Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  ‘As you say, it’s all forgotten.’ Lady Lyons’ tone was brisk.

  Isabel gave a tight smile. ‘But Mrs Copeland, do tell me your news. Please.’

  Mrs Copeland’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’ve heard about the fancy new bakery on the waterfront? I wouldn’t usually entertain shop-bought bread. One can’t employ a cook and let him sit around idle all day. But several local ladies are praising the bread and cakes simply to the skies, so eventually I decided …’

  Lady Lyons, sitting with a straight back, her hands composed in her lap, glanced at Isabel as the women started to unburden themselves of the talk of the town. Stay calm, her look seemed to say. It will pass.

  After some time, the conversation turned to politics. The latest batch of English newspapers, newly arrived in Port Blair, carried prominent reports on Mr Churchill’s inflammatory remarks about Germany and Chancellor Hitler and the threat of war.

  Mrs Allen lowered her voice. ‘One might think the Great War was beginning all over again.’

  Mrs Copeland helped herself to a second tartlet. ‘It’s such scaremongering. I’m surprised they don’t silence him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose they can.’ Mrs Allen’s face creased with worry. ‘At least we’re safe here. Whatever happens in Europe, it shan’t reach India.’

  Mrs Copeland sprayed crumbs across her plate. ‘Normally I have the highest regard for Mr Churchill. But on this issue, he leaves me cold.’ She turned to Isabel. ‘You’re very quiet, Mrs Whyte. Are you unwell?’

  ‘I do have a slight headache.’ Isabel gave an apologetic smile. ‘How kind of you to notice. It must be the heat.’

  ‘I do recommend lemon water,’ Mrs Allen chimed in. ‘Drink it tepid, never cold or it chills the teeth.’

  Mrs Copeland gave Isabel a shrewd look. ‘Will you be repairing to cooler climes, Mrs Whyte? I don’t suppose you have reason to stay, now your dear husband has so sadly departed.’

  Lady Lyons spoke up at once. ‘How funny you should ask, Mrs Copeland. Mrs Whyte plans to return to Delhi at the first opportunity. Her father serves there, of course. Gerard Winthorpe.’

  ‘And your lovely mother was Georgina Hancock before marriage, was she not?’ Mrs Allen simpered. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting her aunt, Davinia Hancock, in Calcutta many moons ago.’

  Mrs Copeland narrowed her eyes. ‘Port Blair will certainly miss you.’

  ‘Indeed we will.’ Mrs Allen nodded along. ‘What a shame.’

  They got to their feet.

  ‘It’s been such a pleasure,’ said Isabel, rising too. ‘My husband thought so highly of you both.’

  ‘And we of him.’ Mrs Copeland put on her gloves, finger by finger. ‘And to think that wicked native girl is still on the loose.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘One’s not safe in one’s own bed.’

  ‘Indians.’ Mrs Allen gave a soft tut. ‘My parents served here for thirty years. Never trusted them.’

  Sir Philip’s office arranged a passage for Isabel on the SS Maharaja. Her departure was just two days away.

  One of Lady Lyons’ servants brought trunks of Isabel’s effects from her former home. She sat amongst them in her bedroom at the Residence and pulled out dresses and slacks, blouses and jackets, making colourful heaps across the floor. One of Lady Lyons’ maids hovered at her elbow.

  ‘This one’s very gay, madam.’ The girl lifted a cerise evening dress, trimmed with silver braid. She held it against herself.

  ‘Take it.’ Isabel’s mother had chosen it for the wedding trousseau. Isabel had only worn it once, at a dinner party with Jonathan’s friends.

  ‘Oh, madam. I couldn’t.’ The girl hesitated.

  ‘It’s no use to me.’ Isabel looked over the rest of the clothes, picking out a few pairs of dark slacks, a black linen jacket and a woollen one, two simple grey and black dresses. She put them to one side to be laundered and packed.

  As for the vividly coloured clothes, it would be a relief to part with them. From now on, she was a widow with no one to please but herself.

  ‘By the time I’m out of mourning, most of those clothes will look ancient.’ She nodded to the maid. ‘Please, help yourself. And what you don’t want, give away.’

  The girl began to trawl through the silks, satins and cottons with fresh enthusiasm.

  ‘What about this dress, madam? For this evening?’ The girl held up a full-length black gown. It was a classic style, cut from a pure, shimmering water-silk.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Isabel reached out a hand to take it. She had worn this dress at The Club, the night she first met Edward, set off by a bright shawl. ‘It’s a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all, madam.’ The girl came forward and held the dress against Isabel. ‘With a plain black shawl, pinned across the body. Here, perhaps.’ She twisted Isabel round to look at the effect in the mirror and gathered the material at her waist. ‘I could stitch it here.’ She considered. ‘I think it’s elegant.’

  Isabel gave a sad smile. It was a lovely dress but the face in the mirror was weary.

  ‘Well, I have to wear something,’ she said finally. ‘But do find a large, modest shawl.’

  That evening, Sir Philip and Lady Lyons took Isabel to a formal function at The Club. It was her first appearance in wider Port Blair society since Jonathan’s death and her last before leaving. She must be seen publicly with them, Lady Lyons insisted, to quash doubts about her respectability.

  Lady Lyons looked Isabel over as they gathered in the hall. ‘Black can be so unforgiving. But you’re still young, Mrs Whyte.’ She led her down the steps to the waiting tonga. ‘Too young to be a widow.’

  Sir Philip and Lady Lyons made their entrance into The Club’s ballroom, with Isabel awkward at their side. The light was already fading, giving way to candles, which set the polished brass fixtures gleaming. Overhead, ceiling fans glistened as they span. Diamonds and burnished gold shone on women’s pale throats.

  The evening was heavy with the remnants of the day’s heat and the French windows stood open, leading the way to the gardens beyond. The strains of an Anglo-Indian band, seated outside on the shadowy lawns, drifted in.

  ‘What a splendid evening!’ Lady Lyons greeted the head of The Club’s social committee with warmth. ‘I do congratulate you.’

  Isabel let her eyes slip across the faces, picking out former colleagues of Jonathan’s and the wives at their sides. One or two gave stiff nods. They don’t know what to believe, she thought. They’re not quite sure if I’m a murderess, after all.

  A waiter presented a tray of drinks. Sir Philip handed flutes of champagne to Isabel and his wife, took a Scotch for himself. He nodded to a corner where men in evening dress stood in the shadows, further obscured by a fug of cigar smoke.

  ‘I might perhaps …?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ Lady Lyons patted his forearm. ‘We’ll see you a little later.’

  They watched him cross to join the gentlemen. Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. Edward was there. Staring right at her. Her fingers ran with champagne as the glass tipped in her hand. He stood on the far side of the group, concealed behind other men. She’d caught a mere glimpse of his face, of his eyes on hers, framed in a narrow gap. She blinked and stared and the moment passed. He had turned away.

  ‘Come.’ Lady Lyons steered her towards the French windows and the relative cool of the garden. A light salt breeze rose from the sea below. The musicians, seated to one side in their striped uniforms, shuffled in their seats, lifted instruments and struck up the next tune.

  ‘You’re on public display.’ Lady Lyons spoke quietly in a voice only Isabel could catch. ‘Never forget it.’ She lifted a hand and greeted an oncoming tide of ladies. ‘Mrs Harris. How lovely you’re looking. And Mrs Benning too. What a charming dress. You remember Mrs Whyte?’

  Isabel barely heard them. Blood roared in her ears. Her cheeks glowed. Edward was here. It took all her strength to stop herself from turning back into the ballroom and crossing
it to join him.

  When Lady Lyons moved on through the crowd, Isabel hung back. The chatter, the heat were suffocating. She walked out of the crowd to the far reaches of the gardens where young couples sat on blankets, champagne glasses in hand, laughing and murmuring.

  She chose a deserted spot in the darkness under the trees and settled herself on the grass. The shrill band music was muffled by the foliage. Around the flower beds, cicadas screeched. As the pounding in her head settled, the rhythm of the sea, beating against the rocky shore below, rose to comfort her.

  She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He had been here all the time, then, here in Port Blair. He must have known she was staying at the Residence. Everyone did. She drew again on her cigarette. She felt sick and a little faint. He saw her, she was certain. He saw her and turned away.

  She considered. Dinner would soon be served. She would simply hide in the shadows, then make her excuses to Lady Lyons and leave. Another two days and she would be gone. She need never see these people again.

  She pulled her shawl closer round her shoulders and lit a cigarette. After some time, the dinner gong rang out. The young couples rose and drifted away towards the marquee. The night air settled. Isabel lit another cigarette and her nerves calmed. She looked out over the black water. The scent of the jungle pressed in from beyond the garden. It was a cloying smell of fertile vegetation and moist growth. Somewhere out in the trees, wild monkeys barked and branches crashed as they swung through the trees.

  ‘Mrs Whyte?’

  She jumped, turned. Edward’s voice. She knew it at once. She hadn’t heard him approach. He stood just a few feet away, his shoulders broad and square in silhouette.

  ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She got awkwardly to her feet. She felt a fool, caught skulking in the trees like this. The back of her dress was damp from the ground. She wasn’t sure what time it was. Dinner had ended and voices wafted down from the top terrace where people were gathering to watch the fireworks. The first cracks and zings rang out. Above, the night sky flashed red and white with sparks.

  ‘I’m disturbing you.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Not at all. Have you got a smoke? I’ve just run out.’

  They sat together on the grass. He lit two cigarettes and handed one across. There was a time when we shared the same cigarette, she thought. A time when you sat so close at my side, the heat of your body warmed my leg.

  ‘I hear you sail soon.’

  She nodded. ‘Friday. Back to Delhi, to my parents. For a while, at least.’ She blew out a trail of smoke. Overhead, a rocket exploded in a stream of colours. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Monday.’ He paused, smoking. ‘I’ve just signed up for another tour.’

  Her stomach contracted. Another tour. He had bound himself to Car Nicobar for the next four years. She said: ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘A real chance to build the Mission.’

  This was it, then. She looked ahead into the loneliness of the coming years, knowing she would never see him. ‘Will you come to Delhi ever?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ll be lucky if I get as far as Calcutta. You know how things are.’

  She steadied her voice. ‘Well, I am glad to see you. I wanted to say thank you.’ She hesitated, trying to find the words. ‘If you hadn’t come. If you hadn’t appointed that lawyer, well, who knows?’ I’d be dead, she thought, and we both know it.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ve arranged a settlement for Bimal. Not a vast sum but enough for him to get by, if he lives carefully. It seemed the least I could do.’

  He nodded without looking at her. ‘That’s kind.’

  ‘Seems I’m rather well off now.’ She laughed but the sound was thin. ‘Thanks to my service widow’s pension. I don’t suppose I need worry too much.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ He reached forward, stubbed out his cigarette under the rocking toe of his shoe as if he were preparing to go. She was seized by a sudden wave of panic.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ She broke off. What did she mean? ‘If I ever harmed you, your reputation, because of what happened, I’m so sorry. I would never deliberately—’ She tailed off as he got to his feet.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets and stood there, looking down on her. ‘It was never your fault. None of it.’ His voice was thick. ‘I can hardly bear to think about it, what might have happened. It was all my fault, my fault entirely.’

  He seemed about to leave, then hesitated and turned back to her. ‘I always cared for you, Isabel. I hope you know that.’

  He strode quickly away before she could answer, leaving her alone in the shadows, helpless as she watched him disappear.

  The porters hurried up the gangplank of the SS Maharajah, with Isabel’s trunks and suitcases swaying in towers on their heads. Bimal waited on deck to point the way to her cabin. He wore a new jacket and swaggered a little as he directed them. Isabel, watching from the dockside, saw that already the boy was less afraid of life.

  ‘If we find ourselves in Delhi, we shall certainly pay a call.’ Lady Lyons was at her side. ‘One never knows.’

  ‘My parents would be delighted.’

  A whistle sounded. Ship stewards took their places at the top of the gangplank to greet passengers. Men and women pressed forward and started to board.

  ‘My husband bumped into Mr Johnston at the office yesterday.’ Lady Lyons gave her a thoughtful look. ‘He asked quite deliberately to be remembered to you. He wanted to know what time you were sailing.’

  Isabel bent down and picked up her bags.

  Lady Lyons scanned the crowd. ‘I rather wondered if he were planning to see you off.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’ Isabel’s tone was light. ‘We said our goodbyes at The Club the other night.’

  ‘Did you?’ She nodded, her eyes on Isabel’s face. ‘My husband says that the Mission and those junglis are his whole life. He’ll never leave them.’ She pressed Isabel’s gloved hand. Her fingers were warm and firm through the cotton. ‘Anyway, I wish you a smooth sail. The winds are so variable.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you. And Sir Philip.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been so kind.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Lady Lyons became brisk. ‘I shan’t wait. I’ve a luncheon at twelve-thirty and I do hate to be late.’

  When Isabel paused at the top of the gangplank and turned back, Lady Lyons had already disappeared in the swirling crowd.

  On board, Isabel said goodbye to Bimal and headed out onto the top deck. She stood against the rail. The wood under her hands was warm and smooth with wear.

  The bustle on the dockside below became more frenzied as workers untied the ropes. Chains wound with a clatter into the hull. The engines, fired up, set the rail trembling. Wood creaked and heaved as the ship shuddered finally into cautious movement.

  ‘You know, it’s jolly beautiful, the jungle and mountains and everything, but I can’t wait to reach Calcutta.’

  A young girl, eighteen or nineteen, in a fresh cotton frock. Her hair, pinned loosely under her hat, fell in blonde streaks around her shoulders. She pulled off her gloves and put out a hand, eyes shining, to shake Isabel’s.

  ‘Jennifer Whittaker. Daddy’s an assistant commissioner in the Forestry Department. George Whittaker. Do you know him? Well, anyway, I’m engaged, you see, that’s why I’m off to Calcutta. It’s awfully exciting.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘He’s a lucky young man.’

  ‘Freddy? Well, I don’t know about that. But I am looking forward to being married.’ She seemed finally to take in Isabel’s black clothing. ‘I say, I am sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The girl looked at Isabel more closely. ‘You look awfully familiar. Did you come to one of Daddy’s dinners?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Or his party at The Club?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘I had my picture in the newspapers, though. Maybe that’s it.’

&
nbsp; ‘Did you?’ She looked intrigued. ‘Are you very important?’

  ‘They tried to hang me. For murdering my husband.’

  Her eyes widened, then she blushed and, twisting away, looked fixedly at the rail. Finally she stammered: ‘How awful.’

  ‘Actually, it was.’

  The girl fidgeted with her gloves, then turned abruptly and disappeared.

  Seawater sloshed against the rusting metal side of the ship. Isabel’s nostrils filled with the stink of fish, sharpened by salt. The choppy gap between the ship and the dock widened to the width of a stream, then a narrow river. The ship sounded its horn with a single deep note as it pulled away.

  Faces on land tilted towards them, brown, weathered circles set along the water’s edge. She ran her eyes across the vanishing crowd. Brown-skinned dock-workers in lunghis, their bare chests shining in the sun. Scurrying porters in faded cotton uniforms. Hawkers with trays round their necks, selling snacks. Chai-wallahs weaving in and out with clay cups of milky tea. Here and there, the taller figures of Europeans in topees and long-sleeved jackets.

  She stopped, blinked, looked again. A face seemed turned towards her. A European man. She narrowed her eyes, half-blinded by the glare from the water. Was it Edward, that fixed point in the swirling crowd? She strained forward to see, gripping the rail until her knuckles whitened. Already, the figure was too blurred, too far away. She lifted her hand and waved in a broad arc as he and the figures around him softened and melted into one.

  The ship gathered speed. She stared doggedly back at the receding shoreline, telling herself it was indeed him, that he stood there still, looking after her. The harbour and the rising hillside with its tiered red roofs shrank to nothingness, overwhelmed by the mass of dark jungle above.

  The chill grew as they gained open sea. The vibrations from the engines coursed through her body and numbed her. She stayed at the rail, a solitary figure, as the final traces of the islands disappeared completely, swallowed at last by the vast silence of the Bay of Bengal, as if they had never been.