The Girl From Cobb Street

There was no sign of Rajiv and she wondered whether he, too, had deserted. It seemed an age since he’d surprised her at the desk, riffling through papers she had no right to read. The letter she’d found, though, had stayed with her, its memory lodged deep and only temporarily blotted from view by the overwhelming disappointment she’d been feeling. But it was back now, sitting squarely before her, and a thought caught at the edges of her mind. It trembled there for several seconds, then burst into full flowering. She had begun to think the unthinkable, she realised. She found herself shaking her head as if to signal a warning not to entertain such ideas. Her suspicions had to be mere fancy.

But what if Gerald were the real recipient? If the letter had been meant for Gerald, what Pandora’s box would that open? She knew all about Pandora, and where her curiosity had led her, from the reading she’d done with Miss Maddox. If Gerald had been the intended recipient, he must be the Jack Minns addressed. And that meant he must be two people. Which was absurd. Why would he be two people? She told herself not to go on with this train of thought, but somehow found herself continuing. If he were Jack Minns, which was quite mad, it would mean that Gerald had a mother and father alive. He had told her that sadly his parents had died together in a car crash five years ago. It would mean he had lied to her. And if he’d lied about something as important as his family, he might have lied about other things too.

She would not think it, yet the notion continued to niggle. If he were Jack Minns, then some of his childhood at least had been spent in Spitalfields, a stone’s throw from Eden House. He had not played in the spacious rooms of a manor house, as he’d told her, or run carefree through its Somerset estate. The repercussions of such a lie were too enormous to take in. So she wouldn’t. She definitely wouldn’t. She would dismiss them as ravings brought on by the sun. But she had enough of Pandora about her still, to want to discover why that letter was on Gerald’s desk.

Except that it wasn’t. Not this morning. The papers that were left were conspicuously tidy, a small, neat pile placed carefully in the middle of the desktop. And she could see at a glance that the letter from Spitalfields was not among them. She had been right about Rajiv. He had told his master what he’d seen, and Gerald had acted. He had squirrelled the document away to ensure there would be no discussion. And if she dared to ask questions, she felt sure he would deny the letter’s very existence.

Rajiv came in bearing tea and fruit for her breakfast and she wondered if she dared mention her night-time experience. A mysterious letter and an unknown intruder were not the most cheering of introductions to her new life. Since she’d arrived, the sense of being watched had grown on her and, though she recognised that solitude and an unnerving servant could be making her foolish, a strange man in the garden did nothing to soothe. If, in fact, there had been a man. She was beginning to wonder if he was part of a dream, a figment of sleep, and decided to put it to the test.

‘Were you walking in the garden last night, Rajiv?’ She looked directly at him.

His eyes did not meet hers and his face was without expression. ‘Last night,’ she repeated, ‘were you in the garden? I’m not cross. Perhaps you couldn’t sleep. But I need to know.’

‘No, memsahib.’

‘You’re sure you didn’t walk there in your sleep?’ This was getting laughable.

‘No, memsahib.’ Rajiv was looking decidedly anxious and no wonder. He must think he had gained a madwoman for a mistress.

‘Thank you,’ she said feebly. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’ He slipped silently away, leaving her no wiser but feeling a great deal sillier.

She had barely finished the tea and fruit when she heard footsteps on the veranda and a knock at the door. Anish Rana was standing on the threshold and greeted her with a smile.

‘I hope you slept well, Mrs Mortimer.’

She was surprised at how glad she was to see him. ‘Thank you, I’ve slept for hours Mr—Lieutenant Rana,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give you your proper title yesterday.’

‘That is no problem for me. I am an Indian officer, you see, and we do not stand on ceremony. My name is Anish.’

‘And mine is Daisy,’ she said shyly, aware of the slightest edge to his voice. But his smile appeared sincere and she thought him a most engaging character. ‘Gerald is not home,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid you must have missed him.’

‘It’s not Gerald I came to see, but you. I wanted to make sure you had survived the journey and your first day in India.’

‘I did, as you see.’ She pinned a smile to her face, unwilling to show how downcast she was feeling, and quickly changed the subject. ‘Did you travel back with us on the same train?’

‘No. There were people I had to see in Bombay. I decided to take the later train and return overnight.’

‘You must be very tired then. Perhaps I can offer you some breakfast?’

‘A cup of tea only. That would be wonderful.’ He settled himself in a seat opposite her. ‘So now that you are recovered from the journey, how do you intend to pass the day?’

She looked blankly at him. ‘I’ve no idea except … if I could get to a shop, I might buy some material.’ She saw him looking puzzled. ‘To make a dress, you know. I’ve not brought enough lightweight clothes. It was stupid of me.’

‘No one has sufficient clothes for this climate, so you’re not alone,’ he said easily. ‘You must visit the bazaar, that’s the answer. It is a paradise of materials. Why don’t I take you? I’ve commandeered the regimental transport this morning, complete with chauffeur. If you crane your neck, you can see him through the window.’

‘That enormous tree is in the way but I can just see him, I think.’ Through the branches she glimpsed a flash of brass buttons and the very top of a turban sporting a highly starched and pleated plume.

‘That enormous tree is a banyan. You will see them everywhere and know them by their forest of roots. But surely you cannot intend to sew your own dresses?’ He sounded almost shocked.

‘I’m not so bad with a needle,’ she defended herself.

‘An English lady sewing her own clothes! It is unheard of. You must employ a durzi. A tailor.’

‘But won’t that be costly?’ Instantly she regretted the words uttered unthinkingly. She had no wish to advertise her poverty and Gerald would hate her background to become common knowledge.

‘It will be very cheap, I promise. And very good. You will not be wanting to work in these temperatures,’ he said in the manner of a reproving schoolmaster. He was probably right, though it would have given her occupation.

‘Thank you, Anish, you are very kind.’

‘Not at all, and it is a good plan.’ He was warming to his idea. ‘Simla is much cooler, of course, but you will still need plenty of summer dresses there. The social life is very jolly, I believe.’

She frowned at his words. She seemed to have missed a vital link in the conversation. ‘Simla? I am going to Simla?’

‘Everyone goes to Simla. All the ladies at least. It is in the foot of the Himalayas as you call them, a mountain paradise with magnificent views. And the warmth is of the gentlest. There are gardens everywhere, filled with English flowers. You will love it. You will be able to ride out every morning and enjoy good company every evening.’

She wasn’t too sure about the riding but otherwise it sounded a paradise indeed and she was already looking forward to it. ‘When does the regiment leave?’ she asked innocently.

He laughed. ‘The regiment does not leave, Mrs Mortimer.’

‘Please, call me Daisy.’

‘Thank you—Daisy. We men have work to do, we must toil on the plains. It is for the ladies to go. Some are already there but the rest of the womenfolk will leave shortly and you will be able to travel with them.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying I must leave Gerald behind?’

‘He will come to see you, I’m sure, when he can take a few days’ leave.’

‘But … we are only just married.’

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It might perhaps have been wise to postpone your wedding until the cool season.’ He looked searchingly at her and she felt her cheeks flush. ‘But no matter, it is done. And you will love Simla and gain much benefit from being there.’

‘Will you visit as well?’

‘I have no reason to. No wife, no family. And though the mountain towns are beautiful, they are not for Indians. They have been built entirely by the British for the British. This is my place, here on the plains. My family are Rajputs and Rajputana is our homeland.’

His voice rang with such pride that she could only murmur, ‘Your family must have a splendid history.’

‘We do, or rather we did. Now we serve the British. As a martial race, we are useful to them.’

‘Do you serve them or serve with them?’ something in his voice made her ask.

‘It is a nice distinction. I have been educated by the British and trained by them, so clearly I serve with them—but only in India. My commission does not allow me to command outside my own country. But the situation in Europe is changing fast and new threats are emerging all the time. It is beginning to look as though our martial skills will be needed far beyond India. As they were in the Great War.’

She felt a small shiver of apprehension. ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

‘I hope so, too, but the news is not good.’

‘If Rajputana is your home, you must have family nearby.’ It was an attempt to lighten the conversation but she knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. When he spoke it was in a voice that lacked all emotion.

‘Both my parents are dead and, as for my extended family, I have little contact with them. Our lives have taken very different paths.’ But then he was smiling once more. ‘You know, I am breaking rules by keeping a military vehicle idling outside, so if you’re ready to leave, we should make tracks for the bazaar.’

She felt herself relaxing again. On closer acquaintance, she was finding Anish a strange mix of warmth and prickliness. For a while, she’d been tempted to talk to him about the letter and try to find out what he knew about the unknown Jack Minns, but she was glad now that she’d kept silent. She liked him, liked his frank face and his smiling eyes, but there were moments when she’d felt an invisible barrier slide into place between them.

‘I’ll get my bag this minute,’ and she jumped up from the table and started towards her bedroom. At the door she was struck by an unwelcome thought. ‘How will I find my way back from the bazaar? I imagine you must soon return to camp.’

‘You’re right. I must drop you and then leave, but I will let Gerald know where you are. He’ll make sure the syce, the chauffeur, collects you before lunch. If you’re lucky, he may even come himself.’

CHAPTER THREE

The jeep was retracing the road that yesterday she had driven along in the pony and trap. She was struck anew at the isolation of the bungalow, for there seemed not a single habitation within miles. Just acres of dry, glistening grass and rock and red dust, and in the distance a range of hills, their rims fudged and melting in the haze. In twenty minutes they had reached the small town. They wound their way through narrow streets and past huddled dwellings and hidden courtyards, till they reached a maze of small alleys milling with people and crowded with rickety stalls. Anish offered her his arm and steered her carefully through the mêlée. Sanitation was rudimentary and there was a strong smell of open drains. But there were other odours too, aromas of spice and pepper and incense from the shops they passed. Crowds of hot, sweating people jostled their way in and out of the narrow alleys, gathering around stalls which appeared to sell everything that any one person could want: rice and chillies, spices and saris, leather work sandals and bangles of fragile glass in rainbow colours. There were stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and stalls with mountains of sticky sweets wrapped in silver paper. In the thin strips of space between, several old men sat cross-legged, stitching clothes or boiling things in huge cooking pots. ‘They are called dekshis,’ Anish told her. ‘And the food is very good.’ Everywhere, heat, movement, people, colour.

He came to a halt at a shop slightly larger than the rest, and with a banner overhead that read Johari Bazar. ‘You will enjoy yourself here. The owner’s name is Sanjay and he will look after you well. He’ll find you a trunk of materials for a few rupees, see if he doesn’t.’

She felt a stir of panic and blurted out, ‘I’ve been very stupid, Anish, and brought only a little money with me.’ She did not want him knowing that all she had was a few grubby notes from her time on board ship, since Gerald had not thought to leave her anything.

‘You won’t need money. Gerald is sure to have an account and you must order what you want and the sum will be added to whatever is owed. This afternoon Sanjay will deliver your materials to the bungalow. It is all very civilised.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’

She thought she discerned that edge again but then wondered if she was imagining it. She wanted to reassure him that it was not the Indian way of doing things that made her hesitate but the fact that she had never in her life ordered anything on account. From where she came, you paid cash for whatever you wanted, and if you didn’t have the cash, your wants went unsatisfied.

At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.

Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.

‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’

‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’

‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’

‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.

‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’

She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’

‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’

‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.

‘Perhaps they should, but this is an alien culture, and it can lead people to foster—well, let’s say, an extra Englishness. And that’s not all bad.’

Daisy took up the cudgels, though she had only the haziest notion what prompted her. ‘On the contrary, it sounds a very bad idea to me.’

‘That’s because you don’t know India. European women have to have guts to live here. They need that extra to stick it out and the mems are first class on fortitude. They have to be. To keep their children safe, they’re forced to send them home to England at an early age. There are thousands of child graves scattered across this country, you’ll find. But when parents and children meet years on, they hardly know each other. It’s a rotten choice, don’t you think? Return home with your offspring or slug it out by your husband’s side.’

Daisy acknowledged the truth of this but she was still smarting. ‘And what happens if you disagree and don’t follow their rules?’

‘You must, my dear, you must fit in. When you married, this is the life you chose. Attitudes may be changing. A few mems have taken up nursing or teaching, usually as voluntary work, but most are still stuck in the old ways. So be charming but vapid, that’s the ticket. Remember, women who are difficult or cause a scandal, damage their husbands’ prospects, and you wouldn’t want to do that, I’m sure.’

She wouldn’t, Daisy thought, but her new future was looking less than promising in all kinds of ways and by the time Sister Macdonald had pumped her hand in a hearty goodbye, she’d lost much of her enthusiasm for buying materials. But Sanjay was not going to allow a likely customer to escape so easily and she found herself spending the next thirty minutes in a daze, wandering back and forth with him among the rows of crowded trestles. The building was long and narrow, stretching far back, and with every counter they came upon, her memory of the nurse’s conversation faded a little, while her delight in the shop grew. So did painful indecision: cottons, fine lawns, embroidered materials and the most exquisite of silks all called to her. But the frugality she’d been forced to practise all her life prevented her losing her wits altogether, and she bought only cottons she thought would make into several frocks for the day and a length of silk for any formal occasion to which she was bidden. In the end she found she could not resist the splendid array of trimmings that Sanjay showed her, and squirrelled away several ribbons and a card of silver braid.

Flushed with success, she asked the shopkeeper for his pattern book. She would make a start this very day, once the sun’s warmth had begun to wane. Sanjay shook his head and instead showed her a picture from a magazine. She was repeating her request, thinking he’d not understood her, when a voice from the front of the shop called her name.

‘Miss Driscoll?’

She was taken aback to see Grayson Harte standing a few feet away. When they’d spoken on the ship, he’d told her little of his plans and she hadn’t realised that he, too, was headed for Jasirapur. If she’d thought about his destination at all, it would have been to imagine him many miles away by now. His tall, slim figure looked absurdly cool in linen slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, as though the punishing heat of the bazaar had decided not to take up his time but instead slide gently from his shoulders.

‘Mr Harte, how nice to see you. But I’m no longer Miss Driscoll. I’ve become Mrs Mortimer since we last met.’ If only in name, she thought, and blushed slightly.

‘Of course, forgive me. You were to be married immediately we docked, now I remember.’

‘Mr Harte …’

‘Grayson,’ he corrected.

‘I wonder if you could help me, Grayson? I can’t make this gentleman understand that I need paper patterns for the materials I’ve bought.’

He stepped forward and spoke in what Daisy imagined was fluent Hindi. ‘You don’t need a pattern apparently,’ he translated. ‘You choose a picture that you like, a dress you see illustrated in a magazine, for instance—like the one Sanjay was showing you—and the durzi will make it for you.’

Her mouth fell open at this news. ‘It is pretty amazing, isn’t it,’ he went on. ‘I knew you could get a suit made in that fashion, but I wondered whether ladies’ clothes might be a bit more tricky. Not so, though.’

She turned to the stallholder to say goodbye and Grayson translated for her. ‘He thanks you for your custom and he’ll deliver your purchases later today. What’s your address by the way? He probably has it, but better to check.’

She gave it and he looked surprised. ‘You’re not in the cantonment then? I would have thought you’d be living alongside the other military families. But perhaps your bungalow has its own attractions?’

She wouldn’t have described the cheerless house as having any attractions, but felt compelled to defend Gerald’s choice, though why if there were accommodation within the cantonment he’d not taken it, she was at a loss to think. ‘I believe Gerald—my husband—chose it for its tranquillity,’ she managed to say.

‘It will certainly have that,’ Grayson agreed. ‘It must be the last building on that side of Jasirapur.’ But he had a frown on his face as he spoke.

‘How is your job going?’ she asked abruptly, hoping she might deflect him from finding fault in Gerald.

‘I have the feeling that it will suit me very well, but thank you for asking—Daisy? I hope I may call you that.’

They were standing outside the bazaar and Sanjay had retreated into his small, airless office.

‘Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s working out for you. I expect you much prefer it to sugar cane.’ She remembered his telling her that one small personal detail, that he’d spent three years in a neighbouring region, working in the sugar business and hating every minute.

‘I was never cut out to be a businessman but the experience hasn’t been a complete waste of time. The languages I learnt eased me into the Foreign Office and then helped me land this job.’

‘I suppose you’ll use them when you start travelling. I don’t expect you’ll be staying in Jasirapur for long.’ From what Gerald had said, a District Officer spent most of his time on the road.

He seemed uncertain of how to answer. ‘At the moment I’m not sure of my movements. But even in town, it can be useful to speak the local language. As we’ve just discovered.’ He grinned and waved his hand towards the shop behind them. She was following his direction when a severe crash from a stall several yards to their left startled her. The crash was followed by a body hurling its way towards them. A bareheaded man in a dirty white kurta came rushing down the alley, knocking everything and everybody aside, a uniformed policeman in hot pursuit. Grayson grabbed her arm and pulled her out of harm’s way.

‘You seem fated to attract wrongdoers. But this time fortunately you’ve stayed on your feet.’ He was holding her in a loose clasp.

She felt herself trembling and when she attempted to reassure him with a smile, it didn’t quite make it to her face. The memories were too painful for her to do better.

He let go of her arm but his expression was anxious. ‘You don’t look at all well. You should make for home.’

‘I’m fine, really I am. Gerald is meeting me and he’ll be here very soon.’ She made herself say it with a conviction she didn’t feel.

Grayson looked relieved. ‘In that case, I hope you won’t mind if I leave you. Please forgive the sudden departure but I should go. Have fun with your dresses.’

And in an instant he’d disappeared in the wake of the fleeing man and his uniformed pursuer. It happened so quickly that Daisy could only blink. One minute he was standing beside her, shielding her with his arm, and the next he had melted into the crowd that had gathered to debate with great volubility the incident they’d just witnessed. Grayson Harte was in the civil service, a pen pusher, Gerald had said, but his conduct hardly seemed to match the job and raised all kinds of questions. What was he doing still in Jasirapur when rightly he should be miles away, dispensing justice to a clutch of outlying villages? And why had he taken off after the two running men? It seemed very odd and she could only conclude that somehow she’d got things wrong. Perhaps District Officers had to train in town before being let loose on the population, and today he’d simply remembered that he needed to be back at his desk for an important meeting.