‘Not yet. But don’t you worry,’ I said, ‘Ruby and I can sort them. It’s Charlie I’m worried about.’
‘What about Eunice and Lo?’
‘Haven’t you noticed that Eunice can barely stand to speak to the Butcher? And Lo is furious with him because he hasn’t paid her or Eddie in weeks. The Fintons aren’t going to be a problem. They hate the Butcher for ruining their sister.’
Poesy hung her head and knotted her fingers. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see. I thought he was being kind because Lizzie was so lovely. I can’t believe how she lied to me.’ A fat tear dropped from the end of her nose.
‘Then you’re in?’
Poesy wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and nodded fiercely. ‘What do we have to do?’
45
SERENADING THE SAHIBS
Tilly Sweetrick
We were billeted in ordinary people’s houses in Kolar because there wasn’t a hotel big enough to take us all. It was perfect. The audiences were hungry for us.
The lovely thing about performing in out-of-the-way places is that everyone thinks you’re something special. Even though no one used limelight in Melbourne any more, even though the musicals we performed were out of fashion, the audiences ate us up with their eyes.
Our train arrived at Ooorganin station at Marikuppau and a tall, balding man took off his topee and waved. Who would have thought that someone as ordinary as Mr Ruse could change our lives? His bald head glinted with sweat and his pale face shone as we lined up before him. It was such luck we were in his carriage on the road to Kolar. I watched Mr Ruse carefully as he explained he was an engineer on the new Kolar railway extension. Huge amounts of gold were pouring out of the mines, but the town was full of mud and dust so he was very pleased he’d been able to help organise our accommodation. He simply loved musical theatre.
Mr Ruse lived in a steep-roofed European bungalow with a long, low-ceilinged verandah that was screened from the road by trellis. There were pots of ferns and small palms on green shelves, and as we climbed up the steps the house felt cool and welcoming.
A funny old butler wearing a sash and a turban directed the porters to bring our trunks inside. Another servant brought out a tray of lemonade and a dish of marzipan, toffee fudge and chocolate creams.
It was the first time we’d been in a real person’s house since arriving in India, and it made me feel oddly homesick. I’d never thought I would long for Richmond or that any place in India could remind me of home, but there was something strangely comforting about Mr Ruse’s house. The living room was full of deep armchairs and there was a piano in the corner. I couldn’t help but wander over to it and rest my hands on the keys. On top of the piano, in a lovely silver frame, was a picture of two little girls with fair ringlets. Their photograph was tinted so the girls’ hair shone and their cheeks glowed with just the right hint of pink.
‘Those are my daughters,’ said Mr Ruse, lifting the photograph from its place with great care.
‘We look forward to meeting them, sir,’ said Poesy, peering over his elbow.
Mr Ruse put the photo back on the piano tenderly. ‘Oh, you won’t meet Alice and Emma. They’ve gone home to England. All the children go home.’
‘Don’t the Britishers like to keep their children in India? Is that why we don’t see many white children in our audiences?’ asked Poesy. ‘Because they’ve been sent away?’
Mr Ruse looked embarrassed. I was close enough to Poesy to take hold of her hand and give her a little pinch without anyone noticing. Really, someone had to let that child know when she was rude.
‘We send the children home so they can have a proper education,’ said Mr Ruse. ‘I hear you lucky children travel with a teacher provided by the Australian government.’
I pinched Poesy even harder then, in case she started saying that Myrtle was a teacher, which is what we were meant to tell strangers. She tried to jerk her arm away but I squeezed her hand even tighter.
‘Not exactly, Mr Ruse,’ I said, sad and soulful. ‘Mr Percival tells people that we have a teacher but Myrtle is only a year older than I, and though she writes her name very nicely she can’t really teach us anything. I do worry about the younger girls. They can barely write their names. Ruby and I try to help them when we can. But Mr Percival . . .’
I broke off, leaving the Butcher’s name hanging. I didn’t want it all to come out in a rush. We couldn’t be sure of Mr Ruse yet.
Mr Ruse frowned.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Tilly. This was not my understanding of your situation.’
‘You mustn’t mind us, sir.’ I took a step closer and rested my hand on his arm. ‘We’re very grateful to you for taking us in. It’s so lovely to be in a real home. We’re tired of hotels.’
Mr Ruse pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed his face and stepped away from me. Perhaps I’d moved too quickly. Then I heard the click of the beaded curtains parting and Mrs Ruse swept into the room.
‘Welcome, children. But my goodness, you are big girls, aren’t you?’ she said uneasily. Somehow I didn’t think we’d find our rescuers in Kolar.
That evening, the Dorgaum Theatre was full to bursting. Mr and Mrs Ruse had front-row seats and I noticed Mr Ruse’s grey eyes grow misty when Daisy sang ‘Rainbow’. At the end of the show, I led Daisy up to meet the Ruses and I could tell they were both moved by her baby sweetness.
‘People have been so kind here,’ I said. ‘Daisy wishes we could stay in Kolar longer, don’t you, darling.’
‘Oh yes, I don’t like going on the trains,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Mr Ruse. ‘I thought all little children were fond of trains. Our girls used to love riding down to Bangalore.’
I looked at Daisy and winked. She knew what to do. She lowered her voice until it was a husky whisper. ‘Because sometimes Mr Arthur makes me lie under the seats with all the spiders and dust. That way he doesn’t have to buy me a ticket. But sometimes I gets scared and sometimes I cry and pinch the big girls’ legs, but they’re not allowed to let me out.’ She pouted and pushed her face into my hip so I could give her a cuddle.
‘Why, you poor little tot! That’s disgraceful,’ said Mr Ruse.
I glanced over my shoulder to check for the Butcher and then nodded solemnly. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about it,’ I said, my voice hushed.
There was an awkward silence when the Butcher approached the Ruses to thank them for accommodating us. I saw his confusion at the coolness of his reception and I wanted to laugh out loud.
Next morning, as we were climbing back into the carriages to leave for the station, Mr Ruse took my hand.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Tilly,’ he said. ‘You and all the other children have friends. I’ve spoken to my associates in the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and we’re keeping an eye on you and the other Lilliputians. You are not alone.’
Ruby whooped with glee when I repeated what he’d said, but Poesy fell silent. I wondered if we could trust her.
At the next show in Bangalore, Mr Ruse sat in the third row from the front with a group of men. I saw him direct their gaze to Daisy and they whispered among themselves as the curtain fell for a change of scene.
After the show, the gentlemen gathered in the bar, drinking whiskey and sodas. As I passed by the doorway, Mr Ruse came out to speak with me.
‘We’re very worried about your case, Miss Tilly,’ he said. ‘Many of the other gentlemen here tonight are members of the SPCC. We’re most concerned by the allegations you have made against Mr Percival. It’s not appropriate for us to intervene at this juncture but if you and some of the other girls could write to the British Resident in Mysore, who represents the government here, and to the Commissioner of Police in Bangalore outlining your predicament, either one of them might be able to approve an intervention.’
I was terribly disappointed – I’d rather wished one of the gentlemen would march up to the Butcher and punch him on the n
ose – but at least there was hope.
It was after midnight when we got back to our rooms, and I sat up writing into the night. I was careful to tell the truth and not embellish the facts too much. I wrote to the Resident and the Commissioner, as Mr Ruse had instructed. I even wrote to the Maharani of Mysore because even if she was a native she was a woman and a queen and perhaps she could do something too.
It must have been three in the morning by the time I tiptoed down the hallway and slipped my letters under Mr Ruse’s door. I trembled with every step, terrified someone would see me in nothing but my nightgown and kimono wrap, wandering the corridors of the Cubbon Hotel. I dreaded to think what the Butcher would make of it if I were caught.
The room was bright and hot but I couldn’t wake up. Someone shook me but I pulled the sheets up and pushed their hand away. I only wanted to stay in bed for another ten minutes, only another ten minutes of sweet slumber.
‘Get out of bed, Matilda Sweeney,’ growled the Butcher. ‘Get out before I drag you out by your hair.’
‘What’s the time?’ I asked, still groggy with sleep.
‘It’s nine-thirty.’
I turned my back to him and pulled the sheets over my head.
‘This is the last straw, Matilda.’
‘Go away,’ I muttered, suddenly terrified that someone had seen me at Mr Ruse’s door and reported it.
The Butcher stripped the sheet from me, grabbed my wrist and wrenched me out of bed.
‘You hurt me!’ I exclaimed, rubbing the skin on my arm where his horrid paws had touched me.
‘We’ve been waiting for you in the foyer for the last half hour. But that’s the least of your offences, girl. Do you have any idea the damage you are doing to our season here with your idle gossip?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, turning my back on him and storming into the bathroom. I tried to shut the door in his face but he put his fat boot in the way and forced it open. It was indecent of him to shout at me when I was still in my nightgown.
‘Do you take me for an utter fool?’ he shouted. ‘I know you’ve been spreading your poison through the troupe. You’ve poisoned that sweet little Poesy Swift against Lizzie. You’re a viper in our midst. But poisoning the other children against me won’t get you home. Your mother signed a contract, and she can send all the telegrams she likes but I am under no obligation to send you back to her until July next year.’
I turned and stared at him. ‘Ma sent a telegram?’
He laughed, that horrible laugh that made his face twist into an even more brutal expression. ‘Yes, it’s incredible, isn’t it, that she could find the shillings to cover the cost of the wire. She’ll have to do without her toddies this week.’
I hated him. I hated the way he thought our families were gutter trash. I hated his sneering face. If he thought he had me trapped, he had another thing coming.
‘And you’ll have to do without me,’ I said. ‘Without all of us. I’ve written to the Police Commissioner in Bangalore. I’ve written to the Resident here too and told them how you cut me with your cane. I’ve talked to the SPCC. Everyone hates you. Everyone.’
‘How dare you! You vixen!’ His eyes blazed and I thought he was going to hit me again, but he only took a step closer, his breath hot in my face. ‘It won’t do you any good. Tomorrow we’ll be in the Presidency of Madras and out of Mysore, out of their jurisdiction.’
‘Then I shall do the same in Madras. Everywhere we go. Everywhere! And the world will know what a vile bully you are!’ My voice roared up from the pit of my stomach, shrill with rage.
‘Stop it this instant!’ he shouted, boxing my ears so hard my head felt it was going to explode. I tried to push him away and escape but he blocked the doorway.
I didn’t care that I was cornered. I hated him. ‘Next time I’ll tell them everything,’ I shrieked. ‘I’ll tell them about you and Lizzie too. I’ll tell them what happens after supper every night.’
His face flushed a peculiar shade of purple and then he grabbed me by my hair and bashed my head against the wall. I screamed and stumbled backwards against the almirah. He came at me again.
If it hadn’t been for Poesy, I believe he would have killed me. Her face must have blanched at the sight of us: the Butcher, his hands in my hair, pulling my head back and forth and beating it against the cupboard; me, spewing out my fury and pain.
She screamed and screamed and screamed. The Butcher let go and I slid down the wall, to lie limp on the cool tiles. In an instant, Poesy was in the bathroom, kneeling beside me. She put her arms around my shoulders and looked up at the Butcher, her eyes blazing. ‘What have you done, Mr Arthur!’
A second later I heard his footsteps going out the door and away down the passage. Away from us.
‘Tilly, Tilly,’ said Poesy, her cool hand against my cheek. ‘Are you all right?’
I sat up slowly. My ears were ringing and I couldn’t stop my body shaking but my thoughts were as sharp as a knife. He would pay for this.
‘Help me to the bed and bring me some water,’ I said.
Poesy wept, silently, as she tended me. ‘I’m sorry, Tilly,’ she said. ‘I’ll do anything you say. Anything. We have to stop him.’
Even though it made my head ache even more, I smiled.
On the train to Madras, coconut palms, lush green paddocks and then dry, dusty red plains flashed past. If I looked at the landscape with squeezy eyes, I could almost imagine I was back in Australia. But then I saw a family of native women with pots and bundles on their heads walking beside a field of sugarcane, and a dark-skinned man on a bicycle riding along a dusty red road. The illusion shattered. I was a long way from home.
The other girls in the carriage were asleep, their heads lolling against each other’s shoulders. The Butcher had made us help with the costumes as we bumped out the theatre the night before, just to save paying a few annas to a native, and it was after two in the morning when we finally crawled into bed. Everyone was exhausted.
I was too disappointed for sleep. Mr Ruse hadn’t turned up at our final performance. I didn’t even know if he had found my letters under his door. Everything seemed hopeless. Once we left Madras, there wouldn’t be another chance of escape until we reached America. I knew I couldn’t wait that long.
46
SHARED SECRETS
Poesy Swift
Tilly and I stood leaning on the balustrade, watching as all the costumes and sets were unloaded and carried inside by coolies. Flora, Daisy and the younger boys ran squealing up and down the verandahs of the Moore Park Pavilion. Mr Milligan shouted instructions, directing the crates with the flats in them in one direction, and the costumes in another.
‘He’s not on our side, you know,’ said Tilly, nodding her head towards Mr Milligan. ‘He’s only out for himself.’
‘You can’t know that, Tilly,’ I said. ‘He stuck up for Iris in Penang. And I’m sure he didn’t like it when Mr Arthur locked Ruby in her cabin.’
‘But he did nothing. Him and Eddie and Lo and Jim McNulty and that cow, Miss Thrupp. They take the Butcher’s money and do his bidding. They never even stay in the same hotel as us any more. At least they used to be nearby. Now, there’s no one between us and the Butcher.’
Tilly’s face was like a stone sculpture. There would be no forgiveness for anyone from her.
We couldn’t open our season because the workmen hadn’t finished kitting out the Pavilion to transform it from a sports arena into a theatre. Instead, that evening, we watched a fakir perform on the long verandah of our hotel. He wore a white turban and a white dhoti but his chest was bare. His skin was so dark it almost merged with the shadows, as if his clothes were simply floating on air. He set up on a straw mat while the audience lounged about in cane chairs to watch.
It was the first time I’d seen the mango trick. Charlie stood close by, leaning against a verandah post, watching intently while the fakir placed a handful of red-brown earth in a tin
and pressed a mango seed inside. Then, with his boy helper, he used four bamboo sticks and a piece of coarse muslin to make a little tent. The muslin was translucent but he lifted it at the front so we could see the tin with the mango stone inside. Then he drew another piece of cloth from his basket and tossed it over the top. Next, he put a small chat, or water pot, at the back of the tent to water the mango seed before he went on with his act.
No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t understand how he worked his magic. He asked a gentleman to put a card in an envelope, a card he couldn’t possibly have seen, and yet he knew exactly what was inside without opening the envelope. He lit candles by simply snapping his fingers. Then he came and begged for rupees. I don’t know where Charlie found the money, but when the fakir came close to him, he slipped the man a few pice and then edged closer to watch.
Before the fakir began another trick, he lifted the folds of the tent to show that the mango had begun to grow. We could all see a little green shoot poking out of the tin. Someone shouted that it was a hoax and the fakir tipped the seed from the tin so we could all see it was truly sprouting. Then he covered it and watered it again and went on performing other tricks. When he had finished, he lifted the folds of the tent again. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The little sprout had turned into a proper shrub, a tiny tree with a single golden mango hanging from its branches! Everyone clapped and gasped, except Charlie, who frowned and tipped his head to one side. Then the fakir covered the tree again and watered it once more, but when he whipped the cloth off, the tree had disappeared. Only the little tin can lay empty on its side, spilling red-brown earth onto the verandah.
When the magic was at an end I looked for Charlie, but he had disappeared as surely as the mango tree.
That night, my room at the Castle Hotel was steamy with heat. The other girls had collapsed into heavy, sweaty dreams, but still I couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow we would be back at work, rehearsing in the mornings, taking enforced naps in the afternoon and putting on eight shows a week, if you included the matinees.
India Dark Page 19
