‘I’m still adjusting to the humidity here. I grew up in Northern India, you see, which is so much drier. I suppose you’ve become used to it.’
A grunt, then silence. He took a slice of toast from the rack and fell to buttering. Finally he set down his knife and said, rather abruptly:
‘Would you mind very much if we didn’t talk? Frankly, Mrs Whyte, I’m not one for polite conversation. Especially not in the morning.’
Isabel considered. ‘Actually, neither am I.’
He went on: ‘The truth is, Sir Philip and Lady Lyons are delightful hosts but I’ve been rushed from one social engagement to another ever since I arrived. I’m simply no good at it. I suppose that’s why I’m better suited to a remote island than to a settlement. Do you see?’
His expression was strained.
‘I’m so glad you told me, Mr Johnston.’ Isabel smiled, thinking of the endless chatter of the Port Blair ladies. ‘I often feel much the same.’
‘Really?’ He looked relieved. ‘I’m not one for formalities, either, if I can avoid them. Would you mind calling me Edward?’
‘Then you must call me Isabel.’
For a while, the silence was broken only by the scrape of his knife on toast and the rhythmical crunch of his eating.
‘It may seem strange to you,’ he said at last, ‘but to me, this is a busy, bustling place. It does me good to come back here from time to time. But it’s hard to adapt.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Aren’t you?’ His keen eyes seemed to read her in a moment. They lapsed again into silence. Bimal appeared with hot coffee and refreshed their cups.
She sat very still as he ate. Outside a green-winged bird screeched and dived, setting a branch moving. It looked a beautiful day, bright and lazy with tropical heat. She might walk down to the waterfront to watch the fishermen. She would leave him alone to finish his breakfast in peace. She set down her napkin.
‘I usually have lunch at about one. You’re welcome to join me.’ She kept her voice light. ‘Or you can eat in your room, if you prefer. I don’t mind in the slightest.’
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Finally he said: ‘They don’t need me in the office until tomorrow. Do you know Anderson’s Cove? I thought I might head there today.’ He hesitated. ‘Come if you like.’
Isabel nodded. ‘Cook could pack us some tiffin.’
‘Good.’ He looked over her clothes, a simple pair of slacks and a cotton shirt, and smiled. ‘Can you manage on the back of a motorcycle?’
Isabel had been on numerous beach picnics organised by The Club committee but they’d been held in well-known spots, not far from Port Blair. Anderson’s Cove was different.
Edward’s motorcycle was a sturdy machine. It was the first on the islands, he said, which he left with a friend and retrieved during his visits.
He strapped their bags to the sides and took Isabel’s hand to steady her as she clambered on the back. He directed her to put her hands on his waist to hold firm. His skin felt warm and firm under his shirt.
Isabel closed her eyes against the onward rush of air as he sped along the roads, then tracks, towards the southernmost tip of the island, an area she had never explored. Her cotton top swelled with wind. As the quality of the track deteriorated and forced him to slow, she opened her eyes a crack. The lush green of the jungle made a blur along the left-hand side. To the right, the cliff fell away to show dramatic lines of black rocks gleaming below in the sunshine, washed by the tide. She tipped back her head and laughed and the sound disappeared into the rushing air.
The final stretch was on foot. Edward parked the motorcycle in the shade and led her, single file, down a narrow, steep path to the sea. The sand was fine white powder, peppered with tiny crabs, which scuttled across the surface and disappeared into dry holes as they approached. His expression was distant, as if he were absorbed with private thoughts, and let her own thoughts wander as freely as if she were alone.
As they swam, shoals of silver and red-striped fishes darted beneath them, startled to left and right by the shadow of their bodies. Beyond the rocks, a line of bleached coral shone in the darkness. For a while, Isabel turned on her back, closed her eyes and drifted, held aloft by the salt water and lulled by the soft swell of the waves.
When she came back to shore, she wrapped herself in a cotton robe and stretched out on a towel in the shade of a coconut palm, a straw hat shading her eyes.
When Edward finally reappeared, he shook himself at the water’s edge like a dog and stood on the shoreline, looking out across the flashing blues of water and sky. His bathing suit was worn and fell from its shoulder straps in a sagging half-circle down his back. His body was lean and muscular, broad across the shoulders and tapering to a slim waist. When he finally turned and came to join her, Isabel looked quickly away. She felt suddenly aware of her bare calves and the salt ridges where the water had dried on her skin.
He stretched out his towel beside her without a word and fell asleep. The sunlight, filtered through the palm leaves, mottled his back. Isabel closed her eyes and listened to the slow pulse of the waves breaking on the shore. It was hot but the breeze from the sea made the sun bearable.
Later they swam again, washing off the sand that had coated their bodies and startling themselves back to life in the cool water. They found a flat rock which stuck out into the sea to one side of the cove and sat there to eat a tiffin of hard-boiled eggs and rice balls and flaked-fish sandwiches.
‘Do you like it here?’
Isabel considered. ‘Yes.’ She looked out towards the horizon. ‘Very peaceful.’
‘I mean, Port Blair. Your life here.’
She gave an awkward laugh. ‘Yes, of course.’
He watched her closely as if he read a different answer there.
‘What about you? On Car Nicobar.’
He shrugged. ‘I belong there now. I’m an outsider, of course, but even so …’
She thought of the books she’d read about the primitive people in the islands who hunted with bows and arrows and attacked government teams who ventured into virgin forest.
‘What are the people like?’
‘Like you and me, really.’ He smiled. ‘Well, a bit different perhaps.’
She hesitated. ‘Do they wear clothes?’
‘They wear sort of cotton shorts. Kissart, it’s called.’
‘Kissart?’
‘The men love hats. I give the tribal chiefs old bowlers. The women wear wooden earrings through here.’ He fingered his earlobe. ‘And rings on their toes.’
Isabel watched the tide suck at the edge of the rock below them.
‘How do you protect yourself out there?’
‘Protect myself?’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘They abhor violence. They are strict about some offences. Witchcraft, for example. But I have never known a Nicobarese strike another out of anger or cruelty. Not even a child.’
Isabel fell silent. A moment later, Edward rose to his feet for a final swim before the ride home. She watched him from the shore as he strode out into the water. When he talked about the tribal people, his sadness lifted and he seemed animated. The incoming waves struck his thighs and he dived forward into them. His arms flashed, spraying diamonds, as he swam.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Isabel could keep you company. Don’t look so alarmed, darling.’ Jonathan turned back to Edward. ‘She speaks Hindustani like a native.’
‘I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Edward stood, awkward, in the passageway. ‘There must be someone from the office, surely?’
‘Nonsense. She’s always complaining she doesn’t have enough to do.’
Isabel bit her lip. Edward was due to visit a jungle clearance site that day. Jonathan had just announced that he had to return after a few hours and abandon his guest.
Edward looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure Mrs Whyte has her own plans.’
‘Nothing she couldn’t cancel, isn’t that r
ight?’ His expression was playful but he sounded determined. ‘What is it today, darling? Tea with the good ladies of the parish?’
She swallowed. ‘I don’t have any engagements, actually.’
‘There you are, then.’ Jonathan rubbed his hands together. ‘That’s settled.’
She turned to fetch a hat and scarf. Edward fixed his eyes on the panelled floor.
‘What about lunch?’
‘All arranged.’ Jonathan tutted. ‘Don’t fuss, Isabel.’
The three of them squashed together in the back of the tonga, Isabel sandwiched between the two men. The breeze was pleasant and, as the houses of the settlement started to thin and give way to villages, set in reclaimed farmland, her spirits began to lift. In the early days, Jonathan talked at length about his work and the challenge of clearing tracts of jungle. It might be intriguing to see it for herself.
Jonathan leant past her to point out features to their guest.
‘That area, from the low wall to the start of the slope, was a devil to clear. I had three work gangs on it for four months. Some of the tree roots went down twenty feet.’ He redirected his arm. ‘That village, over there? All tickets of leave. We held a marriage market for them three years ago.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, darling. That’s how it works.’
Edward too looked surprised. ‘A marriage market?’
He nodded. ‘We sent an officer round the women’s prisons in Bengal. Any young woman who faced a life term was invited out. Then we lined them up and the men could make an offer.’ He paused. ‘The women don’t have to accept. But if they do marry and settle here, they’re let off the rest of their sentence.’
The tonga driver swerved to avoid a boy who was herding goats down the side of the road with a switch.
‘It’s a real problem for us out here. Shortage of women. Don’t suppose it’s the same for your junglis, Johnston.’
Edward didn’t answer. He sat back in the seat, his jaw hard.
The scenery gradually changed. The reaches of farmland grew smaller and the jungle thickened. The villages too became more sparsely scattered. This was the furthest from Port Blair Isabel had come and she peered out at the wild interior, which covered the rising slopes of Mount Harriet and stretched far beyond.
‘Hear that?’ Jonathan raised his hand. The toc-toc-toc of metal on wood, faint but clear in the still air. ‘Almost there.’
The sound grew as they approached. They emerged from behind a final bluff and the scene opened up before them. Isabel strained forward to see.
A large trait of land lay at the foot of the mountain. In another climate, it might have been a natural meadow but here the jungle had claimed it. About a third of the open land was already roughly cleared. Tree stumps, recently levelled, shone white like broken bones. Creepers and vines, chopped and hacked, smouldered in a series of smoky fires, scenting the air with burning sap. Scars ran here and there through the ground where lines of men had dug ditches to carve through the solid network of roots.
They climbed down from the tonga and started to walk across the scrub. The site swarmed with men. Convicts, commandeered into work gangs, were stripped to the waist. Their skin glistened with sweat in the sunshine. The air rang with the clang of spades on earth and axes on living wood. Jonathan drew Edward a little ahead, pointing and explaining.
Isabel looked round. Off to one side, there was a makeshift camp with long canvas tents hung over rows of staves. Men’s washing, shirts and lunghis, dried along the anchor ropes. A man crouched by a cooking fire, stirring a large pot. He lifted his eyes to watch and his face swam, distorted by the rising steam.
The men paused and she caught them up.
‘Quite a show of force.’ Edward indicated a ragtag group of men standing around the clearing, ancient guns in their hands.
Jonathan nodded. ‘Prisoners don’t escape. They’re better off in barracks than prison. And besides, there’s nowhere to go.’
‘So why the guards?’
Jonathan gave a wry smile. ‘Let’s just say we’re not very popular with the local junglis. We’ve offered terms but they won’t compromise.’
Edward said: ‘Do they ever attack?’
‘Sometimes. Nothing we can’t handle.’ He turned to Isabel. ‘Don’t worry, darling. They wait until after dark.’
Jonathan started to walk on, raising his hand to summon one of the work-gang leaders to talk to them. Edward hesitated. His eyes, sweeping over the land, taking in the swinging axes, the guards and the dark shadow of jungle behind, were troubled.
At midday, the workers sat cross-legged in the shade and ate rice porridge served on leaves. Afterwards, they stretched out on the scrub and slept.
The head of the clearance project, a lanky Anglo-Indian fellow, laid on a special lunch for his guests. He spread a white cloth over the ground and set out china plates and cutlery. Bearers ran back and forth, offering spicy chicken in coconut sauce and vegetables. Soon, the only noises were the cries of bright-winged birds through the jungle and the distant, steady drumbeat of waves breaking along the shoreline.
Jonathan waved a hand over the jungle as they ate.
‘One day, all this will be farmland.’ He reached over and heaped more chicken on Edward’s plate. ‘It will happen. Progress is unstoppable.’
Edward chewed steadily. ‘And the natives?’
Jonathan shrugged. ‘Another fifty years and they’ll be clamouring to settle in towns and cities.’ He pointed his fork. ‘Look at the way the rest of India’s changing.’
The order to resume work came and the men stirred, got to their feet, sloped back to their trees and ditches.
Edward said. ‘Don’t you wonder what will happen here, once India becomes independent?’
Isabel looked up. She no longer talked politics with Jonathan. Their views were too far apart.
Jonathan said: ‘You think it really will?’
‘Of course. It’s already underway.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Jonathan smiled. ‘But you’re forgetting the difference between a taste of self-government and independence. I might indulge a child by allowing unimportant choices.’ He pointed to the mango. ‘Mango or pineapple, for example. But I wouldn’t hand over the keys of the house.’
Edward didn’t answer. His eyes fell to his coffee and the milk swirling there. Shortly afterwards, Jonathan rose and brushed down his clothes to leave.
‘Stop in a village on the way back. See the lives they’ve made. That’s the real argument for clearance.’
After he left, Edward sat quietly for some time, looking round the camp. Isabel drank her coffee, chatted to their Anglo-Indian host and left Edward in peace.
Finally he turned to her and said: ‘Do you mind if I leave you for a while? I’m going to venture into the jungle.’
‘Into the jungle?’ The Anglo-Indian looked taken aback. ‘You’ll need guards.’
‘No, thank you.’ Edward’s voice was firm. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe.’
Isabel set down her cup and got to her feet. She pinned on her hat and tied the scarf round the brim, letting it hang to protect her neck from the sun.
‘I’ll come too, if you don’t mind.’
The Anglo-Indian’s eyes widened. ‘Madam, I am not thinking Sahib—’
‘Indeed.’ Edward, interrupting him, rose too. ‘Let’s both go.’
They strode off before anyone could stop them. At the edge of the clearing, Isabel glanced back. The bearers were shaking out the white table-cloth and folding it carefully into quarters. The Anglo-Indian stood, hands on hips, looking after them with a worried frown.
Once they entered the jungle canopy, the air became thick with moist heat. Edward pressed ahead. He seemed to follow a trail that was invisible to her. She pushed aside curtains of creepers. She had never been in such virgin jungle and her heart hammered with a sense of entering the unknown. Clouds of insects hung about their heads. She had to hurry to keep pace with him and was soon slick with sweat. S
he slapped at insects on her neck and face.
Just as she was tiring, the jungle opened into a small, natural clearing. The atmosphere was at once less oppressive. Blue sky, streaked with white cloud, appeared above their heads. Edward trod the perimeter, eyes on the ground.
‘How did you know this was here?’
‘I didn’t.’ He seemed to satisfy himself, then turned to face her. ‘But a path always leads somewhere.’
He sat on a fallen tree and she crossed to join him. She rested her boots on a rock, covered with spongy green moss, and drank in the jungle scent of hot sap and rotting vegetation. The clearing had a magical, secretive quality. The sudden downward shafts of air cooled her face and neck. Distantly, a tropical bird cried, a shrill, warning note.
Edward, motionless at her side, was alert, listening to the quietness as another man might listen to a symphony. Something shifted in him. She sensed it. The tension that had plagued him all morning slipped away and he softened.
‘Is Car Nicobar like this?’ She found herself speaking in a whisper.
‘Even more so.’ He hesitated. ‘Isn’t it easy, sitting here, to imagine nowhere else exists? No cities. No towns. Just this, stretching without end.’
She tipped her head and looked up along the rising trunks of the palms to the dark green of the distant leaves that framed the sky. It was dizzying. Somewhere deep in the jungle, foliage crashed and shifted as an animal moved. Close at hand, insects made a solid wall of low sound. The rich scent of the trees, the creepers, the bushes, filled her senses. He was right. It was complete.
‘And it’s timeless,’ she whispered.
He turned to look at her and slowly nodded. They sat on without talking, feeling the jungle absorb them. Her blood pulsed loud in her ears.
Finally she said: ‘Will you ever leave?’
He didn’t answer and, for a moment, she wasn’t sure if he had heard her.
‘I don’t know.’ His tone was solemn. ‘I’m not sure I could go back to England. Not now.’
Daughters of India Page 14
