‘The beef looks rather tough.’ Mrs Timberley’s whisper was embarrassingly piercing. ‘Frankly, this steamer’s seen better days, if you ask me.’
‘I suppose it’s designed more for cargo than for passengers.’
‘Cargo?’ Mrs Timberley sniffed. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
The captain, seeing Isabel’s puzzled expression, leant forward. ‘I think Mrs Timberley is referring to our livestock in the hold below.’
‘Livestock?’
‘Elephants. Purchased by the Forestry Department. They put them to work as loggers.’
Isabel smiled. ‘They must be quite a weight.’
‘Indeed.’ The Captain nodded. ‘Three adults and a calf in the hold at present.’
Isabel was intrigued. ‘Is it possible to see them?’
‘See them?’ Mrs Timberley pulled a face. ‘Smelly creatures, stomping about in their own filth? No, thank you.’
‘I’d be delighted to escort you, Mrs Whyte.’
The captain rose to his feet and bowed his head to say grace.
‘I doubt your husband would approve.’ Mrs Timberley whispered out of the corner of her mouth as she placed her palms together. ‘They’re not the only nasty animals on board either, from what I hear.’
When the other passengers retired to their cabins to rest, the captain led Isabel down into the hold, far below the sun-bleached decks. The passageways became cramped and dark as they descended below the third-class berths and into winding gangways. Isabel felt her way along the pitching wooden walls, lit only by the weak beam of the captain’s lamp. The darkness was drenched in the smell of oil and sea salt.
The captain pointed the way down a rounded steel ladder set in a dimly lit shaft.
‘You’re quite certain? Then step with care.’
They emerged on a narrow walkway and stopped in front of a thick door. He slid back the bolts and lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘Steady, Mrs Whyte.’
As the door opened, the rich smell of dung and the sour, dirtied straw flooded out. The captain insinuated himself through the opening and she slid after him. He lowered his lamp to the decking where it made a splayed puddle of light.
As she blinked in the darkness, shapes slowly grew. An eye flashed as a vast head turned. A trunk, far above her head, lifted and curled. Metal clinked as one of the bigger animals shifted its weight and dragged chain.
The captain murmured, ‘They’re quite secure.’
The animals became more distinct. Three adults, two larger than the third. Nearest to the door, a youngster. It shuffled its feet and swung round its trunk to smell them.
‘May I touch it?’ She strained forward to reach for the top of the calf’s domed, wrinkled head. She expected softness, it looked such an infant, but the skin was hard and punctuated with coarse, sharp hair. One of the adults shifted and trumpeted and the noise ricocheted round the hold, making the wood shiver.
The captain drew her back through the door and slid the locks and bolts into place.
‘I’ve seen them in parades,’ she said. ‘But never quite so close.’ She tried to find the word. ‘They’re magnificent.’
His teeth gleamed in the lamplight as he smiled. They made their way back towards the procession of ladders that led upwards. As the captain stood aside to allow her to climb, his bobbing light showed another heavy door at the opposite end of the walkway.
‘More elephants?’
At that moment, a cry broke out. A human cry of utter misery, accompanied by the grating of metal. Isabel thought of Mrs Timberley’s sour words about other nasty animals on board.
She faltered. ‘People?’
‘We should leave.’ The captain turned away.
‘Convicts?’ Isabel looked him full in the face. ‘Are they cargo too?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘They say it’s the only safe place for them.’
She nodded, thinking. ‘May I see?’
The captain raised his eyebrows, then shrugged and moved towards the heavy door. This time the stench was human, the smell of excrement and stale sweat.
Isabel stood inside the half-open door and peered into the blackness, following the trailing beam of the captain’s lamp as it swung through the dark. This interior section of the hold was striped with iron bars, making a single large cage. Bodies within it rose, shuffled and lunged towards the door, restrained by leg irons. The heat and airless fug were oppressive. Brown knuckles whitened as fingers grasped the bars.
Faces shone in the lamplight. Men with rough features and thickset bodies. Some had the height and bearing of Pathans. Others were slight and darker in skin tone. Chests gleamed with sweat. Their loins were covered with tattered cotton. Several men pressed their faces against the flaking metal bars and the rusted iron drew black marks across their cheeks. One called out, begging for mercy.
‘We should leave.’ The captain spoke quietly in Isabel’s ear.
As she started to turn, she saw a face she recognised. He was a striking young man, handsome and broad and, despite the shifting chaos around him, utterly still. His eyes on hers were intelligent and calm. He wore a buttoned grey shirt and lunghi and his skin was light brown, the shade of a Hindustani man of high caste. The door closed and he was gone.
It was only afterwards, as she sat in the lounge over afternoon tea, Mrs Timberley jabbering at her side, that it struck her with force where she had seen him before. He was the man who led the marching crowd during the protest in Delhi and who, when she and Jonathan came under attack, intervened to save them.
They approached the islands soon after dawn on the fourth day. Isabel joined the other first-class passengers on the main deck, eager for a first glimpse of the islands. Mrs Timberley soon appeared at the rail at her side.
‘Ah, Mrs Whyte. Isn’t it a thrill?’
The SS Maharajah entered a narrow stretch of water between two islands, one much larger and more densely populated than the other. Both rose steeply from a white fringe of shoreline set against black rocks, broken only by concrete jetties and moorings. Low government buildings – customs houses, perhaps, or army barracks – dotted the lower reaches.
‘That must be Ross Island. Do you see?’ Mrs Timberley pointed a podgy finger at the smaller of the islands. ‘I do believe that’s Government House, the chief commissioner’s residence. Isn’t it grand?’
Ross looked little more than a mile in length but its lower slopes, close to the water, were crowded with government buildings. Government House was an imposing two-storey residence high above them on the hillside, set in a green splash of gardens. A glass-walled verandah sparkled in the sunlight along its length.
‘My sister took tea there with the chief commissioner’s wife, Lady Lyons. Did I tell you?’
She had indeed.
‘Such views, she said. Quite stunning. I expect I’ll be invited too, don’t you think? Such a charming lady, my sister said. She put her quite at ease.’
A steam launch, towing a barge, appeared from the harbour mouth.
‘And that must be Port Blair. Isn’t it splendid?’ Mrs Timberley was ruddy with excitement.
Port Blair was a heaving bustle of small boats, godowns and stores. Much of the land looked unnaturally flat compared with the surrounding terrain, as if it had been artificially levelled or reclaimed from the sea. Behind the waterfront rose tiers of red-roofed houses, growing grander the further they sat from the shore. The houses gave way at last to grass-covered downs, mangrove swamp and coconut palms. Buried within, Isabel made out the red-stone circle of the low, sprawling jail complex. Beyond, the island climbed steadily to a summit, which was hung with low mist.
The SS Maharajah shuddered as she dropped anchor. A motor launch left the small, wooden jetty on Ross Island and crossed the strait between them.
The captain appeared. ‘Mrs Whyte, you have your own transport to shore.’
Mrs Timberley giggled. ‘Goodness! Well, au revoir, dear. I’m sure we’ll see
lots more of each other in future.’
The captain accompanied Isabel to the rail as the launch closed the final stretch of sea and came alongside the Maharajah in slaps of swirling, lapping water.
‘How do you disembark the elephants?’
‘We lower them into the water and they swim to shore.’ He smiled. ‘But I don’t expect my other passengers to do the same.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
She climbed over the side and lowered herself onto the metal exterior ladder to climb down to the bobbing launch below. A tall Indian in a crisp white turban helped her into the launch, then saluted.
‘Singh, Whyte Madam. Sahib’s bearer. Very much welcome to you.’
The house was a two-storey building made of wood, with a deep-red exterior. The ground floor was given over to servants’ quarters, kitchen and guard post, threaded together by a verandah, which ran the length of the building and was shaded by a dense row of coconut palms.
Singh led her past the porch to a staircase of broad, shallow steps. Chickens made squawking circles as they approached and a uniformed guard, an elderly man with betel-stained teeth, jumped to his seat to offer her namaste. A rusted shotgun hung on a cord from his shoulder.
Upstairs, the style changed from Indian to European. The interior walls were cream. The heavy wood furnishings had the hallmark of government stores.
The sitting room, the largest part of the house, was light and airy with a covered balcony, which protruded over the porch. A wide passage led back towards a rear dining room. Singh opened the second door off the passage and showed her into a bedroom.
‘For madam.’ He gestured to the recently made-up bed with embroidered bedspread, then opened the door to show her a small adjoining bathroom. A fresh towel and a bar of soap sat on the edge of the Victorian washstand.
Isabel smiled. ‘It’s wonderful, Singh. Thank you.’ She switched into Hindustani: ‘Would you bring me some hot water so I can wash? And some chai?’
He disappeared down a winding external staircase from her bathroom to the ground.
Isabel washed, changed and settled in the sitting room. The heat was moist and eased by a low breeze from the sea, which brought into the room the scent of salt and lush jungle vegetation. She picked out a volume on the islands from the bookshelves, then sat, book open on her lap and chai at her elbow, and gazed.
The mesh of the mosquito screen cut into squares the view over the neat rectangle of garden beneath, bordered by palms. It was divided by plumbago hedges and feathery clusters of bamboo and studded with hibiscus in all shades of red and pink and by jacaranda. Beyond it, the slope descended to a cluster of red rooftops and finally to the harbour and the shining aquamarine of the sea far below.
The light had faded to dusk by the time boots clattered on the staircase and Jonathan’s voice sounded, calling in Hindustani to the servants. He burst into the sitting room with a rush of outside energy and set his topee on a side table.
‘Isabel! I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you in person.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. He gestured vaguely out at the view. ‘Rather different from Delhi, isn’t it?’ He ran on. ‘Are you hungry? I’ve ordered fish stew for supper. I eat it all the time but you can take charge of Cook now.’ He loosened his tie and wiped his neck and face with a handkerchief. ‘The electricity’s out, I’m afraid.’
Singh appeared with glasses of lime soda and they sat across from each other to drink them. Jonathan’s manner was attentive but there was something studied in it, which made her uneasy.
‘You must be exhausted, poor thing. How was the SS Maharajah? Bit of a rust bucket, isn’t she?’
When she tried to answer, he rushed in with a fresh question or remark as if he were afraid of silence.
‘I do hope you’ll like it here. Everyone’s dying to meet you.’
He rubbed at a mark on the toe of his shoe, then sipped his drink before continuing.
‘I had to kick up such a fuss today to make it home for dinner. The CC – chief commissioner – he’s tasked me with a new project, you see. Rather an exciting one. Delhi wants us to find a way of clearing a whole new section of jungle, not just raiding it for timber but actually turning it into decent agricultural land. They want to convince more people to settle here. But of course, the CC wants the report at once. You know what it’s like.’
She nodded and smiled, watching him as he spoke. His face wasn’t as she remembered. She thought: on the one hand, that man is my husband and, on the other, he’s a complete stranger.
She said: ‘It may take me a while to work everything out.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get masses of advice from the other wives.’ He tipped back his head and laughed. ‘Probably too much, actually. They’re all bursting to invite you to tea. I’m sure you’ll be a massive hit.’ He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Look, I am sorry to throw you into the lion’s den. You will be all right, won’t you?’
Behind him, Singh hovered in the doorway to announce that the water for Sahib’s bath was heated.
Later, at dinner, Jonathan kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling her about the household staff and the quirks of the house. He opened a bottle of claret in honour of her arrival and drank off a glass or two at once. She sat quietly and listened as he reeled off anecdotes about life in the Andamans, some of which she remembered from their evenings in Delhi.
Finally, as they sat over dessert, she said: ‘They brought convicts on the steamer. Did you know? In the hold.’
He reached for the claret and refreshed his glass. ‘I heard there was a fresh batch.’
‘I saw them. It was dreadful, Jonathan.’
He looked up sharply. ‘You saw them?’
‘Chained in the dark, like animals.’
He scraped round the last of his mango pudding, set down his spoon and drank off his claret. The houseboy came forward to clear the table.
When the boy left the room, she leant forward and said: ‘I recognised one of them. You remember that day in the slum when the crowd attacked us and a man called them off? It was him.’
Jonathan rolled up his napkin, thrust it through his silver ring and scraped back his chair. ‘I doubt it, darling. But if it were, I’m glad. He looked a bad lot.’ He stood behind her and set his hands on the back of her chair. ‘Look, would you mind very much if I disappear to the study? Sorry to be a bore but I really ought to do an hour or two.’ He kissed her on the top of the head. ‘Besides, you must be done in.’
She was exhausted but it was too hot to sleep that night. She lay on her back on freshly starched bed sheets, looking up at the pattern of shadows on the ceiling. The oddest thoughts floated through her mind. Her mother’s voice, saying of some acquaintance: she’s made her bed and now she’s got to lie in it.
Outside, the jungle rumbled with low noises. Branches shivered as the night wind crept up from the sea. A wildcat howled. An owl gave a hunting cry. The distant heartbeat of the ocean against the island shore underpinned it all.
She raised her head. As she stared, the outlines of the furniture in her room, hard wood and soft rattan, grew from the darkness. Then the dull outline of the door to her bathroom. This is it, she thought. This is my home now.
Above, the ceiling fan croaked suddenly into life, gathering speed as it rotated. The electricity was back. She lay still, arms out at her sides like a snow angel. The breeze from the blades rippled over her damp nightdress and cooled her. She closed her eyes and her head filled with the soft rattle of the turning fan. As she fell into sleep, she felt as if she were back in her cabin on the SS Maharajah, lulled by the squeak of its timbers and travelling, travelling forwards through an endless stretch of black water.
Chapter Eleven
In those first, strange weeks, Isabel woke early to the sound of Jonathan’s footsteps on the wooden staircase as he disappeared to work. He returned late each evening. She came to expect Singh’s appearance in the doorway in th
e afternoon, bearing a chit from Sahib on a silver platter to apologise for another absence. Sometimes he blamed his workload for keeping him in the office. Sometimes he said Sir Philip or another officer had invited him to dine at The Club.
It was a small household. Singh, Cook, the cook’s boy, the mali and a young houseboy called Bimal. He was a pretty child, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, and slightly built. He was of mixed Burmese and Indian descent with strong, broad cheekbones, a delicate nose and brown eyes ringed with impossibly long lashes. When Jonathan worked late in his study, Bimal settled devotedly at his feet.
Bimal spoke seldom. His Hindustani had a peculiar accent, which made him difficult to understand. The fact that he was so young and seemed an outsider amongst the other servants made Isabel feel protective towards him from the start.
That feeling strengthened shortly after her arrival when she emerged from her room early one morning. Jonathan had already left for work. She stepped out onto the balcony in her dressing gown. The jungle foliage shone with overnight dew. A bird, its green wings tipped with red, darted onto a tree branch and she stopped to watch it. Down to her left, something stirred and she stepped forward. The boy lay curled behind the planter in the far corner, his dark head sunk in his arms.
‘Bimal?’ She crouched down beside him, put a hand on the curve of his spine. His body shook. ‘Are you ill?’
He lay still, as if holding his breath. His back tensed where she patted it. A moment later, a sob followed by a shudder as he tried to swallow it back.
She set her hands on his shoulders and pulled him round. His face was blotchy with crying. ‘What is it, Bimal? What’s happened?’
‘Madam?’ Singh, behind her, peering round to see what was happening. Bimal lifted his hands to cover his face and twisted away from them both.
‘Singh, tell Cook I’ll take breakfast out here this morning.’
Singh took another step towards her. ‘Bimal, is it? Come inside, boy. Now.’ His tone was sharp.
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