Across the waste ground, the dyers fished with their sticks and hauled out lengths of red cotton, which hung, dripping, from the wood. The blaze of steam engulfed everything. The cloths became entrails, bleeding heavily into the cauldrons below. She blinked and they became cotton once again. It was simply illusion, conjured by the upward rush of swimming air.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Isabel
The tennis court was one of the few places where Isabel could forget the war. That afternoon in particular, she had to focus to win.
Her opponent was the daughter of one of her father’s friends, a strapping girl and barely twenty. Some of her strokes were poor but what she lacked in technique, she made up for in fitness. However carefully Isabel placed her shots, sending the girl dashing from one corner of the court to another, she seemed cheerfully tireless as she chased after them.
When the match finally ended and they turned back towards The Club, Isabel caught sight of Sarah, sitting to one side on the terrace, which overlooked the courts. Sarah lifted her hand to wave and Isabel went across, racquet in hand.
‘I was beginning to think you’d never win.’ Sarah gave her a wry look.
Isabel pulled on her cardigan. ‘So was I.’ She sat beside Sarah, facing the courts. ‘She made me feel very old.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Sarah snorted. ‘She only looked twelve.’
Isabel shrugged. ‘It’s hard to find partners.’ She ordered a nimbu pane and settled back in her chair. Two middle-aged women were engaged in a genteel match on the adjacent court. Her eyes idly followed the ball back and forth, soothed by the tap-tap-tap of ball striking racquet. The air was cool but the weak sun pleasant on her skin.
‘You meeting someone?’ Isabel didn’t often see Sarah at The Club so early. She wasn’t known for her love of sport.
‘I was waiting for you. Your mother said you’d be here.’
Isabel turned. Sarah’s eyes were shining.
‘News from Tom?’
Sarah grinned, opened her handbag and pulled out a crumpled envelope. ‘Just come.’
Isabel leant forward. ‘And?’
Sarah drew out the letter and unfolded it. Tom’s cramped, spiky handwriting sloped across the page. ‘He’s fine. Well, you know, fine-ish. He says there’s a lot of illness in camp. Malaria, dengue fever and whatnot. Touch wood, he was well when he wrote.’ She hesitated, considered. ‘Although that was weeks ago. It’s taken an age to get here.’
‘Even so.’ Isabel gave a tight smile. ‘That’s good news.’ She waited to hear more, swallowing back what she most wanted to ask. If Tom made any mention of Edward, if he were safe.
‘Anyway, that’s not all.’ Sarah pulled out an inner sheet, written on the same thin paper. It was clear at once that the neat, even letters were from a different hand. ‘He sent this.’ She thrust it towards her. ‘For you.’
Isabel’s stomach gave a sudden, cold contraction. Her eyes fixed on the note.
‘Well, go on, take it.’
Isabel didn’t move.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Sarah leant over, lifted Isabel’s hand and pushed the folded paper into it. ‘I’ll read it if you don’t.’
The waiter arrived with her drink, set it on the table and withdrew. Sarah picked up Tom’s letter and began to look over it again.
Isabel sat very still, her eyes on the note in her hand. The ink was smeared in places. She set it flat on the table and bent over it, hiding her face from Sarah as she read.
January, 1942
Dear Mrs Whyte,
I hope you will forgive me for writing to you after so many years. Captain Tom Winton is a good fellow and assures me that he and his wife are closely acquainted with your family. When I asked him to convey my good wishes to you, he encouraged me to set them down on paper myself. I trust my letter finds you in good health and as untouched by the war as anyone may be.
As for us, we stay in good spirits. We seem always to be moving. We dissolve camps no sooner than we establish them. I am being punished, I think, for all those years on the islands when I was such a passionate advocate of life in the jungle. Now, after months of jungle camps and marches, with mosquitoes and leeches in equal measure, I laugh to think of my old enthusiasm. Perhaps you see the irony too.
These are good men. They bear their trials bravely and without complaint and I think I speak for Tom too when I say we are proud to lead them. Each time a fresh order comes through, they rouse themselves and start once again to dismantle. They pack and box supplies at an extraordinary speed and with barely a grumble.
One of my young subordinates, Bateman, heard last week that he has become a father. A fine boy, by all accounts. Imagine his longing to be home now, to see his newborn son. It is etched in the lines of his face. We did our best to make a party of it. I laid hands on a small bottle of gin and we shared it out amongst us to wet the baby’s head. They’ve named the little chap James, after his grandfather.
Oddly, we speak little of the war here, apart from wishing it over. Some days, the enemy’s aircraft are constantly overhead and the jungle resounds to the thunder of falling bombs. On other days, we get word from men upcountry of Japanese raiding parties. They make forays deeper into our territory each week and, by all accounts, use the most deplorable tactics.
Often, though, we are simply undisturbed by the outside world, as deep inside a jungle as a fellow could imagine himself, wooed by the coughs of monkeys as they crash through the canopy and the shrill whooping of birds. They dive and swoop far above our heads, splashing colours of the most extraordinary brightness against the green. At such times, it is almost possible to forget there is a war to fight. I sometimes imagine it may already have ended and the generals have simply forgotten to send word.
Forgive my ramblings. If you have dear ones fighting, please know I pray for their safe return and for your health and happiness always.
Yours,
Edward Johnston
‘Well?’ Sarah’s eyes were sharp on her face.
‘It’s from Edward Johnston.’
‘I rather assumed that.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘What does he say?’
The letter fluttered in her hands. ‘The jungle, you know. The war.’
Sarah frowned. ‘That’s all?’
Isabel hesitated. ‘He says he prays for me.’ She looked down at the letter. ‘For my health and happiness. And for the safe return of my dear ones.’
‘Your dear ones?’ Sarah laughed. ‘He just wants to check you’re unattached.’
‘I’m sure that’s not—’
‘Of course it is.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Izzy, you are hopeless.’ She paused, reading her face. ‘You must write back.’
Isabel felt her breath quicken. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
She was chilled by a sudden wave of panic. ‘I’m not sure I want …’ She trailed off.
‘What? To renew his acquaintance? He’s in Burma, Izzy.’ Sarah folded her own letter and put it back in the envelope. ‘I’ll get a letter off to Tom tomorrow. Write the poor chap a note and I’ll pop it in. It doesn’t have to be much.’
Isabel kept her eyes low. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Just cheer him up, can’t you? Honestly, Izzy.’ Sarah leant towards her. ‘He’s at war. Don’t you see? He might not come home.’
Isabel spent the evening in her bedroom, writing and rewriting her note to Edward.
Dear Mr Johnston,
Thank you for your kind letter. It was such a pleasant surprise to hear from you again after so long.
She read it back, screwed the page into a ball and threw it at the waste-paper basket where it found its place among those already scattered there. She lit a fresh cigarette, crossed to the window and opened it.
The cool night air flowed in, diluting the fug of smoke inside. She stood with her arm resting on the sill and smoked, trying to calm herself. Damn Sarah. She should never have let herself be bullied
. She would simply forget the whole thing, tell Sarah tomorrow that she didn’t intend to reply. She drew on her cigarette. Sounds drifted down the side of the bungalow from the kitchen. Pots clanged and scraped. A woman’s voice, Abdul’s daughter-in-law, scolding a child.
She imagined Tom’s awkwardness when the next letter came. Sorry, Johnston, nothing for you. She bit her thumbnail. Sarah was right. Edward might not make it through the war.
She turned back into the room and paced round it, kicking the balls of paper. She couldn’t bear to write a formal letter to him. All those polite phrases, the small talk about tennis and the weather, it was such nonsense. She’d rather not write at all.
She picked up his letter from the table and stood, smoking, looking over it. She practically had it by heart now.
Often we are simply undisturbed by the outside world, as deep inside a jungle as a fellow could imagine himself.
She nodded. They had sat together once in a clearing in the virgin jungle on South Andaman, separate from the world. It was the day Jonathan took them to visit the project there. She remembered tipping back her head and tracing the endlessly rising lines of the palms to the distant canopy that framed the sky. Edward was motionless beside her. The only breach of the silence was the sharp cry of a bird and the low hum of insects. The magic, the mystery had overwhelmed her.
She stubbed out her cigarette, sat at the table and began to write at speed.
Dear Edward,
I fear for you, out there in the war, facing the enemy. I read the newspapers every day, searching for news of Burma, but we hear so little and always, it seems, weeks after the fact. I try to imagine you in jungle camps with all those soldiers trampling down the mud and building shelters and cooking rations. I’m afraid I struggle to see it. But poor Bateman. How cruel to be so far from home as his son comes crying into this world to find him.
And I envy you too – is that very strange? When you hint at the eternal silence and stillness of the jungle. You showed me that once, a long time ago. I’ve never forgotten it.
I wish there were somewhere here to hide away and find peace from the world. There is such tension in Delhi. This country, our country, is a delicate silk, a cloth of rare and exquisite beauty, which seems now in danger of being ripped into pieces. I was born here. I always felt I belonged. And yet now, for the first time in my life, I have started to feel a stranger.
I understand, you see. I catch the looks between the servants. I hear gossip in the streets and understand that many Indians are hungry and desperate and also angry. We are preparing to fight our own war here and no one quite knows where the battles will be fought or what the weapons will be. I fear for the future.
She paused, considered, then lifted her pen again.
And I fear for you, Edward. I pray for you. Please come home safely.
Yours
Isabel
She sealed the letter hastily, without reading it back, and left it for a servant to deliver to Sarah the next morning. She lay awake for a long time, her heart racing.
The following afternoon, as her mother napped, Isabel took a tonga down to The Club where a group of ladies had arranged afternoon tea. She didn’t often attend their gatherings but she was restless and wanted a distraction before she went for her ride.
The afternoon was tight with pre-summer heat. The route took her along the grand avenue of Rajpath, through India Gate, majestic in the hazy sunshine, and out beyond, cutting between the open lawns which rolled on either side of the road, set with neat lines of tended trees.
The grass was fresh and lush. Off to one side, a stone monumental fountain played and brown-skinned youths, stripped to the waist, splashed and washed in its bowl. Hawkers paced across the lawns with trays of cigarettes and nuts and sweetmeats in twists of paper. Others were barely visible behind multicoloured bunches of balloons.
Near the trees, some distance from the path, boys ran in zigzags, trying to persuade home-made kites to fly in the still air. Teenage boys sauntered companionably with their arms loosely round each other’s shoulders. Here and there, monkeys darted to seize discarded food or sat on their haunches, as content as the humans in the spring sunshine, grooming each other’s fur, the young tumbling and scrambling round the adults.
It was a familiar scene and it soothed her. Already she regretted the candour with which she had written to Edward but it was too late, the note had gone. Perhaps he wouldn’t reply. She looked at the children racing in circles in the sunshine. She should never have expressed her fears for India. On a day like this, it was impossible to imagine Japanese tanks swarming down Rajpath and the people of India cheering while the British were rounded up.
The tonga-wallah called to her over his shoulder in Hindustani.
‘Please, madam. Problem is there.’
‘Problem?’ Isabel leant further out to look. Ahead, on a broad lawn, close to Parliament House and the buildings that housed the main government ministries, the myriad dots of individual people were converging to form a crowd. At the far side, close to the trees, there was a solid, rectangular shape. A platform. Was there a festival? She frowned. She couldn’t think of one.
‘What’s happening?’
The tonga-wallah slowed the horse to a walk. ‘I am not knowing, madam.’ He sounded worried. ‘Perhaps – am I turning back?’
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary.’ They were so close to the heart of government. No one would plan anything dangerous right under the noses of British officials.
Voices echoed across the ground, distorted by megaphones.
‘What are they saying?’
The tonga-wallah cleared his throat and spat to one side. ‘Political slogans, madam.’ His face creased into a frown. ‘I think it might be best—’
Isabel tapped him on the shoulder, suddenly animated. ‘Set me down over there, would you? By those trees.’ She dug out coins and handed him a generous fare. ‘You can have twice that if you wait here for me.’
The horse dropped its mouth in a clink of bridle to the grass along the verge. The tonga-wallah looked down at the money. ‘Shukriah, madam, but—’
She climbed out of the tonga and started across the grass.
All around her, men, young and old, hurried past. The crowd grew with surprising speed. As she approached, a figure in white flowing robes, his face dominated by a bushy whitening beard and moustache, appeared on the platform and the air rang with a cheer, then settled into ragged chanting. Fists struck the air. Men began to run, as if anxious not to miss the start of the event. Her own steps quickened too.
She circled the crowd, trying to avoid being pressed close amongst the men. A handful of women in brightly coloured saris stood together under the trees, a little apart from the crowd, and she went to join them.
On the platform, the stout man in white had started to talk. He spoke slowly and clearly as if he were used to addressing large gatherings.
‘My brothers and sisters of India.’ She strained to follow his Hindustani. ‘Listen! Our time is come.’
Men on either side held a cloth canopy over his head to shield him from the sun. It was attached to poles, which were wrapped around with brightly coloured streamers. The sound was punctuated with high-pitched electronic squeals.
She reached the women. ‘Excuse me, madam. Who is this?’
A middle-aged woman turned and looked Isabel up and down. Her face was stony. She twisted away from Isabel and spoke to a younger woman on her other side, her daughter perhaps.
Isabel said again in Hindustani, a little more loudly: ‘What is the good name of the man who’s speaking?’
The young woman moved a step closer. Her eyes were curious.
‘Baba Satya.’ She spoke in English. ‘Surely you must be knowing?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘Baba Satya.’ Father of truth. She had heard that name before. She couldn’t remember where. ‘But who is he? A guru?’
The young woman laughed and said something under her bre
ath to the others. They stared at Isabel. Their mouths smiled but their eyes were cold.
She turned and looked out across the crowd. The men were focused on the platform, their eyes on Baba Satya. Far behind them, in the shade of the trees, police officers on horseback were assembling, drawing a line of mounted khaki. When the megaphones screeched, the horses stamped and shifted. A larger group of police officers on foot were taking up positions behind. Their lathis were drawn and raised in their hands. Beyond, a fire engine shone in the sunshine. She frowned and turned back to the women.
‘He’s for independence, is he?’ They ignored her. ‘Is he a radical?’
On the platform, Baba Satya held his arms aloft. That simple gesture stilled the noise of the crowd. Isabel too held her breath. The silence was more powerful than the clamour had been. Softer sounds reasserted themselves. Birds cawed in the trees above them. Bicycle bells and rickshaw horns drifted in from the road. Somewhere, distantly, a dog howled.
On the platform, Baba Satya began again to speak. His voice crackled across the park, sharpened by static. ‘Thank you for coming here today.’
Isabel looked from the baba to the back of the crowd. The line of police horses inched forward, stamping their hooves and tossing their necks against tight reins. The police officers on foot pressed close behind them. She lifted her hand to her mouth.
‘There is a dawning of hope, dear brothers and sisters. Do you feel it? A day of great change is drawing near.’ Baba Satya’s voice was strong and steady. He teased the crowd with pauses and, as he spoke, the swell of his voice rose and crashed over them all. The men near Isabel strained forward to catch every word.
‘The end of the Great British Empire is almost upon us. The end, I say! I call on you all, each and every man, woman and child, to stand firm. Follow the teachings of the Mahatma. Until and unless the British make full and immediate concessions on the matter of our independence, stand apart from them. Give nothing to their war effort. No Indian hand shall be raised to defend them.’
Daughters of India Page 28
