The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  She finds herself breathing heavily, thinking about it now.

  She’s tempted to let herself off today, to spare herself the pain of going back there. But with a deep sigh, she takes the diary from the top drawer of her bedside cabinet and unlocks it again with the tiny key. She turns to the page where she’d left the silk ribbon in place last time.

  She holds it up to her failing eyes:

  Anna’s Diary

  June 1932

  I realise that it is quite a while since my last entry, but I have been getting used to my new surroundings. Here I am on the cantonment at Kandaipur in my bungalow. The one befitting the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. It is called Connaught Lodge and is situated at the end of Dalhousie Road, a neat little road on the edge of a well-laid out estate of similar dwellings, all with perfect gardens and clipped hedges. It is slightly larger but also shabbier than the rest. Donald told me proudly that it has two more bedrooms, larger reception rooms and more space for servants than the other homes along the road. It also has a bigger garden.

  I have been alone a lot of the time since my arrival. The wedding was only two weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

  When we arrived on the train that first day, there was a little welcoming party waiting on the platform at Kandaipur station. Colonel Smethurst, Donald’s Commanding Officer and several other officers and their wives were there. We were presented with garlands of chrysanthemums to put round our necks and had to walk under a tunnel of crossed swords while people threw rice at us. I found it excruciating to be the centre of attention, and I’m sure I blushed flame red, but Donald seemed to take it in his stride. In fact, he looked rather proud as he held my arm and ushered me through to the station building.

  We were whisked off in a pony cart straight to the club, a low building with a huge veranda that looks out over immaculate croquet lawns and tennis courts. It is all a bit musty and old-fashioned inside, though, with threadbare carpets and worn leather sofas, the moth-eaten heads of stags mounted on the walls. Donald took me into the bar where a cold buffet supper was laid out in our honour. He introduced me to some of the officer’s wives. It was all a bit of a blur and after what seemed an age of nodding, shaking hands, and making small-talk, my jaw ached with the effort of smiling that fixed smile. And although I tried, I found it hard to remember any of their names. The women all looked the same to me, with floral dresses, elaborately coiffed hair and a lot of powder and lipstick. I couldn’t help noticing that they all looked at me in the same way as they took my hand. They peered into my eyes meaningfully, not even trying to hide their curiosity. I stared back at them with a puzzled frown, wondering if they already knew about Father, although I don’t know how they possibly could. I haven’t even told Donald yet.

  I was very tired, having got virtually no sleep on the train, but each time I glanced over at Donald, I saw that he was surrounded by other men. He stood a little awkwardly amongst them as they laughed and talked, but he looked intent on appearing sociable. It wasn’t until ten o’clock when someone said, ‘Your young bride looks dead on her feet, Foster, old man, don’t you think you’d better get her home to bed?’ accompanied by much guffawing, that we finally set off in our pony cart for the bungalow. So, the first view I had of my new home was in the pitch dark. I had an impression of a wide veranda, a large central reception room with others opening off it. Donald lit some gas lamps, took my arm and gave me a brief tour of the house.

  It is very sparse: a typical bachelor establishment that feels as though nobody has cared for it for years. Donald must have seen my face fall as I examined the uncomfortable looking chairs, the Army issue furniture, the scuffed floorboards.

  ‘I told you, Anna my dear, that I’ve been spending most of my time in the Mess over the past few months. But all that will all change now. We can make the place a home.’

  I suppose he meant that it will be up to me to change things, to make the place pretty and homely, but I haven’t the first idea where to start.

  We didn’t linger. Donald quickly showed me into one of the bedrooms.

  ‘I’ll have to be up before dawn. I’ll sleep next door so as not to disturb you,’ he said, closing the door. I was so exhausted, it was a relief to be able to sink into the soft, saggy bed alone and let sleep overcome my senses.

  The next morning when I woke up, Donald had already left for the parade ground, so I was left to get up and explore our new home alone. It is all on one raised floor, apart from the bathroom, which is underneath, and there are two living rooms and four bedrooms. I wandered from room to room in my dressing gown, running my hand along the surfaces, appraising the stiff, formal furniture, looking at the hunting prints on the walls, wondering how I could ever feel at home here.

  I opened the shutters to let the sunlight in, hoping it would cheer things up, but it only made the bare shabby furniture look worse. I suddenly felt very alone and overwhelmed, and I had to go back to the bedroom to recover my composure. I didn’t want the servants to see me like that.

  I made a huge effort to pull myself together and went down to the bathroom to wash. The servants had already filled the bath with warm water and put out fresh towels for me, and my spirits began to rise. I was just getting dressed when I heard footsteps in the hall and a penetrating female voice saying,

  ‘Cooeee. Mrs Foster? Are you at home?’ and I recognised the voice of Mrs Smethurst, to whom I’d been introduced to in the club. With my heart sinking I smoothed down my hair and went out into the living room. Donald’s bearer, Ali, had already shown her in.

  ‘Goodness my dear. Are you only just up? I see we’ll have to get you used to our ways. You need to be up early here to avoid the hottest part of the day.’

  Mrs Smethurst is in her late forties. She has grey hair and protruding teeth. She wears little steel-framed spectacles perched on the end of her nose.

  ‘I’ve brought Mrs Napier to see you. She usually welcomes new arrivals to the cantonment. Her husband is a Major in Donald’s unit, you see.’

  I looked at the other woman. She was such a contrast to Mrs Smethurst that she quite took my breath away. I had to stop myself from staring. She was tall, with voluptuous curves, and dressed in what my mother would describe as ‘fast’ clothes. A low cut skimpy blouse and tight skirt. Her hair was dyed blonde and she wore a lot of red lipstick. But she held out her hand and smiled.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with visitors, so I showed them out onto the veranda and went to look for Ali. I paused at the back door, realising with surprise, that the kitchen was housed in another building across the yard. Ali was already emerging from it carrying a silver tray laden with tea things. He clearly knew what to do even if I did not.

  ‘You’ll have to get going with the house my dear,’ said Mrs Smethurst. ‘I expect you’ll want to be doing some entertaining, and it’s not really up to scratch.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I will. But it’s all a bit overwhelming, I’m afraid. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you have,’ said Mrs Smethurst, looking at me over her spectacles. ‘Tell me, my dear. How old are you?’

  I wanted to tell her that my name isn’t ‘my dear’ but I held my tongue and told her my age.

  She looked at me again, softening her gaze a little and said, ‘Donald is a very lucky man to have found you. I hope he appreciates it.’

  I didn’t know how to respond and found her comment disconcerting. I glanced over at Mrs Napier who had hardly said a word so far, but she was examining the pattern on her cup, her cheeks a little flushed.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I said in the end, hoping she wouldn’t pursue this line.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got your work cut out. Donald has let this place go. It needs a woman’s touch.’

  ‘I expect he spent a lot of time out and about,’ I said, feeling the need to defend him.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Mrs Smethurst drained her tea and put her cup down on the t
able, and Mrs Napier appeared lost for words. I wondered what I had said.

  ‘I expect a lot of bachelors end up doing that,’ I went on, feeling the need to fill the silence.

  ‘Yes, he certainly did spend a lot of time out and about, as you put it,’ she said fixing me with her piercing gaze. ‘I hope you’ll be able address that, my dear. We’re counting on you.’

  This time it was me who was lost for words. Whatever could she mean? I wanted to ask her outright to explain herself, but I didn’t feel brave enough. It will have to wait until I know her a little better.

  As they said goodbye, Mrs Napier took my hand and said sweetly, ‘I’m having a coffee morning on Wednesday. I’d love you to come along. Here’s my card with the address. Eleven o’clock sharp.’

  My heart sank. Not those dreadful coffee mornings like the ones I’d endured in Bombay? Mrs Smethurst chipped in, ‘You do play bridge, don’t you?’ and my heart sank even further.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to teach you. Toby is a hopeless partner, anyway. You’ll have to learn, my dear. There’s little else to do here.’

  I stood on the veranda and watched them rattle away in their rickshaw. And I felt just as I had on the train from Bombay, looking out over the barren plain, alone and terribly homesick. The feeling swept over me like a wave, almost knocking me sideways.

  Seventeen

  July 1932

  Since that first day, I’ve spent a lot of time alone. When Donald leaves in the mornings, I sit on the veranda and have breakfast. There is no breath-taking vista like at Aunt Nora’s; just a view over the garden, which unlike the others in the road is parched and empty. I’m sure it would be overgrown but for the army lawnmower (two boys, a bullock and an antiquated grass cutter) which comes round once a week. There are no pretty bushes or flower beds, no pots of geraniums or canna lilies. Although there is a gardener, who clips the bushes and attempts to water the lawn each day, he doesn’t’ seem to be very effective. Once again, I suppose it is my job to make the garden look pretty too. But that feels even more daunting than the house.

  There are four servants: Ali, an old man who has looked after Donald for years. He shuffles about and tries to ignore me. He probably resents my presence after all that time with just the two of them. There’s also a cook, the gardener, and punkah-wallah, whose job it is to keep the air moving by pulling the punkah to and fro, and a sweet-faced young girl, Manju, who is to be my own ‘ayah’ or maid. She arrived on my second day, and as soon as I saw her I liked her instantly and felt a little comforted. She has beautiful dark, liquid eyes and a calm, soothing presence.

  Wednesday

  Today I went to the coffee morning at Mrs Napier’s house. It was as I predicted, just like those stultifying gatherings in Bombay. There were ten or so women there, who all looked me up and down with that sympathetic-curious look that I’m getting used to. The talk was of army gossip and trouble with servants, and how hot and unpleasant the weather is. They didn’t hold back discussing their Indian servants in the most derogatory of terms, even though Mrs Napier’s bearer was in the room waiting on us. I felt for the poor man and kept glancing at him in embarrassment. But his face showed not a flicker of concern. He stood there impassively, rocking back and forth on his heels, waiting for orders.

  Mrs Smethurst taught me the rudiments of bridge and promised to teach me again the next time I’m at the club.

  ‘You’re a quick learner, I must say,’ she said grudgingly. ‘We’ll make an ace player of you yet, my girl.’

  I came home feeling empty and lonely. Even lonelier than I feel on the days I actually spend alone. In the afternoon I decided to go out on my own. On the way to the club I’d noticed the place where the rickshaw-wallahs wait for trade, at the end of the maiden in the shade of a huge banyan tree. I left the house after lunch and walked the half-mile or so along the road into town to the place where they were. They were all asleep on their vehicles, their feet up on the shafts, resting through the hottest part of the day.

  I coughed politely and one of them stirred. He jumped down, rubbing his eyes and bowing.

  ‘Where to memsahib?’

  ‘Could you take me to the bazaar please?’

  ‘Bazaar, memsahib?’ He looked as surprised as if I’d asked him to take me to the moon.

  ‘Yes please. The bazaar. You do know where it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, memsahib. Right away memsahib.’

  As I sat behind him as he pulled me through the main street, under the full glare of the afternoon sun, past the palatial court house, the white stuccoed post office, the government buildings with their grant portico, I felt my mood lift. I suddenly felt buoyed by a delicious sense of freedom. Something I hadn’t experienced since arriving in Bombay. It felt wonderful after the cloistered existence I’d led at Aunt Nora’s house. I suddenly realised that perhaps it wasn’t so bad that Donald was out for long hours each day and that I was left to my own devices. It finally gave me the opportunity to discover the real India. The one that I’d wanted to experience ever since I arrived.

  The rickshaw came to a halt in front of a large brown and white building, with a clock tower and gothic arches. The rickshaw-wallah nodded towards it.

  ‘Bazaar inside, memsahib,’ he said. ‘I wait here for you.’

  I picked my way carefully up the front steps, between the hawkers selling fruit there, and in through one of the arches. Inside was a huge covered market. The noise under the high glass roof was deafening. People chattering, shouting, bargaining, the cries of hawkers advertising their wares, pipe music playing on a tinny wireless. I was instantly engulfed in the crowd, but I pushed my way through the press of people between the cluttered stalls. They were overloaded with colourful displays of tropical fruit, or overflowing with brightly coloured spices; red, vermillion and all shades of orange and brown. Others were loaded with meat, buzzing with flies that I had to cover my face and turn away from, yet others were selling bolts of cotton and silk for sarees, all colours of the rainbow. I was stunned and overwhelmed by the constantly moving throng of people, the colours and the smells; of spices, Indian cooking, exotic incense and the all-pervasive smell of drains.

  I had brought a large silk scarf with me, and covered my head and part of my face, but still people turned to stare, not unkindly, but with open curiosity. There were no other Europeans in the bazaar, and somehow that fact enhanced my sense of freedom, my desire to lose myself in the crowd.

  I walked the length of the building, just looking and marvelling, wishing I had brought my sketch book, but I knew it would be impossible to sketch here; I would have to do it from memory when I got home. When I had reached the end, I took a side aisle and worked my way along that. Here were stalls of jewellery, of cheap shoes, of household goods, of incense and candles.

  I made my way down every aisle, soaking up the sights, the smells, the atmosphere. After an hour or so I had completed my tour and was about ready to leave. By now my blouse was clinging to my body in the clammy heat and I felt in need of some air and water. As I peered through the press of bodies and tried to work out which archway I should make for to find my rickshaw, I noticed a white man emerge from one of the side doors in the wall of the building. Instinctively I stopped and moved behind a rack of sarees. I didn’t want to be seen. I watched him as he made his way through the crowd. I didn’t recognise him. He was tall and dark, wearing a pristine white linen suit, and a solar topee. He moved with easy confidence, and the crowd seemed to part to let him pass. I hardly saw his face. I was a little disconcerted that I wasn’t the only European in the bazaar that afternoon.

  But as he approached the stall where I stood, a crowd of ragged children emerged from nowhere shouting, running, pushing each other. They tumbled into me and I was jostled out into the aisle, right into the path of the man. He stepped aside, appeared to be about to move on, but then as his eyes rested on me, he stopped and raised his topee,

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p; ‘Well, good afternoon!’ he said looking straight at me. He had brown eyes, dark hair and his well-made face was deeply tanned.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, colour rising in my hot cheeks. I’m not sure why, but I felt like a truanting schoolgirl being discovered on the run. I looked down, hoping he would move on quickly, but he didn’t. I could feel his eyes on me, appraising me.

  ‘It’s very rare to find an Englishwoman in a place like this,’ he said. ‘And who might you be?’

  It occurred to me that he was being impertinent, but I raised my eyes to meet his and replied,

  ‘My name is Anna Foster.’

  ‘Ah…’ he said, contemplating for a moment. ‘Donald’s young bride. I heard he’d got married. I’ve been in Delhi for the last week or two or I’d have been at your homecoming.’

  He held out a hand. ‘I’m Charles Perry, by the way. People generally call me Charlie. I’m the District Officer for the Kandaipur area.’

  I took his hand, aware that my own was very clammy.

  ‘Can I drop you anywhere, Mrs Foster? My motor car is outside.’

  ‘Oh, no thank you. I have a rickshaw waiting.’

  ‘Quite the independent young woman! Donald’s a very lucky man. I hope he realises that.’

  I smiled, not knowing what to say. His words echoed those of Mrs Smethurst and I got that uncomfortable feeling again, that everyone here knew something that I didn’t.

  ‘Oh well, I expect we’ll bump into one another at the club before long,’ he said when I didn’t reply. ‘Good afternoon to you Mrs Foster.’

  He bowed his head slightly, raised his topee, and disappeared into the crowd.

  August 1932

  I’ve been in Kandaipur for several months now and have got quite used to spending most of my time on my own. Each day I wake alone in my bed to the sound of Donald getting up in the room next door. He rises before dawn and I hear him go down to the bathroom, and splashing in the bathtub. Then he returns to his room where Ali helps him dress in his uniform. I can hear them talking in low voices through the wall. He then goes into the dining room, eats the breakfast that Ali brings him, and leaves for the military station in his chauffeured army car.