'Only for the speed, my dear, not for the pleasure.' The woman had settled herself more comfortably in the seat.
'Would you like to sit by the window?' Abby asked, feeling that the age of her companion warranted the question.
'No, thank you. I don't like looking out of the plane.'
'Are you nervous?' Abby asked sympathetically.
'Petrified,' said the woman in such a firm voice that Abby did not believe her. Not only did she sound a seasoned traveller but she looked it. Her tall, angular frame was encased in a well-worn tweed suit, with a surprisingly fine lace-edged blouse visible beneath the jacket. Her face was a mass of hair-thin wrinkles, apart from the predominant lines that ran down either side of her nose, but the features were as strong as they must have been in her youth and her eyes were still dark and lustrous though her hair was white. Only her hands, gnarled and veined, gave away the fact that she was somewhere in her seventies. Nonetheless she exuded vitality, and was undoubtedly an intrepid old lady with an interesting life behind her.
All around them the seats were filling up, and the aircraft taxied slowly to the runway. The warning to fasten seat belts and stop smoking was given and as effortlessly as a bird the jet lifted into the air. With breathtaking speed the ground dropped away beneath them. Almost at once the earth was no longer discernible as the aircraft ploughed through into clouds and then climbed steadily until it reached the limitless blue of space. Only then did Abby lean back in her seat and expel her breath with joy.
Her holiday had begun.
CHAPTER TWO
Although a seasoned traveller would have considered the twelve thousand miles trip to Delhi to have been uneventful, to Abby it was a source of new experiences, each one pleasurable. The huge plane descended at Paris, Geneva, and Beirut, discarding some fifteen per cent of its passengers at the last port of call but taking on an equal amount. During the first two stops Abby had remained on the aircraft, but at Beirut she got off, too excited to sleep, though the old lady beside her had been lost to the world for several hours.
But Abby was determined to savour every moment of her precious holiday, and she wandered round the airport, bright and glittering even though it was the early hours of the morning, and treated herself to a cup of coffee and a sticky concoction of raisins and dates before returning to the plane, where she watched fascinated, as closed trolleys looking like sealed aluminium cases were fork-lifted up and then wheeled into the galley kitchens as their empty counterparts were fork-lifted down and wheeled away. Catering for such a vast number of people caused a good many problems and she marvelled that it was all done with such speed and efficiency.
She took her seat again and then watched as they swiftly rose into the dark starry sky, winging their way on the last lap of their journey.
'Haven't you slept at all?' Her companion's voice brought Abby round to face her.
'I've been too excited to sleep.'
'You'll be tired when you get to Delhi.' Dark eyes surveyed her. 'Well, perhaps you won't. You're young and resilient. It's only old people who need to conserve their energy.'
'Is this your first trip to India?' Abby asked.
'I was here many years ago before she had her Independence, so in a way, you could say it is my first trip.'
'Surely not? The people might have changed, but all the things one comes to see are the same.'
'It depends what you've come to see,' was the dry answer. 'I travel primarily to see people; you are obviously travelling to see things'
Abby nodded. 'Ever since I was a child I've adored all things Indian—their paintings, their statues, their architecture.'
'Then you will be following the whole itinerary?'
'Yes. Are you?'
'I hope so, yes. But it will depend how I feel. Giles— my nephew—was very much against the trip. He thinks I'm too old to be gadding around the world, and if one takes age as a criterion, then he's right.'
'Whether or not you travel should depend on how you feel,' Abby replied. 'Not on how old you are.'
'Well, I feel like a spring chicken and I have more energy than people half my age.'
Hearing the vibrancy in the firm voice, Abby could well believe it. This was no old lady ready to sit by her fireside with cat and budgerigar, but a woman of spirit It was obvious her nephew did not realise it
'Do you come from London?' she asked.
'From Hampshire. You are from London, I take it?'
'Yes. I live in Victoria.'
By skilful questioning, Abby was soon disclosing everything about herself; her job—and loss of it—with Mr Rogerson, and the financial windfall that had brought her on this journey.
'A friend of mine wanted me to spend the money glamorising myself,' she added artlessly, 'but years of living with Belinda and Diana has helped me to accept my plainness.'
'Your sisters must be exceptionally beautiful if you consider yourself plain. With those pansy brown eyes of yours and your——— ' The woman stopped. 'There's no point in my elaborating. Confidence in yourself must come from within, not from what other people tell you. How old are you, child?'
'Not such a child,' Abby grinned. 'I'm twenty-four. I look younger because I'm small and thin.'
'Tiny and slender,' came the reply. 'Doesn't that description sound much better?'
'Of course. But it's too flattering.'
'On the contrary, I've merely stated what I see. Now tell me your first name. You're far too young for me to go on calling you Miss West.'
'My name is Abigail, but everyone calls me Abby.'
'I'm Matilda Bateman and I'm delighted that we're travelling together. It's a pity we didn't talk to you at the airport. I'm sure Giles would have been much more satisfied if he'd known I was travelling with such a delightful companion.'
Remembering the unfriendly way he had regarded her, Abby did not agree with this assumption, but refrained from saying so.
'It will be interesting to see India through your innocent eyes,' Miss Bateman continued. 'It's so long since I made my first long trip that I can't even remember it.'
'I'll never forget my first,' Abby chuckled. 'It will also be my last. Next year it's Bournemouth for me!'
'Such pessimism in one so young! If you want something in life you must always believe you can get it. Providing one has one's health, there are three d's I refuse to accept: despair, depression and destiny. The first two one must always fight against and the last one we make for ourselves.'
The woman's life had obviously led her to believe what she was saying, but it was not a philosophy with which Abby concurred. Destiny was a potent force in which she implicitly believed. Tactfully she changed the subject, and they chatted idly until Miss Bateman fell asleep again. Abby dozed too, awakening only as the stewardesses came round to take away cups and plates and the plane began its descent.
Like an albatross the huge jet landed on the runway, and within minutes passengers were filing out. It was only after disembarkation and Customs clearance that Abby had her first glimpse of the entire Gallway and King contingent. There were twenty in all, and though she was not the only one travelling alone she was clearly the youngest. There were two middle-aged men and a couple of doughty-looking women who she guessed to be civil servants or schoolteachers. The others were married couples in their middle years.
A plump Indian introduced himself as a representative of the company and led them to the small coach that would take them into the city.
'Mr Shiran, your tour guard, will be meeting you all later this afternoon,' he said, 'but for the moment I will deal with any enquiries you may have. As you know, you have the rest of this day free.'
'I want to go shopping,' one of the women said. 'I haven't come all this way to waste a day doing nothing.'
Abby let the conversation wash over her and gazed intently on the passing scene. They were driving through the countryside and for as far as the eye could see the land was flat. It also seemed quite fertile and was divide
d into surprisingly small fields, no bigger than English ones. But there were very few people to be seen working in them, though occasionally she glimpsed a pair of buffaloes pulling a plough or a woman bent double over the earth. They did not pass through any villages, but now and again she glimpsed small huddles of huts, some of mud and some of straw, which seemed to be bulging with goats and chickens as well as people.
As they approached the city there was no appreciable difference in the landscape, or the road, for though it widened, there were no pavements, merely a slight difference in the texture of the earth where the pedestrians walked. Frequently the coach was slowed down by cows wandering in its path. This was Abby's first glimpse of the sacred beast, though she was to see many hundreds more before her journey was over; poor homeless animals wandering the streets in search of food. Sacred and untouchable, they were left alone to fend for themselves and to die, when they would then be taken away on carts by the city's refuse men. It was an aspect of India she would grow to hate.
At last the coach stopped at the plate glass entrance to the Oberoi Hotel and three-quarters of the passengers alighted, including Miss Bateman. The remaining ones travelled on with her to the less distinguished Noranda Hotel, and only then did Abby realise that most of the group were travelling deluxe. She was too happy at the whole prospect of her holiday to let it worry her, and though she found her room spartan, it was clean and had a functional bathroom with plenty of hot water.
The dining-room was modest and though the chairs were hard and the tables wooden ones, without benefit of cloth, the lunch she was served was wholly Indian and excellent:: a delicious mutton curry with freshly ground spices, their flavours mingling yet each subtly retaining its own.
Lunch over, Abby unpacked half of her suitcases, then, unwilling to remain indoors, made up her mind to do a little exploration of her own. One could not fly halfway around the world and then immediately go to bed. Changing into a sweater and skirt, though she was still not sure how warm it was, and carrying a cardigan under her arm, she left the hotel and wandered through the streets.
The first thing that struck her was the absence of traffic, and what there was of it was old-fashioned and ramshackle, with small military jeeps outnumbering the old Morrises and Austins. Of bikes there was a plethora, for this seemed to be the main transportation apart from the infrequent single-decker buses, so full of humanity that they would have made a can of sardines look empty. The shops she passed were small single rooms, some were two-storied and most of them served also as home for the merchants who squatted cross-legged inside them, surrounded by their wares. And what wares they were! Trinkets and silver, glass and copper and metalware, spice shops filled with jars, their coloured interiors making them glitter like jewels. Leather- work painted, stitched or plain, and an eye-catching display of sari lengths in silk and cotton, all glowing with colour.
Afraid to wander too far from the hotel, she paused to look more closely at some of the jewellery, delighted by the skilled workmanship and amazed at the cheapness. But she had vowed not to buy anything too soon, and she resisted the blandishments of the merchants who called to her and proffered their wares. As she paused to look at some things, several beggars approached her: two boys not yet in their teens, their scraggy bodies clad in tatters but their eyes shining with mischief; a dark-skinned woman with sagging breasts and a child sucking one of them, and a little girl in a filthy dress with a face like an angel. But they all had one thing in common: outheld hands and the plea for money. It was one that Abby could not resist, and digging into her purse she took out all the loose coins she had and distributed them. Almost simultaneously she felt as though a thousand vultures were descending on her, as the pleading beggars disgorged themselves from heaven knew where and flung themselves upon her, voices raised, hands outstretched.
'Baksheesh! Baksheesh!'
'I've got no more,' she cried. 'I've given you all my change. Please let me go.'
As she went to move, more beggars descended upon her, and her gentle efforts to break free met with such failure that she began to push harder. Only by pushing at full strength was she finally able to make a path for herself. Hands to her ears to obliterate their cries, she ran for dear life, pursued by several of the more hardy ones who did not give up the chase until she stumbled through the fly-spotted door of her hotel
Never had she thought to be so pleased to enter its dingy interior or to find the smile of its brown-skinned proprietor so warm and welcoming. A glance through the glass door told him swiftly what had happened and he came round the reception desk with a look of concern.
'It's best that you do not give money to beggars,' he said in a lilting sing-song voice. 'Otherwise they will never leave you alone and one will become a hundred.'
'I know,' she said. 'But it's so hard to refuse. One of them was only a little girl.'
'You must harden your heart,' he replied. 'The Government keeps saying they will bring out legislation to stop begging, and it will be a good thing when they do.'
Abby could not see anything commendable in stopping them; it was necessary to stop them from having to beg. But that was so vast a problem that India could not deal with it alone.
She went towards the stairs and her foot was on the first step when the proprietor came hurrying over to her, a slip of paper in his hand.
'There was a call for you,' he said. 'Miss Bateman would like you to have dinner with her at the Oberoi. If you wish, I will get you a rickshaw taxi. It is too far for you to walk.'
'Are taxis expensive?' she asked.
He looked surprised. 'Everything is cheap for the tourist here. For twenty pence you may go anywhere in Delhi. But it is wise to arrange the price before you start the journey.'
A little later, sitting on the hard, narrow seat of the basketlike contraption that was perched on a three- wheeler bicycle, with her driver furiously pedalling, Abby came to the conclusion that it was worth spending a few rupees more to sit in a taxi proper, in comfort, which was not a way that this journey could ever be described. Nor did she enjoy being pulled along by another human being.
But the man was delighted with the money she gave him when they reached the Oberoi, and offered to wait and take her back.
'I'm having dinner here,' she said. 'I'll probably be several hours.'
'I wait. If I get another job, I come back later. But you please wait for me.'
'No,' Abby said firmly. 'I won't wait for you and I don't want you to wait for me either.'
Before he could argue, she entered the lobby, where Miss Bateman, resplendent in vintage black moire, greeted her warmly.
'I'm so delighted you came, child. I hadn't realised we weren't staying in the same hotel. Is yours comfortable?'
'Yes, thank you. And the lunch I had there was delicious.'
'I hope you're not too full to enjoy dinner. The restaurant here is supposed to be one of the best in the city.'
'I'm never too full to eat,' Abby confessed.
Miss Bateman laughed and led her into a Moghul- style dining room where for the next few moments they gave themselves over to the serious business of choosing their food. Once it had been ordered, the older woman began to talk about India; its architecture and literature; its food, religions, and the different traditions of the various cultures.
It was a wrench for Abby to leave, but she was unwilling to let Miss Bateman tire herself, and noting the flush on the lined cheeks, she regretfully pushed back her chair.
'If you don't find me an old bore,' Miss Bateman said briskly, as she accompanied Abby through the lobby, 'I would be happy to have your company during the tour. Unless of course you meet someone of your own age.'
'I shouldn't think that likely. They're all very old on this tour.'
Abby caught her lip, annoyed by her lack of tact. But Miss Bateman chuckled.
'It's only the middle-aged who object to being called old. When you reach my age, you take it as a compliment.' A gnarled hand patted Abby's
arm. 'What I really meant to say is that if you do share your time with me, you must never have any hesitation in telling me if you wish to spend your time with someone else.'
Promising she would remember this, Abby returned to her hotel. The small room was welcoming and she had no sense of loneliness as she undressed and climbed into bed. It was hard to believe she was actually in India. Smiling, she closed her eyes and was instantly asleep.
At seven next morning she awoke to a hazy grey sky. Hurriedly she showered and dressed. There was a morning of sightseeing ahead and the coach was calling here at eight-thirty before going on to the Oberoi to collect the rest of the group; travelling deluxe also gave them half an hour longer to lie in.
Although there were many historic monuments to see, for the average sightseer there were only a few of interest. The most important was the Red Fort, an excellent example of Moghul architecture that Abby had assiduously read about before coming here.
Yet she was unprepared for the splendid sight of thousands of small green parrots nesting on the vast sandstone walls, which gave the Fort its name. The main entrance ran through a covered passage that teemed with shops selling tourist trivia, but since most of it was glittering and cheap it beguiled the eye.
'We will stop here on the way out, if you wish to buy anything,' the guide informed them. He was a well- spoken man in a shabby suit, who rattled through his information like a gramophone record that had been played too many times.
Abby would have preferred a more leisurely inspection of the Red Fort, for she was anxious to savour all she was seeing, and though she tried to keep up with the group, she soon found herself lagging behind and, on her own, wandered across the spacious lawn that led to the Great Hall.
It was an awe-inspiring sight, even though most of the inlaid precious stones had been prized from the walls by British soldiers after the Indian Mutiny. It was here that the Crown Moghul had held public audience, though it was in the smaller Hall of Private Audience that Abby saw where the famous Peacock Throne had once stood, before being taken to Persia. Originally the ceiling of this marble room had been fashioned from solid silver, and there were still many fragments to be seen, as well as some wonderful Florentine panels. But it all had a faded glory that was vaguely depressing, and it was not until she reached the Royal Harem and baths that she felt she had walked straight into a page from the Arabian Nights.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 2
