Sometimes I pretend to myself that I saw nothing, that I covered my eyes at the very moment the truth was revealed. But I didn’t. I saw it all. The curve of her hip, as she opened her kimono, the way he covered her body with his own, the way she pulled the white shirt from his back. My heart beat so loudly that I could hear it inside my own head. I tried to tell myself that he was drunk. There could be no other excuse. But deep inside, I knew there was another truth. The truth that I had ignored from the first moment I’d stood shivering outside our cabin door on board the Ceylon. The truth that I had pushed away whenever it crept close to me. The terrible, ugly truth.
42
KISS MISS 1909
Tilly Sweetrick
‘Kiss Miss’. It was on everyone’s lips. Whenever I heard someone say it, I remembered George. I would never know the sweetness of his kiss. That thought twisted in my heart like a knot of pain. But of course ‘Kiss Miss’ was only what the Indians called Christmas.
Kiss Miss, Burra Din, no matter what they called it, Christmas 1909 was the worst of my life. The grand dining room at Watson’s was decorated with paper streamers and lanterns and there were three sorts of roast meat and fish and lobsters and far too many peculiar Indian dishes, but I couldn’t eat a thing. I picked at the food and rolled the soft core of my bread into tiny lumps. Perhaps that’s what gave Max the idea. He picked up a little ball of squashed bread and flicked it across the table at Freddie.
‘Pelleting,’ said Freddie. ‘See, I’ve heard of it. The Britishers used to reckon it was great sport. Let’s have a go.’
When Freddie kept landing perfect shots in the faces of the boys on the other side, Max picked up a whole bread roll and flung it across the room. It hit the cream pudding, and then the table erupted. Everyone started flinging things: bits of meat, potatoes, handfuls of pie and pudding. Daisy threw a chicken drumstick at Flora. The khitmungars scurried about, scraping the food from the floor and looking completely alarmed. Freddie knocked one of their turbans right off and we all screamed with laughter.
The Butcher leapt up from his table and raced at the Kreutz twins, dragging the pair of them out of the dining room by their collars. The fury on his face was enough to subdue all of us. Daisy began to cry as Lo furiously wiped a blob of gravy from the front of her dress and picked a handful of peas from her hair. As fast as the frenzy had erupted, it settled again and most of us were sent to our rooms to change our clothes so they could be given to the dhobis to wash. But that meant we spent all of Christmas afternoon sitting on our beds in our underwear. I simmered with rage against the injustice of being treated like a child.
We weren’t allowed down to the dining room for breakfast the next day and waiters brought us trays of chota hazri in our room, as if we were little children. I picked at the grapes and watched the other girls, each looking thoroughly sorry for herself. Poesy was the most sullen. Since the night Lizzie had tried to stab me with my own hatpin, Poesy had barely said boo to anyone except Charlie Byrne. Sometimes, I wondered if she actually fancied him. For a little boy he was rather sweet, but he was still only thirteen. What was she thinking?
On the evening of Boxing Day we performed La Poupée to a full house. It’s such an awful show. The only decent role in it for a girl is Alesia, who pretends to be a doll and gets the prettiest costume. The rest of us mostly clump around the stage in monks’ habits, and I never like having to play the boy roles.
For some reason, the Butcher decided to cast Poesy as Alesia. Maybe he was trying to get her back on side by giving her a big role opposite Lionel, who played the romantic lead, Lancelot. As irritating as Lionel could be, he did sing nicely, but Poesy really wasn’t up to it. She jerked her way gracelessly across the boards and sang upstage so her voice didn’t carry into the theatre. It was almost as if she was trying to ruin the show. She was so awful that the Butcher had Iris take her place in the second act. Poesy’s face was smudged with tears as she wiped away her make-up and changed into a monk’s cowl. When Lizzie tried to comfort her, she gave her the cold shoulder. It was the only satisfying moment across two horrible days.
One disaster led to another and when Eddie Quedda made a hash of arranging the flats and brought out a castle backdrop from Cloches de Corneville instead of the monastery, and then forgot to cue Max and Freddie, the twins had a go at him as soon as they stepped backstage. ‘Even little Daisy could do a better job of stage-managing than you, Eddie,’ said Max. ‘You’re not worth a brass razoo.’
‘Watch your tongue, Max,’ said Eddie. ‘Or I’ll cut it out of your nasty little mouth. And I’m Mr Eddie to you.’ He actually brandished a knife that he had been using to cut the canvas.
‘Don’t you wave that knife around at my brother,’ snarled Freddie. ‘You were one of us a couple of years ago, mate. Remember when our big brother Louis knocked you senseless for giving him cheek?’
Eddie threw his knife into the stage boards at Freddie’s feet and boxed Max’s ears so hard that Max yelped aloud. You could probably hear him from the audience.
The Butcher suddenly appeared, his face livid. He stepped between Max and Eddie and pushed them apart, as if they were two warring boys.
‘It’s not your place to discipline the kids, Eddie,’ said the Butcher. ‘Mark my words, if you hit any one of them again, I will thrash you. It’s not so long since I turned you over my knee, and if you behave like a child I’ll treat you like one.’
‘He insulted my professionalism,’ said Eddie.
‘No, he told the truth,’ said the Butcher, his eyes narrow and steely. ‘You’re hopeless. When we get back to Melbourne, go back to juggling, Quedda. There’s no place for you in management.’
There was no time to continue the argument. The children were streaming into the wings, ready for the next costume change, and men and boys raced onto the stage to shift the backdrop for the next act.
Late that night, as we wiped away our make-up and changed back into our street clothes, I saw the Butcher sitting on a stool by the stage door swigging whiskey from a silver flask and cursing the entire troupe. No one had sold very many portraits that night and there were no stagedoor Johnnies for him to shoo away, but he sat there anyway. Mr Milligan took his chance to corner the Butcher.
‘We’re running low on hydrogen,’ said Mr Milligan, ‘And I haven’t been able to find a supplier here in Bombay. Calcium oxide and oxygen, they’re not a problem, but if I can’t refill the hydrogen cylinders before we leave we’ll not make Colombo.’
‘Surely some of the other theatres are using it. Cadge some from an electrician at one of them.’
‘You’re living in the past. Most of the theatres here don’t need limelight. They have electricity and use arc lighting. The only way I can source hydrogen is to pay triple the going rate. And I can’t see how you can cover that when you haven’t paid my wages since Calcutta.’
‘Look, Milligan. You know the season’s been a poor one. What do you expect of me? Eddie Quedda is incompetent, Miss Thrupp is a broken woman, and those minxes Tilly and Ruby have been trying to undermine my discipline at every turn. It was Tilly who put the little ones up to making that spectacle on the balconies at Watson’s. She was behind the Police Commissioner’s visit, the riot on Christmas Day, and Lord knows what mischief she’s planning now. Since Lucknow, Tilly has been behind every bit of trouble that has beset this troupe. That girl will be the death of me.’
I stepped out of the shadows and looked the Butcher straight in the eye. He didn’t even blush.
‘No stagedoor Johnnies for you tonight, Matilda,’ he said with a smirk.
My mind seethed with sharp replies, but the stinging pain in my leg made me swallow my rage. He’d said I’d be the death of him. I could only hope it was true.
43
LA POUPÉE
Poesy Swift
I couldn’t bear to be near her. Every time Lizzie tried to talk to me I felt my stomach churn. I couldn’t stand the smell, the touch, the very sight of her.
I had loved Lizzie too much. I had been blind.
When Mr Arthur told me I could play Alesia opposite Lionel in La Poupée I should have been thrilled. Instead, I simply felt numb. Once, I’d rather liked the story of the puppetmaster’s daughter who tricks the shy monk, Lancelot, into marrying her. It had seemed terribly romantic. Now it felt like a litany of lies. I wasn’t sorry when I was told Iris was to take my role in the second act. I didn’t want to pretend I loved anyone. I had played a puppet for too long.
As we filed out into the Bombay street after the show, the Butcher announced that he hadn’t been able to arrange enough carriages to take us home. Lo pushed me towards the vehicles but when I saw Lizzie sitting in the gharry looking at me expectantly, I turned away. Ruby and Tilly were standing on the pavement with the boys – they were the only two girls who were forced to walk back to the hotel. I ran to join them.
‘I don’t mind walking too,’ I said.
Ruby and Tilly didn’t seem to notice me. They hooked arms with the twins and strode across the street while I fell into step with Charlie. The little boys, Henry Howard and Billy Waters, ran ahead but suddenly, as they passed a carved temple wall, a giant wild animal leapt out of the darkness. Henry screamed ‘Lion!’ and turned in his tracks. Charlie caught him and held him fast. ‘Don’t be stupid. There are no lions in Bombay!’
‘Tiger!’ screamed Billy. Then we all saw the creature properly and everyone began screaming. Mr Arthur raised his cane in the air. ‘Keep back!’ he shouted, pretending to defend us. But the beast didn’t charge him, it started dancing and shrieking like a lunatic, and I realised it was only a man dressed in a bizarre costume, rather like a giant monkey. Charlie darted forward and grabbed the Butcher’s wrist.
‘He won’t hurt you, Mr Arthur. Don’t mind him. He’s only a street performer. He’s dressed as the monkey god and he goes about collecting alms for the Hanuman temple.’
We all stood staring in surprise, feeling shaken, while Charlie took a step closer to the monkey beggar and held out a tiny coin. The monkey man made a hooting noise and jumped around Charlie. The whites of his eyes gleamed in his dark, painted face and he bared his teeth like a real monkey. Then he laughed, a high, cackling sort of howl, before he raced away and scrambled up a wall further along the street.
Mr Arthur took another surreptitious swig from his flask, and I noticed his hands were shaking. Coward. Charlie was twice the man. I touched Charlie’s arm lightly as he fell back into step with me. ‘There was nothing to be afraid of,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel afraid of anything when I’m with you.’
Behind us, Mr Arthur spread his arms wide, herding everyone along the pavement as if we were his pets and needed to be harried to keep pace. He waved his cane at the back of the boys’ legs and I could feel the swish of the wood as it swept past my skirts.
‘You know, Lionel, old boy,’ he said, his voice drunkenly slurring, ‘I definitely prefer to keep my monkeys on a string.’
Charlie and I quickened our pace, catching up with Ruby, Tilly and the twins.
‘We’ll show him,’ said Tilly, glancing back at Mr Arthur. ‘We’re not his puppets, his poupées or his little monkeys on a string. We’re like that wild man monkey, aren’t we, boys?’
The twins grinned at her, their faces alight with wickedness. ‘How’s that, Tilly?’ said Max. ‘You planning something cheeky?’
Tilly glanced back at Mr Arthur swinging his cane in the air and laughing with Lionel. ‘I’ll give him more than cheek, one day,’ she said. ‘I’ll make him wish he’d never been born.’
Charlie put his hand on my elbow. ‘C’mon,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t want to listen to this lot.’ He broke into a run, leaping off the pavement and racing down the wide, dusty street.
I ran too, my legs flashing out from beneath my skirt, my heart pounding, past the sleeping houses, past the ornate temples, away from the ghastly intrigues of the Lilliputians and into the darkness of the Bombay night.
44
COUNCIL OF WAR
Tilly Sweetrick
Daisy wouldn’t stop crying. ‘The mosquitoes are as big as chickens,’ she sobbed. ‘There’s a hole in the net and they keep eating me up!’
‘Oh come here, you baby,’ I called to her. ‘Come and jump in with me.’
She fumbled her way out of the mosquito netting and crossed the bare floor on her tiptoes. She started to cry again when I put my arms around her.
‘Mr Arthur was horrible to me today,’ she sobbed. ‘He smacked me. He said I was being naughty because I couldn’t remember my song. But he’d changed the way we always sing it. He never used to smack me.’
‘It’s all right, sweetie,’ I said, stroking her hair. ‘Things will be better soon.’
‘I don’t like it here in Poona,’ she said, as she snuggled up against me and fell asleep.
I stared into the high arc of the mosquito net and wanted to weep. I didn’t like Poona either but not because of the mosquitoes. Poona made my heart ache for George. Every night, soldiers from the cantonment filled our audience. I knew I’d never see George again but the idea of him, of what might have been between us, haunted me. Burning in the wake of my grief came rage against the Butcher. Three of his sisters had met their husbands in India when they were no older than me, including Mrs Essie. I was sixteen years old, for goodness sake. Old enough to know my own heart.
As Daisy began to snore softly, I found myself thinking of all the things I could have done differently in Bombay. I wished I’d asked the Bartons for more help. Giving them another letter to post to my mother was a useless gesture. She was thousands of miles away and she hadn’t even bothered to do anything about the last one. I had to find someone closer to rescue me. Like the Monkey Man, I would have to beg for alms.
When we arrived in Bangalore, I knew I had a better chance. It was a lovely city of parks and spreading trees and we stayed at the Cubbon Hotel in proper rooms. There was a military cantonment in Bangalore as well as a constant flow of Britishers to the goldfields at Kolar.
On our first free afternoon, when we’d been sent back to the hotel for a rest before the evening show, Iris spread her scrapbook out on the table and started trimming a postcard.
‘There’s not much point in sending it home, is there?’ she said. ‘If I write anything true on it, the Butcher will put it in the rubbish and Mama will never see it. You know, this morning he hurt my arm when he dragged me out of bed. I didn’t mean to sleep in. It’s just I’m tired all the time.’
I was glad that even Iris had taken to calling him the Butcher. She sat tracing her fingers around the edge of the postcard. A small breeze blew in through the high windows and she tipped herself back in the cane chair.
‘It’s not fair. Valentine is always the lucky one. I want to go home too,’ she said in a wistful voice.
I walked over to her chair and whispered in her ear. ‘We could all be home. Soon. Or at least sooner than was planned.’
It was the first time I’d floated the idea of taking charge of our own destinies to any of the girls, and of a sudden the air felt electric. Iris looked up at me as if I’d said something extraordinary. For the longest time, she simply stared at me. Then she changed the subject. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to a picture in her scrapbook. ‘That’s a picture of Mr Arthur with us in Manila. That was a lovely tour, wasn’t it? Maybe it’s not Mr Arthur’s fault. Maybe it will be better when we leave India.’
I was disappointed but not surprised. I would have to bide my time before I won her over. But I would win in the end. I was determined to win each and every child in the troupe.
Poesy looked up from her book as if I’d called her, as if she heard my thoughts. ‘How could we be home any sooner?’ she asked.
‘Put your hat on and come with me if you want to find out. I’m meeting Freddie and Max for a walk in Cubbon Gardens.’
As soon as we were well clear of the hotel, Max pulled a little tin
of tobacco from his pocket and rolled a cigarette for himself and Freddie. Poesy Goody-two-shoes trailed behind us. I picked a cassia flower and tucked it behind my ear and Freddie beamed at me with a sloppy, puppy-dog look. It was sweet, but I hoped he wasn’t getting ideas.
We sat on the steps of the bandstand, us girls on the top steps and the boys one beneath, and I explained everything to Poesy. It was a risk to include her, but it was time to start taking risks. ‘But that’s mutiny!’ exclaimed Poesy, her mouth falling open in surprise.
‘No it’s not,’ said Freddie, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. ‘It’s a strike. We’re workers, he’s the boss and we’re going on strike. That’s all. It’s a worker’s right, least that’s what my old man says.’
‘How can you think such a thing would work? Where would we go? Who would take care of us?’
Freddie took one last drag on his cigarette. ‘Me and Max can take care of ourselves,’ he said. Then he stubbed his cigarette out on the edge of the rotunda and threw the butt into the bushes. I felt quite irritated by him trying to act the man.
‘No you can’t, Freddie,’ I said. ‘None of us can do this alone. We must find people to help us. If I’d had my wits about me in Bombay, I would have asked the Bartons.
‘The thing is, Poesy, we need everyone on side or it simply won’t work. We can’t ask Eliza, she’s not going to turn on her lover, even if he is a lying old beast. And we’ll never win Lionel over, the Butcher pays him two rupees a week to keep him on side, but if we can get Charlie then we’ll have all the other boys. Which is why you are so important. Because you and Charlie Byrne are friends, aren’t you? He’s sweet on you. Everyone knows that.’
Poesy pretended to be surprised and blushed. ‘But what about Myrtle and Rosie and Amy and Lulu? And the middling girls too! Do they know what you’re planning?’
India Dark Page 18
