Tilly True

by Dilly Court

  ‘Where were you this evening?’ Francis glared at Tilly.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late but we got caught in the heaviest downpour you can imagine and had to take shelter beneath the Kashmiri Gate until it stopped.’

  Francis set the spoon down, fussily lining it up with his dessert fork. ‘It isn’t safe to be out after dark. You know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  Francis said nothing as Meera glided into the room carrying bowls of soup. She placed one in front of each of them and left as quietly as she had entered.

  ‘Excellent! Brown Windsor soup,’ Francis said, closing his eyes and sniffing. ‘Let us say grace.’

  Bowing her head, Tilly barely heard the familiar words as she tried to work up an appetite for steaming Brown Windsor soup, when something cool and spicy would have been much more acceptable. Now that the rain had cleared, the heat was oppressive and her muslin gown was already clinging damply between her shoulder blades.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Francis intoned. ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’ Harriet and Tilly chorused.

  For a minute or two, the only sound in the room was the clank of silver spoons on china plates. Outside, pi-dogs were howling at the moon and huge moths hurled themselves at the glass windowpanes.

  ‘I believe you had something to tell Tilly,’ Harriet said, breaking the silence.

  Francis paused, his spoon halfway to his lips. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve located my brother, your . . . husband.’

  Tilly almost dropped her spoon. She knew that Francis had been making some efforts to discover Barney’s whereabouts, she had reminded him often enough, but it was over a month since they had arrived in Delhi and she had almost given up hope.

  ‘You’re surprised?’ Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘You knew that I was making enquiries.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting – I mean, where is he? Does he know I’m here?’

  Maddening in his slowness, Francis sipped a mouthful of soup, wiping his mouth on his table napkin before answering. ‘His regiment is stationed at Rawalpindi. I’ve written to him, telling him that you are staying with us.’

  ‘Rawalpindi? Where is that?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Harriet said, clearly enjoying the drama. ‘It’s near the North-West Frontier. I’ve heard Colonel Cholmondeley speak about the terrible battles for the Khyber Pass – hundreds have been killed. Tilly, are you all right? You’ve gone terribly pale.’

  Leaning across the table, Francis poured water into a glass and handed it to Tilly. He frowned at Harriet. ‘That was a stupid remark, even for you, Harriet.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Harriet said, pouting. ‘I just repeated what Colonel Cholmondeley said. You’re the one who’s upset Tilly.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Tilly said, taking a deep breath. ‘It was a shock, that’s all. I hadn’t thought of him actually fighting in a battle and risking his life.’

  One of his rare smiles curved Francis’s lips. ‘My dear girl, he’s a soldier. Of course he’s going to fight, if the need arises, although knowing Barnaby I daresay he’ll do his best to keep out of the line of fire.’

  ‘He’s not a coward,’ Tilly cried. ‘Don’t say things like that when he’s not here to defend himself.’

  ‘Each time he has got himself into trouble Barnaby has run away. I don’t suppose he’s changed just because he’s wearing a uniform.’

  Jumping to her feet, Tilly pushed her chair back so hard that it toppled over. ‘I won’t hear nothing against Barney.’

  ‘And I won’t have scenes at the dinner table.’ Francis banged his hand down on the tabletop so hard that the cutlery flew up in the air and landed in jingling heaps. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I won’t sit down. I’m going to pack my bags and go to wherever you said it was and find Barney.’

  ‘You can’t travel all that way on your own,’ Harriet said, getting to her feet and picking up the chair. ‘Please sit down, before Meera comes in to clear the table.’

  ‘That’s all you think about, isn’t it?’ Tilly turned on Harriet, her temper rising. ‘Manners and appearance and how things look. Well, all I care about is Barney. I love him and I’m his wife, legal and proper. I’m going to join him even if I have to walk all the way to bleeding Rawal whatever it’s called.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ignoring Harriet’s pleas, Tilly went straight to her room and taking her valise from beneath the bed she began emptying drawers, flinging clothes higgledy-piggledy into the case.

  Harriet burst into the room. ‘Tilly, stop.’

  ‘You’ve both made it clear that I’m not welcome,’ Tilly said, opening the wardrobe door and dragging gowns off hangers. ‘I know I’m an embarrassment to you and I’m going to find my husband.’

  Harriet slumped down on the bed. ‘This is all my fault. I know I’ve neglected you. I’ve left you on your own too much and all I’ve thought about is my own pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Tilly paused for a moment. ‘Don’t spout all that holy stuff. You sound just like Francis.’

  ‘I don’t mean to, and I’m truly sorry if you’ve felt unwelcome. Please stop and think, Tilly. This is madness; you can’t travel all the way to Rawalpindi on your own. Barney would be furious if we allowed you to do such a foolhardy thing.’

  Reluctantly, Tilly hung the gown she was holding back on its rail. ‘He’ll come for me as soon as he knows I’m here.’

  Harriet smiled, relief written all over her face. ‘Of course he will. And I promise that I’ll be a better sister to you, if you’ll let me.’

  Staring down at the jumble of clothes on the bed, Tilly sighed. ‘Then you’d best help me put all this stuff away.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll stay?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Getting to her feet, Harriet began sorting and folding garments. ‘I’ll introduce you to Susannah and Mrs Cholmondeley, which is something I ought to have done from the start. And, if you promise to make it up with Francis, I’ll tell you a secret.’

  All her outrage forgotten, Tilly sat down amidst a pile of gloves and handkerchiefs. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well,’ Harriet said, folding and refolding one of Tilly’s petticoats, a slow flush rising from her neck to her cheeks. ‘Susannah has a brother.’

  ‘You’re in love!’

  Harriet’s blush deepened and she giggled. ‘His name is Ronnie, Lieutenant Ronald Cholmondeley of the 3rd Lancers, and he’s stationed at Meerut.’

  ‘And you never said a word about him. I do call that mean, Hattie.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not official. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks.’

  ‘And it was love at first sight?’

  ‘Oh, yes! For me it was and I think for Ronnie too, but I’m not sure that the colonel would approve. You see, he’s very old-fashioned and he wants Ronnie to concentrate on his career. He doesn’t approve of men marrying before they’re thirty and Ronnie is only twenty-two, three years older than me.’

  ‘Does Susannah know about this?’

  ‘Yes, and she thinks it’s terribly romantic.’

  ‘And Francis?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Harriet sank down on the bed, her shoulders drooping. ‘I don’t think he would approve of my marrying into the army.’

  Thinking this over, Tilly nodded. ‘You mean because the fighting and killing goes against his religious beliefs.’

  ‘No, because he’d be afraid I would be widowed and he would have to look after me for the rest of my life.’ Although she spoke seriously, the dimple at the corner of Harriet’s mouth quivered and there was a twinkle in her eyes.

  Suddenly the whole situation seemed too ridiculous for words. Tilly began to giggle; Harriet joined in, and soon they were rolling helplessly about on the bed, laughing hysterically.

  ‘I accept your apology,’ Francis said, setting his coffee cup down at a precise angle on its sa
ucer. ‘We won’t mention the subject again.’

  ‘Thank you, Francis,’ Tilly said, avoiding Harriet’s eyes in the knowledge that one glance would start them both off again.

  Harriet cleared her throat. ‘And I’m taking Tilly with me tomorrow, when I visit the Cholmondeleys. It’s time she began mixing in army circles and getting used to the way of life before Barney comes for her.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Francis said, frowning. ‘I should have thought of that myself.’

  ‘And,’ Harriet said, taking a deep breath, ‘there’s to be a ball at Ludlow Castle. We’ve been invited, Francis. You will take us, won’t you?’

  For a moment, Tilly thought that Francis was going to refuse, but he nodded, although a bit reluctantly, and even managed a tired smile. ‘If you wish.’ Getting slowly to his feet he made for the door, pausing and turning to Tilly. ‘I’m sure you’ll hear from Barnaby very soon.’

  As the door closed on him, Harriet clapped her hands. ‘There, that was surprisingly easy. Now all I’ve got to do is introduce Ronnie to Francis. You will help me, won’t you, Tilly?’

  Tilly’s introduction to the Cholmondeleys was not an unqualified success, but then she had not really expected anything else. Her experiences with the toffee-nosed first class passengers on the SS Malta had made her wary and, she thought afterwards, maybe it had been her fault that Mrs Cholmondeley had not taken to her. She had tried so hard to enunciate her words in exactly the same way that Harriet did, and to behave in a cool and ladylike fashion, that maybe she had overdone things. Perhaps she had been a bit too prickly; a holly leaf amongst the gardenias. Mrs Cholmondeley had been polite but frosty, as if she had seen through Tilly as clearly as if she were a pane of glass: if she had spent any more time looking down her nose, Tilly was certain that her eyes would have crossed. Susannah had been more congenial, but her interest was fleeting, and although they made a concerted attempt to include Tilly in their conversation she was soon forgotten as Harriet and Susannah chatted earnestly about the forthcoming ball.

  The Cholmondeleys’ residence was a white, two-storey, crenellated building with a flat roof that looked more suitable for a prince or a raja than for a mere army colonel. The marble interior was even impressive with white-robed, turbaned servants appearing silently as if from nowhere to wait on their slightest command. Tilly had never been in such a grand house or been in the company of an imposing matriarch like Mrs Cholmondeley. She would have been grateful not to be included in future invitations to afternoon tea at Cholmondeley Palace, her own private nickname for the house, but Harriet was keeping doggedly to her word, and Tilly could find no reasonable excuse for refusing to accompany her.

  The cool began in October and the monsoon ended. The days were still hot but the nights were much cooler and that made sleeping easier. Tilly had written several letters to Barney and was still waiting for a reply. She worried that he had not received the letters – or perhaps he was away from camp fighting on the North-West Frontier, but she tried hard not to dwell on that prospect. She was certain that he would come soon or at least that she would receive a letter from him. In the meantime she filled her days with long walks, accompanied by Ashok, and suffered the obligatory visits to Cholmondeley Palace, which she was beginning to dread.

  The date of the ball at Ludlow Castle was drawing near and Harriet was almost hysterical with excitement, having heard that Ronnie would be on leave and certain to attend. Today Harriet and Susannah were sitting side by side on a loveseat in the Cholmondeleys’ drawing room, discussing ball gowns. Mrs Cholmondeley presided over afternoon tea, sitting on a chair that resembled a throne. Her back was so straight that Tilly wondered if she had a poker stuffed down her stays.

  Largely ignored and feeling very uncomfortable, it was all Tilly could do not to slide off the slippery, damask-covered sofa as she attempted to balance the fragile porcelain teacup on its equally fragile saucer in one hand whilst holding a tea plate in the other. This left her with the problem of how to manoeuvre the tiny triangles of cucumber sandwich to her mouth without dropping something. She was never certain whether she ought to take off her white muslin gloves when attempting to eat, or whether to risk chewing off a finger whilst nibbling daintily on a sandwich. She would not have worn gloves at all, but Harriet insisted that no lady would be seen out of doors without her gloves, hat and parasol. Sometimes, Tilly found herself envying the servants their faceless anonymity; at least their code of conduct was clearly laid down for them. Being a lady was more difficult than she would have imagined possible.

  Glancing anxiously at Mrs Cholmondeley, Tilly was relieved to see that she seemed more interested in picking up snippets of Susannah and Harriet’s conversation than in scrutinising her table manners. In fact, no one was paying the slightest attention to her, and, while Tilly was struggling quietly with the niceties of etiquette, she tried to imagine that Ma and Pops were sitting on the sofa beside her. Ma was dressed in her Sunday best and was perspiring freely in the unaccustomed heat; Pops wore his one and only suit, slightly green-tinged and shiny, which only came out for weddings, funerals and christenings. He was drinking his tea out of the saucer, quite oblivious of the fact that if she spotted this dreadful behaviour Mrs Cholmondeley’s eyes would cross over the bridge of her nose and might remain that way. Ma had her little finger cocked and was blowing on the tea to cool it, but her eyes were wide as she gazed at the opulent surroundings over the rim of her teacup. ‘This is a bit of a lark, isn’t it, Tilly?’

  ‘Tilly?’

  Coming back to reality with a start, Tilly realised that Susannah was repeating her name and Mrs Cholmondeley was glaring at her. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘I hope we are not boring you, Mrs Palgrave.’ Mrs Cholmondeley’s eyes narrowed to a squint.

  Casting a helpless glance at Hattie, who sent her a pleading look, Tilly thought quickly. ‘I was just admiring your drawing room, Mrs Cholmondeley.’ Judging by the slight thawing of Mrs Cholmondeley’s frozen face, Tilly could see she was on the right track. Was it rude to make remarks about a person’s home? Not knowing the answer, Tilly continued recklessly, warming to her theme. ‘My mum back in London would give her eye teeth for a place like this. Of course, the family has moved from Red Dragon Passage in Whitechapel to East Ham, now that my dad has got a job with the Gaslight and Coke Company. They’ve got a villa in ever such a nice street, lined with plane trees. They’ve got a front and a back garden and an indoor privy. That’s one up on you lot here in India with your thunderboxes.’

  ‘Tilly!’ Harriet’s face crumpled with dismay. Susannah covered her mouth with her hands, her shoulders shaking. Mrs Cholmondeley’s face resembled a boiled beetroot and she appeared to be choking.

  ‘What did I say?’ Tilly demanded. ‘What did I say?’

  Having endured a long lecture from Harriet on what to say and, more importantly, what not to say, Tilly was dressed and ready for the ball, waiting nervously in the entrance hall while Harriet went back to her room to fetch her fan. She had tried to plead a headache, but Harriet had seen through the excuse and told her not to be so silly. There was nothing to worry about: all she had to do was smile, say as little as possible and wait for someone to ask her to dance. But that, as Tilly had tried to explain to Harriet, was just the problem; she did not know how to dance, or at least not the sort of dancing that went on in a ballroom. The only kind of dancing that she had ever seen was the lively, foot-stamping, thigh-slapping sort of capering that the costers did on a Saturday night in the pub. Harriet had told her that there was nothing to it and she had done her best to teach Tilly the basic steps of the waltz and had explained the intricacies of the Paul Jones, the polka and the Gay Gordons, but Tilly knew she would never remember which was which. Her feet would get all tangled up and she would make a complete fool of herself.

  ‘You look very nice, Tilly.’

  Francis appeared from the direction of his study, looking so unlike his usual self that T
illy had to blink and look again. Dressed in a severe black evening suit with a gold brocade waistcoat and a pleated white shirt and black tie, he looked almost dashing. Before Tilly could say anything, Harriet came flying down the passage, her cheeks as pink as the silk flowers in her hair.

  Francis opened the front door. ‘The gharry is waiting. Do hurry up, Harriet.’ Beckoning them to follow him, he went out into the night.

  ‘I really do have a headache,’ Tilly said, fanning herself vigorously. ‘I think I may have caught a fever.’

  Harriet grabbed her by the wrist, squeezing Tilly’s flesh until she winced with pain. ‘Don’t you dare let me down, Tilly. Without you to chaperone me, I can’t go to the ball, and Ronnie will be waiting for me. Let me down and I’ll never speak to you again.’

  Ludlow Castle, formerly the residence of the Commissioner of Delhi, so Tilly had found out from Ashok on one of their long walks, was now the Delhi Club. Like Cholmondeley Palace it was a large, single-storey, castellated edifice surrounded by formal gardens and tennis courts. Flares lit the driveway and a procession of carriages, tongas and gharries stopped to drop off their passengers, resplendent in their ball gowns and evening suits.

  Walking into the brightly lit interior with Francis and Harriet, Tilly wished that she were back in Whitechapel with Ma and Pops and the nippers. It was Saturday night and they would be having a treat of eels and mash or pie and peas swimming in liquor or gravy, unless of course Pops was off sick again with his chest. In that case they would be having boiled spuds mashed with a bit of margarine, but there would be warmth and laughter at home, not a lot of toffs hee-hawing to each other like a load of blooming donkeys. Quite suddenly, the veneer of correct speech and good manners that she had worked so hard to acquire felt dangerously thin, and brittle as a thin skim of ice on a pond. One false step and Tilly felt that the ice would break and she would sink like a stone.