We walked down to the shore first, to the wide, warm beach opposite the Senate House. Small groups of people sat watching fishermen pull their boats up onto the sand as night fell. Scattered along the shore were little stalls from which the smell of hot oil and fresh fish came wafting up the beach. Prem and Charlie wandered across to a stall where they ordered some supper. Charlie bought something called a dosa, which was like a great big crispy pancake, while I had some rice and curry and a tiny fried cake on a banana leaf. I wasn’t very dainty at eating with my fingers. It seemed to be a terribly untidy way to go about things but Prem ate quickly, deftly, without making a mess at all.
We walked along the warm sand. There were no Britishers about and I felt oddly uncomfortable, even though it was growing too dark for anyone to see me. I wasn’t afraid but I was out of my element. Charlie seemed to fit perfectly.
We came to a section of the beach where a fakir had set a straw mat and in the middle was a cane basket. Around the mat, flaring torches were embedded in the sand. We stood about waiting for him to begin.
His assistant stepped forward, a small, thin rag of a boy with thick black hair. At the fakir’s command, he climbed inside the basket and pulled the lid over his head. Then the fakir took out a shiny sharp sword and plunged it into the basket. From inside came a terrible wail. I clutched Charlie’s arm in horror. No one in the crowd moved as the fakir plunged in sword after sword until blood began to flow out through the cane and the wails of the little boy stopped.
I felt quite weak at the knees. I squeezed Charlie’s wrist. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s only a clever trick. Watch.’
Charlie and Prem acted as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to see a little boy murdered before our very eyes.
The fakir began to chant and remove each of the bloodied swords. When the last sword was withdrawn, he waved his hand over the top of the basket three times and cried out something magical. Suddenly, the lid popped off and the little boy jumped out, grinning. He did a dance around the basket and all the audience cheered. In the glow of the torchlight, it was clear that the child didn’t have a mark on his skin and yet only moments before he had been howling in pain.
Feeling queasy, I walked away from the boys, down to the water’s edge, and stared out at the black sea. I couldn’t bear to watch any more dark magic. I’d only meant to stay away for a minute, but when I turned around the fakir was rolling up his mat and the boys had disappeared.
I wrapped my shawl tightly about me and studied the thinning crowd with alarm. Every face seemed dark and utterly foreign. My feet sank into the deep sand and I had to carry my slippers as I ran in a panic up the beach to the boulevard. Standing on the pavement, I looked in every direction, but though there were groups of men and boys everywhere I couldn’t see Prem and Charlie. I hurried back into the city, staring up at the buildings, trying to get my bearings. With horror, I realised I had no idea how to find my way back to the Castle Hotel.
I hurried through the Madras streets, self-conscious about my strange clothes, unable to speak to either Indian or Britisher. What would they make of me? A pale-skinned Australian girl dressed like a native. A group of young Indian men called out to me but I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I dashed into the next street, terrified. I nearly collided with two British soldiers who came reeling through the doors of a club. I ran faster, blindly, my gaze flitting from one building to the next, hoping to recognise one that was familiar.
Then, to my horror, I saw Mr Arthur coming out of a doorway. Part of me longed to fling myself at him, to beg him to take me back to the hotel, but then I remembered what he’d done to Lizzie and I stepped into the shadows and hid myself. I could smell the rank scent of whiskey as he reeled past.
I wanted to be sick. I knew I simply had to get off the street and calm myself. When I was almost at my wits end, I turned into a wide street and saw golden light flooding out through the doors of a public hall. Both Indian and white people, ladies and gentlemen, were crowding into the hall, beneath a sign that read ‘Free Lecture’. I slipped in through the doors, my head bowed, and found myself a seat on a bench in a shadowy corner of the hall. I kept my eyes down and the shawl pulled forward to hide my face.
It was a strange twist of fate to discover Mrs Besant was delivering the lecture. I remembered that the Theosophical Headquarters were somewhere in Madras. She stood in the centre of a small stage at one end of the hall. Her silvery hair was thick, like a girl’s, and her eyes were bright and sharp. She wore a white satin gown with a fichu of pale brown lace at the collar. When she took off her white gloves to speak, her hands were strong and brown and sinewy. Beside her, dressed in a white jacket with tiny gold buttons, was an Indian boy. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
Mrs Besant spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the audience. When she spoke, her voice was like a song. It rang out across the hall.
‘Truth may lead me into the wilderness, yet I must follow her; she may strip me of all love, yet I must pursue her; though she slay me, yet will I trust in her; and I ask no other epitaph on my tomb but “She tried to follow Truth”.’
To follow Truth. I had no idea what that meant any more. The world was full of liars and the ground beneath my feet shifted from one day to the next.
I couldn’t make sense of what Mrs Besant was trying to explain until she turned to introduce the boy beside her. He must be the one she was adopting, the boy that Charlie had talked about. She called him Jiddu Krishnamurti. He reminded me a little of Prem but he was thinner. His eyes were like beautiful doe’s eyes – brown and soft – and he looked at the audience with a strange, unboyish tenderness. ‘His mystical name is Alcyone,’ Mrs Besant announced, ‘but his aura is completely free of selfishness, his past lives have made him wise beyond his years.’
I don’t know why that was the thing that made me cry. All of a sudden, my whole body began to shake. I didn’t see why anyone should be wise beyond their years. I wanted to wind back the clock and go back to being the innocent girl I’d been six months before. I wanted Mr Arthur to go back to being the kind and dashing man he’d been when I’d first met him at Balaclava Hall. I wanted Lizzie to be the lovely big sister who had held me in her arms. I wanted Tilly to be the same cheerful, whistling girl who’d come strolling down my laneway. I wanted my old life back.
People nearby turned to stare at me as my sobs grew louder. I jumped to my feet and ran out into the night. A man at the door called after me but I didn’t stop. I ran and ran and just when I thought I would have to throw myself on the mercy of the next passing stranger, I found Prem.
I was so relieved to see him I almost threw myself into his arms.
‘Miss Poesy!’ he said. ‘Where have you been? Charlie and I split up to search for you. We were so worried.’
‘Oh Prem,’ I said. ‘I’m in a terrible muddle.’
I looked into Prem’s face and he was so like the boy on stage that I wanted to ask him if he too was wise beyond his years. His skin seemed to change colour as he took a step back and the darkness rippled over his forearms like a shadow. In the soft light of the laneway, he looked as if a candle had been held against his arm, his brown skin turning to sooty darkness in the folds of his elbow, in the crease near his neck. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if the silky blackness would come away on my hands. But he kept me at a distance.
I felt a flood of heat from the pit of my stomach. It reached all the way to my cheeks and made them burn. I lowered my head and let the edge of my dupatta cast a shadow across my face.
‘Come with me, Miss Poesy. I will take you to Charlie.’
As we walked along Mount Road, Prem said, ‘Charlie will be most relieved I have found you. And I also am very relieved. For your sake and also because I must not stay out much later. My sister’s groom is coming to visit tomorrow and my mother and father are very anxious that everything be perfect, so I must not be too late tonight.’
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��How old is your sister?’ I asked, looking down at the tiny slippers Prem had lent me.
‘Oh, she is twelve years old, Miss Poesy,’ said Prem.
‘Twelve! That’s younger than me. She can’t be married yet!’
‘She will be getting married in a few weeks, when the date and the time is more auspicious,’ said Prem. ‘Twelve is not so young. My own wife is eleven years old but she lives still in her father’s house. Our families agreed she must stay with her parents for a few more years.’
I stopped in my tracks and gazed at Prem in disbelief. To think of him as someone’s husband was such a topsy-turvy idea it made me dizzy.
‘But do you love her?’
Prem laughed uncomfortably. ‘I have promised I will do so. I will be responsible for her. My parents selected her with great care. One day, when I am a lawyer like my father, we will all live together and be very happy.’
It was probably rude to gawp but I couldn’t help myself. We were standing stock still on the pavement, staring at each other, each of us bewildered by the other, when Charlie came running up to join us.
‘Poesy!’ he cried. ‘Where have you been?’
I turned to Charlie and touched his arm. I wanted to hug him but it didn’t seem proper. Not in front of Prem.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been horribly lost. Please take me home, Charlie,’ I said. It was such a funny thing to say, because, of course, we had no home.
Back at the Castle Hotel, I changed into my old clothes and stuffed Prem’s sister’s things back into the drawstring bag. I gave it to Charlie before running up the stairs. On the first landing, I nearly collided head-on with Lionel.
‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ I asked.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ he said.
‘None of your beeswax.’
I thought he’d snap back at me but he simply stepped aside and let me hurry down the hallway. It was as I turned the corner that I saw them. Lizzie and Mr Arthur. They were standing outside the room that Lionel shared with Mr Arthur.
Lizzie was dressed in nothing but her kimono with the sash loose at her waist. Had she no shame? Mr Arthur gripped both her arms and began talking to her in a hurried undertone. I didn’t know where to look.
‘No, Arthur. It’s too late. I waited for hours.’
‘Don’t leave me, Lizzie, don’t go back to your room. Stay with me.’
‘You know I can’t. As if there hasn’t been enough trouble. If I’m not in my bed in the morning, it will only make things worse. Besides, you can’t let poor Lionel sit on the stairs all night.’
But he wouldn’t let her go. He pulled her close to him and squashed her face against his.
‘Don’t! Arthur, you’re hurting me!’ she said.
It was too horrible. I wanted to turn away but I stayed fixed to the spot in my shadowy alcove. Then he kissed her. He pressed his lips against her cheek and I saw her pull a face, as if it was the last thing she wanted. She tore herself away from him.
‘Go to bed, Arthur,’ she said, and then she ran down the hall in her bare feet and disappeared into her room.
I felt sick. Sick to the pit of my stomach. How could he? She obviously didn’t love him. He was hurting her. He was a drunkard, a brute and an adulterer. But Lizzie was disgraceful, shameless. She let it happen over and over again. It was disgusting. He was a monster, and if Lizzie wouldn’t expose him, then someone else would have to tell the truth about Arthur Percival.
49
PROMISES AND HALF-TRUTHS
Tilly Sweetrick
Mr Wilkes wasn’t exactly a stagedoor Johnny, so even though we weren’t meant to have men in our rooms at the Castle Hotel, Ruby and I invited him inside. It was simply comic the way he blushed when I batted my eyes at him. His hair was silvery white, as white as the beautifully tailored suit that he wore, and he carried a natty little cane with a silver handle. He sat on one of the low bedroom chairs and rested both hands on the top of his cane.
‘I want you to know, young ladies, that I am staying here at the Castle as well. I would like you to think of me as your personal protector. You may call upon me day or night should that rascal Mr Percival treat you with any cruelty.’
We sat at his feet, our skirts spread around us and tried to make our gaze admiring.
‘You’re so kind, dear Mr Wilkes, and we feel much safer knowing you’re near. But what’s to become of us when we leave Madras?’
‘I know,’ shouted Daisy, as if she had made a great discovery. She skipped across the room and shamelessly plonked herself in Mr Wilkes’ lap. ‘Mr Wilkes can come to Colombo with us!’ she said, giving his silvery goatee beard a pat.
Mr Wilkes looked like a startled rabbit. I lifted Daisy off his knee and gave her a little tickle under her armpits to let her know I wasn’t cross.
‘You mustn’t mind Daisy,’ I said apologetically. ‘She’s only excited to find we have a friend.’
Mr Wilkes’ eyes grew shiny and pink and he patted my hand. ‘Oh my dear, yes, I would like to be your friend.’
Poor old Wilkesy. We felt so sorry for him we let him spend the whole afternoon in our room. He said he was an artist and he showed us some awful drawings he’d done in his sketchbook of native girls at a well, and another of them washing their saris by a river. We posed for him so he could do awful drawings of us too and by the time Lionel banged on our door to let us know it was time to go to the Pavilion, Mr Wilkes would have followed us anywhere, even to Colombo and beyond.
As devoted as Mr Wilkes could be, I knew he wouldn’t stand up to the Butcher. Mr Ruse, on the other hand, was a big, powerful man. If we could convince him to confront the Butcher, the cur would be intimidated. But we needed to up the stakes. Through Mr Wilkes, I wrote to Mr Ruse, begging him to make our situation public. On Tuesday morning, I received a note from him saying he would bring a notary to us to take formal statements against the Butcher from any child willing to put their accusations in writing. If our stories were written down, he said, the SPCC could consider further action.
On Tuesday afternoon, the day before our last performance in Madras, Mr Wilkes and Mr Ruse came to our rooms with a proper notary, Mr Bowes. He carried a big black book with him to take statements from as many of us as were willing to talk. Some of the girls panicked. Some lay on their beds and wept. Some tried to hedge their bets. In the end there were only five of us: me, Ruby, Daisy, Freddie and Poesy. While we all gathered around a table, Max stood with his back to the door, listening for the Butcher.
I thought it would be my evidence that counted for most. I thought all I needed from the others was for them to verify that I had indeed been cruelly beaten. I told the truth. Every nasty detail of it. I lifted my skirt and showed where the cane had cut and the place where my head had been bashed against the almirah. I left out the bit about the Butcher ruining everything between me and George Madden, and Ruby was careful to say nothing about her sailor in Penang. I’d also told Poesy not to say anything about Tempe and Clarissa. It wasn’t how we wanted them to think of us. But we didn’t tell any lies. At least, I didn’t.
One by one we told our stories, but something happened as the notary began scribbling. As each one of us came forward, the stories grew fiercer. I could have slapped Daisy when she said that the big girls forced their toes into her mouth so she couldn’t cry out while she lay under the railway seats. It was too ridiculous but the notary scratched it down in his big black book.
Freddie stretched things too, making it sound as though the Butcher boxed his ears every day. Then he rolled down his stocking and showed his shins, saying the Butcher had kicked them until they were black and blue. But Freddie’s shins were always black and blue. Everyone knew perfectly well that half his bruises were of his own making and the rest were probably Max’s fault.
The real surprise was when Poesy came to give her evidence. It was as if with each telling, the stakes were raised. I never would have believed she could trump us all.
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p; She fiddled with her skirt, pinching the fabric between her fingers, and then she looked up into Mr Ruse’s face, her eyes shining as if tears were only a whisper away. For a moment I thought she was going to let me down and start snivelling but she was full of surprises. ‘In Bangalore,’ she said. ‘Mr Arthur kicked me too. He came to my room and demanded my pocket money – to buy whiskey. When I said I needed it to buy stamps to send letters to my mother, he lost his temper. I think he’d been drinking. He smelt of whiskey and smoke. And then, after he hurt me, I gave him all my savings. And then, and then . . .’ she twisted the edge of her skirt in her hand, as if the next part of her story would have to be wrung from her. ‘He put his arm around me and then he . . .’
She stumbled again and her eyes flitted from my face to the notary’s and then back to me. I nodded at her, willing her to keep going.
‘He put his mouth against my cheek, and it was horrible. He tried to kiss me!’
Then she burst into tears. It was a good effect, though it was probably horror at her own lies that made her weep.
When the men left, Ruby, Daisy and I danced around the room, laughing with relief. Even Max began to giggle. Only Poesy didn’t join in. She stood by the window, making little miserable sniffling noises.
‘Oh buck up, Poesy,’ I said. ‘Remember, it’s all for the greater good.’
It was probably because of Poesy that I didn’t hear the Butcher coming. He must have passed Ruse and the notary on the stairs. He burst into the room and grabbed a fistful of my hair.
‘What have you done, Matilda? Will you ruin me, girl?’
I started to cry hot, angry tears that poured down my face, but not because I was afraid.
He twisted a hank of my hair around his trembling hand. ‘If I catch you trying to undermine me again, I’ll cut all this off. I’ll cut your hair to the skin of your scalp and I’ll make your life a living hell, Matilda Sweeney.’
I wrenched myself free and ran. Mr Ruse and Mr Bowes were standing in the foyer, waiting for the doorman to flag them a gharry. I cried out to Mr Ruse as I leapt down the last three steps and flung myself into his arms.
India Dark Page 21
