East of India

by East of India (retail) (epub)

  Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Zakia running away.

  ‘Damn!’ one of the men shouted. ‘Now we’ve only got two left.’

  ‘Hold that bitch. We’ll have this one first. Bring her over so that she can see what she’s in for.’

  The other two men were holding Sureya down. Her breasts were exposed and her skirt bundled around her waist. She was struggling and swearing in Urdu.

  One of the men was holding Sureya’s arms, the other her legs. At the same time he was unbuttoning his trousers, sliding them down until the crease of his buttocks shone like a haunch of hairless pork.

  The struggling girl managed to bite him.

  Suddenly he slapped her.

  ‘Bite me, would you.’

  He slapped her again.

  Whether it was too much drink, breathlessness or the fact that he was mesmerized by what the others were doing, the man holding Nadine slackened his grip.

  A minute ago she could see the sweep of her captor’s shoulder out of the corner of her eye. Now she couldn’t. She flexed her muscles without moving her arms. She glanced towards the dark alleys that led to the river. Her path to escape.

  She kicked backwards. Her heel connected with the softness between his legs and he howled as he crumpled to his knees.

  Nadine ran. She didn’t care that her breasts were bare and bouncing like tennis balls. She was scared, but what about Sureya?

  She stopped running and turned back. The soldiers looked surprised to see her and were about to grab her, but stopped when, adopting the plummiest of voices, she said, ‘Tomorrow I will report this to your commanding officer. I’m British and will not allow this to go unpunished. So let her go now, or you will face the consequences!’

  Their jaws dropped and their grips lessened. Sureya took advantage and fled the scene.

  Surprised and disappointed that Sureya had left her alone, Nadine stopped only long enough to tie her ragged bodice. Never would she forget this night; never would she forget how ugly men could get, how they could treat defenceless women so shamefully.

  She ran until she was on the other side of the Rajah Potia temple, but still a long way from home.

  Gharries and rickshaws were lined up outside the shrine. Some of them never went home. The smell of fresh dung and homelessness hung listlessly in the drowsy air.

  She roused a sleeping gharry driver, gave him her address and told him to hurry.

  He struggled to his feet, clenched fists rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As he stirred to a half-hearted wakefulness, he looked her up and down, saw her nipples peering from among tattered rags and grinned.

  He pointed. ‘Is that how you are paying me?’

  She held her head haughtily and reverting to English, for the second time that evening adopted a cut-glass accent.

  ‘What are you grinning at? Hurry along there. Don’t keep me waiting or it will be the worse for you!’

  The grin vanished. Nobody grinned at the memsahibs. She didn’t look like one, but… That tone!

  He took the few rupees she gave him and roused his skinny nag with a flick of the whip.

  The journey seemed to take twice as long as it should, the lean flanks of the thin horse rolling beneath its flea-bitten skin.

  The tops of nearby trees swayed in the night breeze. Something scurried across the road in front of them, probably a rat or a mongoose. Someone somewhere was melting ghee over too high a heat, the sickly smell turning to equally sickly smoke.

  Life was distracting, but not for Nadine. With every yard her nervousness mounted. What would her father say? Would he have got back before her?

  When she arrived home she avoided the main gates, instead diving into the side alley.

  Scrambling through the hole in the wall, scrabbling beneath the hedge, she caught her skirt on stray branches and the stony ground scratched her breasts.

  By the time she’d climbed back through her bedroom window she was totally exhausted.

  Quickly and quietly, she stripped away the gaudy clothes and pushed them back into their hiding place in a travelling trunk. After that, she poured water from pitcher to bowl, wetted a flannel and rubbed away the make-up and sweat until she felt refreshed and smelled of violets. Finally she crept into bed stark naked, glad of the coolness of fresh sheets against her skin.

  Usually after dancing her dreams were a whirling mist of colour, clanging jewellery and the smell of strong spices. Tonight there was only a nightmare vision of the drunken British soldiers; a nightmare she knew would stay with her for a very long time. She also knew that she could never go dancing again, not now her father had seen her.

  A draught, a sudden change in the atmosphere, the stillness of an empty room filling with a presence disturbed her only slightly, but as is the way of instinctive people, even in her subconscious she knew someone was there.

  The cool air caressed her body. The bedclothes seeming lighter than the finest Punjabi muslin – so light it seemed they did not exist at all. She realized she’d kicked them off.

  Her eyes flickered open. What time was it?

  She eased herself up onto her elbow, her sleepy eyes adjusting to the dim light.

  The familiar sights of wash stand, mirror, wardrobe and dressing table emerged into solid shapes, but they were not the only things, the only solid figure.

  Eyes blazing with anger, her father stood over her.

  Suddenly aware that he had never seen her naked, she reached for the tangled bedclothes at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Dancing for men! Just like your mother.’

  He hissed the words as her fingers touched the tangled sheet.

  She raised herself on one elbow and her hair cascaded over her shoulder, soft against her cheek.

  ‘Disappointed, Father? In me, my mother, or are you disappointed in your own weakness, the fact that you fell under the spell of a native woman?’

  In the dim light she saw the shape of his jaw altering as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

  She heard a whistling sound as something long and fine sliced through the air before stinging her unprotected body. It hurt. It stung, but she gritted her teeth.

  ‘Cry!’ he shouted. ‘Go on! Cry!’

  Perhaps she might have if he hadn’t asked. Sheer stubbornness and her determined loyalty to her mother’s memory made her keep her mouth tightly shut.

  Her flesh stung at the very first stroke but she would not cry out. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and bit her lip. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt, how much her life hurt, and how wretched she felt.

  Again and again the riding crop left stinging stripes across her bare body. Beside herself with pain, she finally tried to flee but only succeeded in rolling across the bed and tangling herself against a mound of mosquito netting.

  ‘You will be a dutiful daughter,’ he said before leaving. ‘You will obey.’

  Chapter Five

  There was blood on the sheets in the morning and she tasted blood on her lip where she’d bitten it.

  She looked out of the window towards the pergola. Beyond it two male servants were assisting the gardener, pushing stones and mud in a wheelbarrow, disappearing beneath the hedge against the wall. Her route to freedom was being filled in, but escaping into the city was no longer enough. In the depths of her soul she knew she wished to get away from her father, her life as it was, for anything, anything far away from the place where her mother had died.

  A tray was brought to her room: juice, bread, butter, jam and sweet-smelling tea.

  ‘Take it away.’ She buried her face in her pillow.

  Servant and tray retreated.

  Shortly afterwards Myla the housekeeper appeared to tell her that she was summoned to the drawing room.

  She slid on a pair of cami-knickers with wide legs and a side button. Even so the feel of the soft silk against the raised weals made her wince.

  Strangely enough, she felt no fear about what would happen nex
t. The worst had already happened. She’d been found out and beaten. What more could there be?

  On her way to the drawing room she paused and listened to the sound of monkeys scampering over the roof.

  Voices from within the room made statements she wasn’t supposed to hear.

  ‘The girl has tainted blood.’

  ‘It’s not that noticeable. She’s very brown, but still looks passably British.’

  ‘But people know, Burton. They know, my dear fellow…’ The voice of the man speaking was unfamiliar. ‘But I myself… well… I don’t mind a bit of native blood, and she’ll fit in at my place. We’re miles from the city of Singapore in up country Malaya and I ain’t never likely to go back to Brisbane. Malaya’s my home now. No one will be any the wiser. But do you mind if I ask one more question?’

  Her father responded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Her mother. She’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. She killed herself a few months back. Nadine was too old for a nurse and I didn’t consider it in Nadine’s interest to discover her mother was Indian. I sent her away. She threatened to take her life. I’m afraid I called her bluff.’

  Nadine stood rooted to the spot. It was as though time had stopped; as though she had entered a great void from which she would never find the way out. Her father had finally admitted that her ayah, her darling, beloved ayah, had also been her mother, and not only that, he was responsible for her death.

  Feeling hollow inside, Nadine leaned against the wall for support, listening not to the scurrying on the roof but instead to the beat of her own heart. The blood in her veins turned to ice; was replaced with molten lava. Whatever happened next, she knew that she could not continue to live under the same roof as the man responsible for her mother’s death. Whatever fate had in store, she’d face it headlong.

  Composing herself, she stepped into the drawing room.

  The room had high ceilings, white walls and a tiled floor scattered with patterned rugs of mottled reds.

  She avoided looking at her father. Her eyes were drawn to the other man standing there, in a crumpled white suit. He held his hat in sturdy hands. His eyes were brown, and the thick moustache covering his upper lip was slivered with grey.

  Her father smiled a tight, controlling smile that never reached his eyes.

  ‘Nadine!’

  She gave him no chance to make excuses. ‘I lit the flame beneath Shanti’s funeral pyre. You knew that. Why didn’t you tell me then that you’d killed her?’

  ‘I did not…’ He had the decency not to continue.

  ‘So what have you planned?’ Her tone was clipped and bitter.

  Her father eyed her as though seeing her for the first time and perhaps seeing himself in her.

  ‘Mr Martin McPherson has asked to marry you and take you to Malaya. He has a rubber plantation there a couple of hundred miles north of Singapore. You’ll be quite well off. You’ll have your own servants.’

  Her blood turned even colder. She felt no surge of rebellion, just a chill emptiness that she thought could never be filled.

  ‘What a very good idea that I leave here for pastures new, Father. I would not want my pedigree to embarrass you any further.’

  His mouth, half-hidden by his moustache, moved wordlessly, as though he’d become incapable of finding his voice.

  Their visitor, who had watched the interchange with interest, now spoke to her.

  ‘If you’ll have me as your husband, girl, I’ll have you as my wife.’

  He spoke English, though not as an Englishman. His Australian roots battered his words.

  ‘Better than being here,’ she said bluntly.

  Her father dropped his eyes to the swirling contents of his brandy glass, the liquid heaving from side to side…

  All through her childhood, her existence had been tolerated rather than cherished. She owed nothing to this man. Whatever it took to get her away from here, she would do.

  She became vaguely aware that the man in the white suit was trying to hide a grin. It wasn’t until she noticed his intrigued expression that she recognized the drunk who had bared her breasts as she danced the night before.

  She swallowed any thought of protest. What did it matter?

  * * *

  The marriage took place in St Cuthbert’s church, its stucco walls blindingly white. Its interior was cool and apart from the whirring of the ceiling fan could have been any place in England.

  Her father and two of his cronies attended. There were no women or servants. Just enough people to ensure the ceremony was legal.

  Once the marriage was out of the way the newlyweds made their way to the Royal York Hotel, a place frequented by box wallahs, as British tradesmen were referred to.

  The room was pale green and shady. The shutters were closed.

  Nadine shivered. Martin was so much older than her. Although resigned to her fate, she wasn’t looking forward to what would happen next.

  ‘Might as well get it over with,’ said Martin, flinging off his coat and tugging her towards the bed.

  I’ll remember this for ever, she thought as the weight of him pinned her to the bed. She winced when he entered her. No words of love. No whispered assurances that he would be gentle. She almost screamed, but something held her back. A woman had to do what was necessary to survive. It could be worse.

  * * *

  Her last memory of India was on a dry day when each lungful of air tasted of dust.

  Piles of rubbish discarded on the street side of the sentry post heaved with thin, ragged people. She saw two British soldiers come out of the back gate; their uniforms crisp except for the sweat patches already seeping beneath their arms.

  One of the women searching for food among the rubbish saw them. Gathering her skirts about her, she approached them cautiously, her two children following close behind.

  The children gripped their mother’s skirt with scrawny hands; the woman touched the tattered veil fringing her face. Whatever she was going to ask was making her nervous.

  The woman brought her skirt up to waist level, exposing her naked loins and straggly pubic hair.

  Eyes bleak with hunger, the two children peered from around their mother’s skirt as she gesticulated that she would endure carnal intercourse in exchange for food for her children.

  Nadine heard her words spoken in Urdu. ‘Please. My husband is dead from smallpox. My children have eaten only sparingly these past days. Be merciful, sahibs, or take what I offer in exchange.’

  One of the soldiers waved her away. ‘Get lost! Go on. No whores around here.’

  The other searched his pockets. ‘Steady on, Fred. I’ve got a few coppers here…’

  ‘Don’t be so bleeding soft.’ The one called Fred waved and shouted at the woman. ‘Go on. Clear off!’

  The woman stepped back, her children cowering behind her.

  ‘Wait!’ Nadine dug into her purse. Her exclamation turned heads. She marched over.

  ‘Here,’ she said to the woman in Urdu. ‘Take this.’ She gave her almost everything she had in her purse, leaving herself just enough to take a gharry home.

  ‘Thou art kind,’ said the woman, gratitude glistening in her limpid brown eyes. ‘May Vishnu’s light shine on you.’ A thin, brown arm rearranged the ragged veil before she hustled her children close and hurried away.

  The soldier who had shouted at the woman stood shaking his head.

  Nadine met the contempt in his eyes. ‘Her children are hungry.’

  He sneered. ‘No decent woman would do that though, no matter what.’

  ‘Yes, they would! If my children – if I had children – were hungry, I would do the same.’

  Controlling her anger was like trying to push down the lid on a boiling kettle. She snapped her handbag shut.

  As she walked away she heard him snigger and comment to his friend.

  ‘Well, that figures, Bert. They all sticks to their own kind.’

  Back in her schooldays she would have bri
stled at the implied insult that she was native. Her dancing friends had changed all that and now her anger melted in a ray of burning pride.

  Her thoughts went back to the woman who had been so desperate that she was willing to sell the only thing of value she had. She felt pity but also pride. They were both women and knew the value of life. She hoped the hungry children would survive. She hoped the mother would too.

  Chapter Six

  They arrived in Malaya as newlyweds at the end of November. Rumours abounded that the Japanese were about to declare war, but nobody in Malaya was taking the matter very seriously.

  Two weeks later, on 7 December, they bombed Pearl Harbor and panic began to spread.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, girl,’ said Martin. He was sitting on the veranda sipping a large G and T and squinting at the white clouds that were scudding across an ocean of blue sky. ‘The Malayan Peninsula is well defended and we can always run to Singapore if things get bad. It’s an island and everybody knows that Japs don’t like water.’

  ‘I thought that Pearl Harbor was in Hawaii? Isn’t that an island?’

  He folded his arms across his broad, barrel chest, almost as though such a question didn’t deserve an answer. ‘Take it from me, them Yanks must have been doing something wrong to get taken unawares like that.’

  She couldn’t think what the Americans might have done wrong, but took his confidence at face value. It wasn’t that she respected his opinion; she didn’t care much what he thought.

  * * *

  The plantation, some forty miles from the town of Sempaden on the east coast, was lucky enough to have a generator. The house was cool.

  Nadine was lying on her back in the marital bed, eyeing the blades of the overhead fan. Shadows from its blades flitted across her face and Martin’s naked back. Martin was indulging in his conjugal rights, and Nadine was watching the fan, noting that it made a whirling noise in time with his grunts of exertion.

  The air moved and that was good. She thought of other things when he was doing it to her. Imagine if there was no generator to drive the fan, only a punkah wallah, a lowly Oriental labourer, pulling for all he was worth just outside their bedroom door. Imagine how much stickier they would feel, how many more flies there would be, how many more lizards clinging to the ceiling.