward, fists and feet flying.
Jocelyn was shaking and Daisy held tightly to her friend’s hand. The people on either side of them had faded away, trickling from the maiden in ones and twos, intent on escaping the violence that had shattered the day’s pleasure.
‘We should be able to get out now,’ Daisy urged the girl.
The carriage might just squeeze through the space that had been left. It would mean executing a sharp right turn into the road but Jocelyn was no doubt an accomplished whip. Daisy strained her eyes, trying to chart a passage for her friend, and there coming towards them was Grayson Harte, supporting the young Indian who had been by his side. The boy had blood trickling down his forehead and matting his hair. Grayson was half-pulling, half-carrying him out of the crowd. Jocelyn hadn’t noticed. She seemed numbed with fear. This was something she had never before encountered, Daisy reasoned, and as the only two European spectators left on the maiden, they were clearly vulnerable.
In an almost hypnotic trance, the girl took hold of the reins just as Grayson arrived at the side of their vehicle, blue eyes blazing. He appeared uninjured, but his shirt was plastered to his body by sweat and his face looked grim.
‘Daisy, Miss Forester,’ he panted. ‘My colleague—he’s been hurt quite badly. Could I impose on you? I must stay but would you take him to the Infirmary? He needs immediate treatment.’
Jocelyn looked blankly down at him. ‘You know the way, Miss Forester?’ he said urgently. ‘If I try to keep the crowd back, you should be able to turn the carriage.’
The girl didn’t answer, seeming to be in another world entirely, and Daisy felt forced to pinch her hard. Jocelyn sat up suddenly alert.
‘Mr Harte, what are you doing here?’ It was a question that Daisy herself would have liked to ask.
‘It’s no matter. My colleague needs to go to the Infirmary,’ he repeated. ‘Can you help?’
‘Yes, yes of course. Daisy, if you could clamber into the back …’ Her wits, it seemed, were returning.
Daisy wedged herself into the rear of the trap, and with some difficulty, Grayson heaved the young man into her arms. The crowd was very much thinner but those who remained had nothing now to lose, their voices thrumming in anger, their faces set in retribution. Grayson managed to clear a space to one side of them and Jocelyn, her face tense, manoeuvred the pony and trap backwards and forwards until they were facing the narrow street they had travelled only a short while ago.
The Girl from Cobb Street Page 15
