Fields of Gold

by Fiona McIntosh

  That admission seemed to appease her. They stood in silence, staring out across the moonlit ocean, music distantly drifting up from below decks. It was a curiously comfortable moment.

  ‘Look, Jack,’ she said excitedly, ‘a shooting star and it’s moving towards you – so it’s yours.’

  ‘I see it,’ he said, tilting his face up at the night sky and watching with wonder, enjoying her fanciful thought. ‘I hope it means something.’

  ‘It’s a sign. I think India will bring you luck … possibly love.’

  He looked at her and then bent to kiss her hand gently. ‘I’ll hold that thought, thank you.’ She smiled back at him and it was genuine at last. ‘You know, you’re really very pretty … even prettier without all that rouge and lipstick.’

  Eugenie appeared suddenly nervous. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, fiddling with the soft curls of her bobbed haircut. ‘I’d better go back or the other girls will think I’ve been a little too successful with you.’

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t disappoint them, should we? Would you care to dance, Miss Ross?’ he asked, holding out his arm, glad now that he’d invested in the tuxedo.

  At first she looked incredulous, but then she smiled and linked her pale arm through his. ‘I appreciate this,’ she said softly.

  ‘Your father isn’t travelling with you, is he?’

  She giggled. ‘No. He’s in Bombay waiting for me. So is my mother – we’re going on to Sydney together. Right now I’m travelling with a friend and an aunt as our chaperone.’

  Jack sighed privately with relief. ‘One dance, Miss Ross.’

  She patted his arm. ‘One dance every night until Bombay.’ She stared up at him hopefully. ‘Just friends, I promise. Agreed?’

  Jack smiled. ‘Agreed.’

  18

  And so the long, lovely days at sea passed in a slow dream of genuine pleasure for Jack. Stepping ashore in Malta, while the ship was re-provisioned, made for a fun excursion with Eugenie and her party. Immediately the Naldera arrived in Grand Harbour, a flotilla of tiny craft surrounded them, offering everything from fresh fruit to laundry services done that day. And while the ladies made straight for the Strada Reale in Valetta and its famed lace shops, Jack couldn’t resist a viewing of ‘pickled monks’ – men who had been embalmed from the Carmelite Order. Excited passengers arrived back on board carrying coral and silver among their purchases. Jack had bought only a postcard featuring a pen and coloured ink sketch of the harbour and the shopping street, which he duly sent to his parents with a brief message to say that he was well and enjoying the voyage. And while he never indulged in any romantic activity beyond a polite kiss to Eugenie’s hand, he did keep his promise to dance a single song each evening as her partner, and they became close friends.

  Perhaps the most bizarre event for him, and a handful of other men, was crossing the equator for the first time. Singled out as ‘equatorial virgins’, Jack and seven other male passengers from second-class were sat down on deck and shaved by Neptune, comically played by the ship’s purser. Neptune’s court was in full attendance, of course, and the other passengers ensured that the largest sailors, with the most luxurious beards and perhaps even the most obvious tattoos, were playing Queen Neptune and her daughters.

  In good cheer, Jack submitted to being daubed with suds by what he was sure was a tar brush, then being shaved by a saw, before being plunged into a huge pail of salt water, much to the delight of the shrieking audience that included Eugenie, almost delirious with laughter.

  Port Said was the stop everyone had been looking forward to. It was the first ‘oriental’ port and marked a milestone for the voyage; from here a whole new atmosphere pervaded the ship.

  Passengers now exchanged their warmer clothing for summer garments. Again, Jack was grateful for the advice of his London tailor, who had insisted that a lightweight, light-coloured suit was a must for the colonies.

  At the captain’s orders no women were permitted to go ashore without escort, and so Jack was once again called upon by Eugenie’s all-female party to act as their chaperone into a city purported to be alive with cutthroats, pick-pockets, beggars and magicians of all nationalities.

  Jack was sure London’s crowded streets had prepared him for most cities but Port Said was like nothing he could have imagined; everywhere was akin to festival day in Penzance, yet far more frenzied and infinitely more colourful. Their party was followed around by a small crowd of boys insisting they could show them to the best shops, cheapest goods, most prized purchases, as well as a horde of beggars and roaming purveyors of everything from embroidery to porcelain.

  It seemed everyone who was new to India was pressed to visit the famous shop, Simon Artz, which seemed to stock absolutely everything but was renowned as the provider of topis – the hat every English man or woman was expected to buy for the tropics.

  ‘Never be caught out in that Indian sun with a bare head,’ Eugenie’s aunt Agatha had stressed as she tapped the sturdy topi Eugenie selected for Jack. ‘You only feel silly for a few days, then you won’t be caught dead without it.’

  The store was crowded with passengers he recognised but also many that he didn’t. ‘First-class passengers,’ Aunt Agatha warned. ‘They buy the Bombay Bowlers too. If you don’t wear a topi, you’re not considered tribe. And to be English and not tribe – when there’s so few of us in India to rule millions – is to be just short of a traitor.’

  Jack grinned and paid for the hat – but only after Aunt Agatha queried the price with words like ‘preposterous’ and ‘robbery’. Afterwards he offered the women a drink beneath the shady stone arches of the port’s main shopping area. The drink was cool and the company pleasant but the yelling horde still followed them and badgered them relentlessly to buy shawls or vases or sticky sweets.

  They were frankly glad to return to the gleaming Naldera, where Jack noticed a metamorphism had taken place. The ship’s officers had changed uniforms into all whites; the Europeans looked frankly ridiculous wearing their topis, but apparently it was the done thing; and the women were suddenly floating around in muslin and sheer fabrics. Hot soup was swapped for cold, and Jack noticed more adventurous food on the menu, dishes that were spiced, or contained intriguing pulses such as lentils, or sauces that might have appeared quite odd at the outset of the voyage.

  Finally, when the ship signalled her intention to pull away from shore with one long blast of her horn, Jack noticed the excitement on board intensified because of the impending navigation of the marvel of the industrial revolution – the Suez Canal.

  Personally, Jack wouldn’t have minded sailing into the south Atlantic via places like the windswept rock of St Helena – Napoleon’s final resting place – or the more treacherous waters of the Cape of Good Hope and rounding the Horn of Africa. But the engineering revelation that was the Suez Canal, which had more than halved the travelling time to India, certainly intrigued him.

  ‘The longing for Home never goes, Jack,’ Aunt Agatha said, as they stood on deck and watched the port disappear. He tried to ignore his self-consciousness at the topi that he was sure must look like a fireman’s helmet. ‘But I can assure you that India is seductive and addictive.’

  ‘Yes, I’m gathering that.’

  ‘Your cabin companion,’ she said, switching subjects without warning. ‘I rather like him for his modesty, I must admit, but, Jack, the man is probably under thirty and he’s already a district officer. Have you any idea of his power?’

  Jack turned his gaze away from the shore and regarded Aunt Agatha. ‘His power?’

  She laughed. ‘He’s in charge of thousands of people. He’s like a little dictator, presiding over villages and dispensing rules and regulations – not to mention justice.’

  This did surprise him. ‘I know Henry enjoys his work but he never really discusses his role. I had no idea.’

  ‘He lives like a king, to tell the truth. He’d have a government-provided bungalow, servants, probably a car and drive
r.’

  ‘But he assured me his income was modest.’

  ‘It likely is. But that’s the point! Everything is provided for him. Back home, he’d be a clerk in a dreary government department with a dreary life to boot. Men like Henry and my husband, William, who’ve tasted India, never want to leave her. She gives their lives genuine meaning.’

  ‘That sounds rather dramatic.’

  ‘Jack, I’m a realist. William might have been a bookkeeper at best; I probably would have had to work too in a shop or something. And our daughter, Jennifer, would have left school to work for a milliner or florist. She’d have met a nice young man – no doubt another clerk from another government department – and the whole cycle would begin again.’ She touched his arm anxiously. ‘And there’s nothing wrong in that, don’t get me wrong. But William dared to dream.’ Aunt Agatha chortled and Jack smiled. He really liked her. ‘He brought me to India and I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Our lives are wonderful out here, and Jennifer’s now engaged to be married to a fine young officer in the Army.’

  Jack finally began to understand what Henry had been talking about. ‘It all sounds like a bit of a fantasy.’

  Aunt Agatha grinned. ‘That’s precisely how it is. But you know, Jack, there is also a genuine sense of duty for most of the people who live and work out here. I mean, my husband truly believes in the British Empire and feels it’s a mark of his patriotism to devote his life to British rule in India. Most of the folk travelling in first-class wouldn’t see it any other way. Their children are often born in India, sent home to school for years on end without ever seeing their parents, and then those sons are plucked from their fine public schools and sent back out to India. And they can’t wait to get back. The daughters too. Have you heard the jokes about the fishing fleet?’

  ‘I’m not sure I grasped their meaning.’

  ‘Well, there are so many eligible bachelors in India. English spinsters are urged to travel out in droves for fun and to find a husband with prospects, hence the fishing fleet … you know, fishing for husbands. Young Eugenie could be accused of that. She was born in India after all and for most of the children born there, India’s in their blood.’

  He sensed her gaze held a message. Jack up held his hands. ‘I’m not looking for a wife, Aunt Agatha.’

  ‘So she tells me. But don’t worry, I won’t pry … much as I’d like to, Jack.’

  Grateful for her tact, he bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  She looked around. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said and winked.

  Eugenie bounded up, wearing a flimsy summer frock, her new topi balanced precariously on her head, her face devoid of all make-up, he was pleased to note.

  ‘Why did you buy this?’ he asked, gently rapping the topi with his knuckles. ‘Surely you have one from your first voyage?’

  ‘I did, although that one was way too big for me because I was just three when I took my first voyage. I grew into it over the years. But as you’ll see when you sail home, the minute you leave Port Said behind and enter the Mediterranean, it’s custom for all on board to fling their topis into the sea.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All very symbolic of leaving Mother India behind.’

  ‘You people,’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘Weep to leave London, yet you call India your Mother.’

  ‘The gentry see India as an extension of home. Their land. It’s British!’ she said in a posh voice.

  They all laughed.

  ‘Well, my dears, I think I’ll go have a lie-down before dinner,’ Aunt Agatha said, turning to leave. ‘Will you join us, Jack?’

  ‘Thank you. May I suggest Henry joins us as well?’

  ‘Of course,’ Aunt Agatha said, departing. ‘See you later. Eugenie, don’t get burned.’

  Eugenie turned to Jack. ‘Must that twitching fellow be with us for dinner? I find him quite distracting.’

  ‘He twitches because he finds you so beautiful.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, sounding instantly ashamed. ‘But he never so much as looks at me.’

  ‘It’s because he adores you.’

  ‘While you, meanwhile, look me directly in the eye!’

  ‘Because you and I are friends.’

  ‘We could be more …’

  He gave her a look of exasperation. ‘Believe me, I’d reduce you to tears within months – no, weeks.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Eugenie, perhaps it would be better if I didn’t —’

  ‘Don’t say it! I’m sorry. I won’t tease you any further. I’ll chat to Mr Berry and I’ll continue to dance with you each evening and I’ll let you go in Bombay. I promise. Don’t desert us and don’t stop being my friend.’

  ‘All right, thank you, but only because I would be sad to leave Aunt Agatha.’

  ‘I think I hate you, Jack Bryant.’

  ‘Everyone finally comes to that conclusion,’ he admitted, and while he made the comment to make her laugh, he wondered whether he hadn’t ever said a truer thing.

  It took them an entire day to travel the canal and Jack spent most of it on deck, beneath his topi, squinting out into the sharp sunlight, watching the children who scampered along the canal’s shore yelling to the passengers; some threw coppers to them. At the town of Ismailia, more or less halfway, a flotilla of bumboats chased after the ship, selling everything from boots to monkeys.

  The town of Suez was something of an anticlimax for Jack. He didn’t know why he’d expected something special but it turned out to be a dull place with few diversions for passengers and almost no reason to leave the ship, other than a donkey ride.

  A couple of days sailing on the Red Sea and Jack felt he was truly entering foreign climes. The landscape in the distance had become dry and dusty brown. It was unbearably hot during the day and even the sea breeze was too warm to tolerate. Jack wondered aloud whether the heat could send people mad. It seemed impossible, but the temperatures soared after Aden – day after day of relentless heat, forcing some of the passengers to sleep on deck. Even with a pair of ceiling fans in the second-class twin cabins, they sweltered, with Henry assuring Jack that it was more than a hundred degrees in their cabin.

  ‘From here on, old chap,’ Henry explained a week later, ‘we live on deck by night.’

  The crew rigged up a special divider using sailcloth to give the ladies some privacy. Men had taken to wearing shorts, which Jack found amusing while desperately wishing he had a pair.

  Everything felt foreign, strange. The sea life changed around them, even the night skies looked different, and as they drew closer to the Indian mainland, new spicy fragrances wafted on the wind and assured Jack that his old life was now behind him.

  The day of docking at Bombay finally arrived. There was a sense of high excitement aboard the ship but Jack was in no rush to disembark. Naldera had been kind to him these past four weeks and he’d come to see her as a friend. In fact, after only just a day away from her, in Malta or Port Said, it had felt like coming home each time he’d trudged back up the gangplank.

  Jack had already said his farewells to Aunt Agatha and her two charges. He hadn’t wanted a teary scene and he had a feeling Eugenie was not going to let him get away too easily. He really didn’t feel a romantic connection with her. Although he had never admitted it, he had never felt the romantic connection with anyone like he knew his parents felt for each other. That’s what he believed was real love. It was what he wanted to feel. It was what he thought Henry and Eugenie might achieve, if they bothered to grasp the opportunity, and why he had whispered to Eugenie, ‘Don’t let Henry Berry get away. He worships you and worship can’t be bought.’

  Now, Jack looked ahead to the natural harbour of Bombay and its three enclosed docks, all built by the British, or so Henry was now informing him. From the vantage point of the top deck, Bombay pier was a riot of colour and noise, with harsh-sounding languages being yelled on the dock and the bellow of oxen dragging c
arts of luggage trunks and cargo. Dark-skinned people ran around in seemingly endless frantic activity while the lighter-skinned crew gave orders and the loading and unloading of the Naldera began.

  Theirs was not the only vessel in port, of course. Jack could see several others lined up, each requiring attention from a host of workers at the dockside. They scurried like an army of ants about their business, loading or unloading.

  Jack could smell food cooking but nothing he could recognise. Onboard he’d learned about strange-sounding, bright-coloured flavourings from turmeric to tamarind. He’d agreed to taste the latter, wrinkling his nose slightly at the black, tarry plant paste that looked like a squashed date. Jack had taken the tiny mass and chewed it, arrested by the tangy explosion in his mouth. He was surprised to learn that it was a component of the Worcestershire sauce that the British used to spice up a dish, like Welsh rarebit or their Bloody Marys. The Lea & Perrins bottle was rarely missing from the Naldera’s buffet tables.

  There was an earthy smell of humanity too, overpowering even the pungent smell of fish and fresh produce that pervaded every dock from here to London. He looked out at the city of Bombay, sprawling behind the port. He could see gas lamps lining the esplanade, elegant Victorian buildings, and large white bungalows in the distance.

  Henry was droning on. ‘Just over a decade ago we got our first electrified trams,’ he said. ‘Buses will be next, I’m told. Automobiles are surely just a blink away. The city is exploding; it’s the centre of trade for the continent, and of course we have the railways expanding constantly, with routes from all over converging on Bombay.’

  Discordant music drifted up from somewhere – the strange-sounding instruments added to the cacophony of squeaking axles, braying bullocks and yelling sailors. Lithe, dark men ran up ropes and over containers like agile insects, while Jack’s gaze was drawn to the constant flow of passengers out of his ship, floating down the gangplanks and adding a sudden shock of paleness to the rich, jewel-like colours the Indians seemed to favour.