The Letter (8 page)

Egypt unfolded as they sailed through the Suez Canal and into the Red Sea. The distance and exotic landscapes steadily increased, together with the heat and the flies.

INDIA

Chapter 10
 

Bombay
to
Bareilly
1935

“Bombay in the morning,” Margaret whispered the words over and over into her pillow. Tomorrow she would be in Ben’s arms. Sleep evaded her and dawn with its promise of a new life an eternity away. Pavia was fast asleep, her peaceful breathing scarcely audible against the noise of the ship’s pulsating engines taking them ever nearer the shore. The long lonely voyage and dreadful separation from her family vanished as, through the cabin porthole, Margaret watched the rosy fingers of dawn creep slowly across the sky.

Energised with anticipation she put on the green crepe dress she had worn for her wedding and, unable to find the pins for her hair, gathered it up inside a wide brimmed hat. Pavia protested sleepily but was speedily dressed and carried on deck. The ship docked majestically, eliciting a spontaneous cheer from passengers and crew.

A loud babble of voices floated up from the quayside where a multitude of people of every shade of brown from deep dull black to rich coffee cream scurried like insects far below. Red, orange, white and black turbaned heads swarmed everywhere. Enormous nets filled with a hotchpotch of cargo swung out wide of the ship to hang in mid air like drunken trapeze artists. Half naked sinewy men competed with the peak-capped pristine, white uniformed port officials whose glinting whistles marked their authority. Orders were barked, arms waved and whistles blown in an attempt to control the mass of writhing humanity.

Margaret fruitlessly searched for Ben. In Edinburgh he stood out from the crowd. Here he was indistinguishable
among so many of his countrymen. Maybe he wouldn’t
recognise her as she was failing to recognise him? Tears
pricked her hot eyes threatening to mingle with the stinging sweat, forming small beads on her forehead.

She made her way down the gangway carrying Pavia,
who dislodged her mother’s hat releasing a cascade of copper hair. Away from the shelter of the covered deck
the unremitting sun pierced Margaret’s blue eyes, blurring
the buzzing scene in front of her.

On the quay, hordes of men pressed forward, hemming her in. Fingers touched her hair, rough voices called out to one another. Terrified, Margaret could go
no further! Pavia began to scream! Ben was there. His
servants cut a swathe through the crowd, lashing out
with wooden canes, striking the bodies of the venturous.
Margaret winced to hear the dull thumps of the canes
hitting their targets and the ensuing sharp cries of pain. The noise reverberated in her head. Pavia began kicking
and crying louder and louder, everywhere was in motion.

An umbrella appeared from nowhere shielding them
from the rising sun. A woman stepped forward and, under
orders from Ben, took Pavia from Margaret. Immediately the frightened child renewed screaming, refusing to be quiet until reunited with her mother. Robbed of her
charge the servant truculently trailed behind them to the waiting car while the growing rabble emitted a frightening
cacophony of sound. Once inside, with Ben seated beside
her, Margaret asked nervously “What are they saying?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

“But why are they so interested in me?”

“They are common people… easily influenced. We have a legend about a beautiful fairy with red golden hair who brings good fortune to everyone she has contact with. They believe in such things and think it might be you.”

“But are you sure we’re safe?”

Ben laughed, “They are not threatening you… merely
calling out Charu, Charu… which means beautiful.” Gazing into Margaret’s eyes he took her small white face in his healing hands, “I give you Charuni as your Indian name. You will always be my beautiful one.” With her pulse racing Margaret sank into the mahogany-coloured leather upholstery.

The chauffer drove along Bombay’s sweeping marine drive. Numerous horse drawn carriages followed behind, too many for Margaret’s belongings, but the endless retinue of servants took advantage of the extra space to ride in style.

The teeming city with its imposing architecture, riot of colour and contrasting squalor assaulted Margaret’s eyes. Their cavalcade stopped in front of what appeared to be a gothic palace, covered with carvings of monkeys, peacocks and lions. Domes and spires sprouted from the roof and stained glass windows studded the entire building. She was amused by a plaque, which proclaimed the building to be Bombay’s railway station; an imposing statue of Queen Victoria trumpeted the power of the Raj.

Immediately they stepped out from the car filthy, rag-clad beggars thrust out their open palms for money, gesturing towards their mouths. Some waved mutilated limbs; others pushed emaciated infants with huge hungry eyes in Margaret’s face. She had no money or food to give so strove to keep Pavia out of their reach while Ben’s servants beat off the clutching hands. Uncomfortably hot, and thirsty, with no idea where they were going, Margaret blindly followed Ben. There were so many things that she wanted to ask her husband, so much to say after all this time. His brief touch in the car was enough to reawaken her desire for him.

Coolies competed to assist the luggage-carrying servants, hindering any possibility of smooth progress.
Indian travellers made way, British passengers turned their backs.

The guard paced the platform where a throbbing steam train was ready to depart. The last servant jumped on board as the guard dropped his flag and the train lurched forward. They were off.

Margaret gasped at the inside of their private carriage. It was like a doll’s palace with ornate curtained windows, a brocade covered couch, easy chairs and a carved writing desk complete with pen stand. Silver filigreed glass lamps dotted small tables. Tucked away was a bedroom with a washstand and bijou bed made to scale.

Servants deftly brought trays with glasses and jugs of water. Dishes of sweet pastries, sticky white balls of syrup, fiery mixes, nuts and dark aniseeds were spooned in turn into Margaret’s hand. She tried to be polite but the mixture of tastes and hot flavourings made her nauseous.

It was difficult to juggle the food, while restraining Pavia from touching everything within reach and listening to Ben’s running commentary. “Our journey will take approximately three days. The servants travel separately but will attend to everything we require. The ayah is the woman who took Pavia from you at the port. She will look after our daughter, amuse her and generally perform the daily tasks required for a small child. You will not be troubled by such trifles.”

Margaret reacted strongly to this suggestion, “I’m certainly not going to hand Pavia to some unknown servant to look after!”

Ben said firmly “This is the custom and so it will be. The ayah will follow your instructions. Indeed she will always be in your presence unless you choose otherwise.” With that he held Pavia for the first time cooing and petting until she returned his affection with chuckles and infant caresses.

“Dada… Dada” Margaret repeated.

“Papa,” corrected Ben.

The ayah brought a cup of warm milk and, after a little persuasion from her mother, Pavia allowed the servant to feed her.

Heavy eyed with heat, Margaret was losing the battle to stay awake and reluctantly retreated to lie on the bed. She must have slept for hours for on waking the muted lights of the sleeping quarters highlighted the sleeping figure of Ben. She opened the room’s divider. On the other side Pavia was curled on a soft cot with the ayah asleep on the floor. All was well.

Peeping out through a chink in the bedroom’s heavy brocade curtain Margaret’s reflection bounced back at her. The train clattered noisily through a railway station lit by flaming brands attached to the sides of low buildings. On the platform groups of men huddled beside burning braziers which illuminated their faces like renaissance paintings in Edinburgh’s art galleries.

Ben was different now, in control, not the spontaneous lover who threw caution to the wind. Margaret had presumed so much without asking and the journey to his home was much longer than she anticipated. She was looking forward to meeting his family and had made up her mind to like them, especially his sisters. Maybe his mother would be at the station to meet them. Margaret blinked away the tears. It didn’t matter when and where the journey ended, as long as Ben was there.

She rested her head on the tepid window swaying with the movement of the carriage. Isolated from anything she had ever known, with no clue as to where she was heading, she was filled with misgivings.

*  *  *  *  *

Ben organised the servants who boiled water for drinks and washing, cooked food and kept Pavia fed and amused. The train chugged deeper into rural India passing scattered villages with houses made from mud and straw, interconnected by dirt roads. Women in brightly coloured saris, frequently with babies slung to their back, gleaned the fields, or walked balancing bundles of sticks on their head in the direction of the village. Buffaloes pulled ploughs with barefooted farmers guiding the furrows, bullock drawn carts laden with produce wound down dusty lanes.

Alarmed by the sound of banging overhead Margaret opened the carriage window and looked up. Scrawny men, surrounded by cloth bundles, were travelling on the roof. They were equally surprised to see a Memsahib boldly looking up at them. The rail route was often blocked by a cow wandering onto the track causing the engine to stop or slow to a walking pace. The men on the roof leapt off, standing in lines parallel to the track to urinate

Customs and a language with which she could make no connection bombarded Margaret. She recognised from the way the servants, porters and officials deferred to Ben that he was powerful and important whereas it was as if she was invisible.

The ayah didn’t understand her. Margaret tried using signs and gestures which resulted in the servant doing as she was accustomed. Time after time, in sheer frustration Margaret sent the woman back to the servants’ quarters only to recall her. Ben didn’t intervene, unaware of his wife’s increasing sense of uselessness and segregation.

The train arrived at a station named Bareilly at twilight. A horse-drawn carriage was waiting for them. Ben said it was a tonga. A pleasant change from the closed car but the whine of mosquitoes overloaded the oppressive air. They didn’t seem to bother Ben but Margaret wearily pulled down the sleeves of her travel jaded dress in a vain attempt to fend off the multitude of voracious insects. The ayah fanned Pavia who kept attempting to climb over the side of the carriage. One advantage of the car was that you could close the windows.

The tonga driver was clean-shaven and smartly dressed in a tunic with matching trousers. He carried a light whip, drawn upright in salutation on Ben’s approach. Ben clicked his fingers; two tall liveried young men, armed with long polished canes, stepped forward and bowed, “Charuni these men are your bearers. They will accompany and protect you at the cost of their lives when you go abroad.”

What ever would she do with these people? All she wanted was to be alone with her husband.

Margaret’s homesickness increased as they drove through the town. They passed groups of English ladies escorted by servants, presumably shopping. She nodded and smiled but they gaped rudely at her.

There was no sign of Ben’s family when the tonga stopped outside a grand hotel, but the owner greeted him like a friend and supervised the off-loading of the luggage.

“I have business which will keep me in Bareilly,” Ben explained sketchily, “rest and get used to my India.”

Margaret hid her disappointment behind the requisite smile.

Chapter 11
 

Bareilly
1935-1936

Light forced its way through the gaps in the wooden shutters making patterns on the sleeping figure of Ben. Margaret was caught in delicious nights that sent her senses reeling, turning her world up side down. She stretched lazily listening to Bareilly waking. Dogs barked at bleating goats rousing the town; the tinkling flock led safely into the countryside by some vigilant goatherd. Then all was quiet except for the gentle mooing of meandering cows and the soft sound of air blown through velvet muzzles. The peace was broken by the rasping cough of camels loudly complaining at being harnessed to carts at the start of the working day. Pigs squealed in rage, chased from a feast of yesterday’s rubbish by an unknown neighbour. Voices called, some smooth and low, others harsh and coarse until everything drowned in the ringing call of the Mullah from the lofty mosque.

*  *  *  *  *

Margaret saw little of her husband. Business took him to Aakesh, his family home, but he refused her repeated requests to accompany him. His mother and sisters were there so Margaret wasn’t necessary. He needed her to remain in Bareilly to take care of him.

Take care of him! What a lame excuse! There was a surfeit of servants for everything in the hotel. Some were busy from morning to night squatting on their haunches, using short-handled brushes made from fine twigs, to sweep the floor. They were careful not to raise any more dust which, to Margaret’s dismay, constantly formed a sandy layer on everything. Tongue flicking lizards roamed the hotel walls, white ants ate the doors, gigantic crimson cockroaches lurked in the kitchen.