The Girl from Cobb Street Read online

  But a bicycle. Gerald had been collected by car this morning and the bicycle was still there, propped against the white plastered walls. He had no need of it so why could she not use it? She’d hardly ever ridden before, just a few wobbling yards along a London street beneath the wary eye of the senior footman, keen to protect his newly-acquired purchase. The tyres looked pumped, the chain greased, all things Robert had told her were important. She could see him now, urging her on, past the pillar-box, past the garden railings, his face puckered with concern. He’d been a friendly man, she thought, one of the few in Miss Maddox’s household who had shown her kindness. Thanks to his instruction, she’d managed for a while to master the rudiments of riding, so how difficult could it be to try again?

  Quite difficult, she found, but she persevered, teetering up and down the pathway until she felt competent enough to make a small journey. The durzi was still sewing furiously outside her bedroom window, but one dress lay ready and she slipped it over her shoulders, thinking herself sufficiently smart to visit the civil station. Ever since that dreadful dinner at the Club, she’d hoped to find the library and something new to read. And there was no danger now of meeting the women from that night since they would be on their way to Simla. She called Rajiv and explained as simply as she could what she planned to do. As always, his face remained expressionless; he simply bowed and returned to his kitchen. At least they would know where to send a search party, she thought, and it had been sensible to tell him.

  Dressed in the cream cotton sundress, topi wedged firmly on her head, she began nervously to cycle along the narrow lane towards the main road. She sensed Rajiv’s eyes following her from his redoubt and was relieved to round the first bend. She had escaped. It took her a while to navigate each of the curves in the lane but once she reached the main road, she turned right onto the straight thoroughfare that led to the civil station. The road surface was slightly better here and her pedalling picked up speed. As she pushed forward, she could feel the breeze on her face and smelt the hot, dried grass wafting upwards from the gully which bordered the road. It was invigorating. From time to time, she passed tiny stones painted red and dotted along the roadside at intervals, shrines to one or other of the Hindu gods. Several rickshaws passed her travelling in the opposite direction, their bells ringing cheerily, and in the distance she heard the muezzin’s call to prayer. Within minutes, the unaccustomed exercise had left her exhilarated but uncomfortably hot.

  The civil station came into view and in her elation at reaching it, she lost concentration for a moment. It was enough for a peacock strutting across the road to almost unseat her. But she wrenched the bicycle upright and by the time she turned into the main entrance of the station, she was again riding smoothly. The guard came out of his sentry box, a perplexed expression on his face. A lone white woman on a bicycle was not a familiar sight. But when she asked for directions to the library, it seemed to reassure him and he readily pointed out the route she should take.

  She opened the door to the library, pink but pleased. There was no one in sight and she had the place entirely to herself. But a brief glance around the sparsely furnished room suggested she’d expended a great deal of effort for very little reward. The far wall had been shelved from ceiling to floor, but elsewhere there were only crumbling cane chairs and an old oak table, whose surface told the story of a thousand scratched messages. She began to take down some of the books, searching for something that might help her understand more of her adopted country, but she looked in vain. There were thrillers, romances, popular authors—Stella Gibbons, Djuna Barnes, Daphne du Maurier. Any of these would provide bedtime reading, she thought, but the book she really wanted was nowhere to be seen. All the way here, as her aching legs had turned the wheels, she’d been imagining a precious volume that would unlock for her the secrets of Indian mythology and, in particular, tell her the story of the goddess for whom she already felt an affinity, Nandni Mata.

  She was about to select one or two of the lightest books to slip into the bag she had slung across her shoulders, when the door opened and Jocelyn Forester stood on the threshold. Daisy stared at her, uncomprehending. The girl should be travelling to Simla with her mother and the other memsahibs. How was she here? Why was she here? The old suspicions thrummed into life, so sharp and so strong that she was in danger of drowning from them. Then she noticed the crutches. Jocelyn smiled a wide, cheerful smile and waved a crutch at her.

  ‘Can you believe what I’ve done, Daisy? I’m so annoyed with myself, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘What have you done? It looks painful.’ She tried to infuse sympathy into her voice.

  ‘I’ve sprained my ankle, that’s what. And I did it the day before I was due to leave. We were packed and ready to go and then I had to fall through the front door!’

  It seemed an unlikely accident. ‘How did you manage to do that?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘A letter came for me,’ Jocelyn was blushing slightly at the memory, ‘and I was so eager to get at it that I tripped over the doormat and this is the result.’

  Daisy wondered what kind of letter could have been that exciting and, more interestingly, who its author might be. But she wouldn’t allow herself such dangerous thoughts. Instead she asked, ‘Is your mother still at home with you?’

  ‘No and it’s so miserable, you’ve no idea. I can hardly move—certainly not out of the cantonment. Ma has gone ahead and I can’t join her for at least another week. I tried to send you a message. I was hoping you could come over and keep me company, but the wretched servant delivered it to the wrong bungalow. I ask you. How could anyone get it wrong? But he did.’

  ‘Well, you’ve found me now.’

  Her mind was teeming. Jocelyn would have only her father for company and the Colonel was likely to be out most of the day and many of the evenings. It would leave his daughter free to pursue her own plans, even on crutches. Had she pretended an injury so she could stay behind and be with Gerald? Or had she deliberately tumbled? Daisy could not stop the thoughts after all. And if the injury were genuine, what was this letter? The girl had blushed when she’d mentioned it so it had to have been from a man, but was that man Gerald?

  ‘I have found you,’ Jocelyn was hobbling towards her, ‘and I shall bag your company as much as you’ll let me.’

  Daisy smiled with what she hoped was sufficient enthusiasm. She couldn’t help but like Jocelyn. The girl was a breath of fresh air blowing through the staid corridors of the civil station. But she couldn’t trust her either, not entirely. The dreadful quarrel with Gerald had made clear that Daisy had spoiled his plans and those plans had surely included Jocelyn.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she was saying. ‘Has Gerald been teaching you to ride? There are several horses in the regimental stables that aren’t spoken for, I know.’

  This time Daisy’s smile was genuine. ‘I did ride here but on a bicycle.’

  Jocelyn laughed out loud. ‘Of course, it would be. I can just see you in that tremendous dress, head down and pedalling like fury along the road to the cantonment.’ She leaned forward and smoothed the skirt of Daisy’s dress. ‘It looks wonderful on you. I couldn’t begin to wear such a delicious cream but you suit it so well.’

  Because I’m several shades darker than you, Daisy thought, and then forced herself to stop. She would not allow that awful evening to shadow her life.

  ‘I’m very pleased with it myself.’ She tried to sound untroubled. ‘And thank you so much for introducing me to your durzi. He’s the miracle worker you said he was.’

  Jocelyn smiled happily but couldn’t prevent herself shifting from side to side on her crutches. It was clear her ankle was paining her. ‘I’d be happy to ride over one morning to visit if that would cheer you up,’ Daisy said quickly. She owed Jocelyn that at least.

  ‘It would, my dear, immensely. But you shouldn’t be out on a bicycle in this weather. I’ve got permission to use the Adjutant’s pony and trap. Why don’t I call
for you at the bungalow and we could enjoy a whole morning together? Actually … I’ve just thought. Why don’t we go to the parade? You’ll love it—it’s next Friday, a week today, if you’re not doing anything.’

  That was something she could be sure of, Daisy thought drily. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Wonderful! We’ll have to leave pretty early. The parade starts just after dawn as it’s too hot for the horses later in the day, but it’s a splendid sight. You’ll see. Every member of the regiment is mounted and rides through Jasirapur wearing his smartest uniform and finishing up on the maiden.’

  Daisy’s astonished look made her companion giggle. ‘Not that kind! It’s a large open area on the outskirts of town. The cavalry play all their polo matches there but only in the cool season, of course. It’s far too hot for polo now, but a parade works wonders. It keeps the regiment in shape and gives the locals a touch of colour. Helps to remind them who’s in charge too.’

  The conversation with Grayson floated into Daisy’s mind. He’d talked about nationalist protests and she wondered whether such a parade might be more provocative than helpful, but as usual she kept her thoughts to herself.

  ‘I’d love to come. Next Friday you say?’

  ‘Yes, but come over before if you can.’

  Daisy nodded, but did not commit herself. She couldn’t quite lose the feeling that Jocelyn was not as innocent as she seemed. ‘I’ll try, but there are several things at home that need my attention.’ She hoped she wouldn’t be forced to explain these non-existent tasks. ‘In fact, I’d better be getting back there now.’

  The girl looked disappointed but after clasping Daisy’s hand warmly, she hopped to one side to leave the doorway clear.

  ‘See you next week,’ she called after her.

  ‘I saw Jocelyn Forester today,’ Daisy said as casually as she could. They were seated at the dining table sharing the evening meal. It was fortunate Gerald had decided not to eat in the Mess as he’d done the previous night; she wanted to see his reaction.

  ‘Yes?’ He sounded indifferent, deliberately so, she thought.

  She persevered. ‘Did you know Jocelyn had an accident and wasn’t able to leave with her mother? Apparently she tripped and sprained her ankle.’

  ‘The Colonel mentioned something about it, but he thought she’d be well enough to travel very soon.’

  Daisy laid down her knife and fork. Curried meat was losing what appeal it had ever possessed and this conversation was likely to prove more interesting than any chicken. ‘She plans to travel the week after next, I believe. In the meantime, she’s invited me to go with her to the regimental parade.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ he said absently, and this time he appeared genuinely preoccupied. There were several minutes of silence before she became aware of his narrowed concentration. He’d pushed his plate aside and his gaze was intense. ‘When she does leave, why don’t you travel up to the hills with her? It’s not too late for you to go.’

  The suggestion caught Daisy unawares since she’d thought the notion of Simla truly buried. It left her flailing around trying to find a way to refuse, without provoking further ill feeling between them.

  Gerald was swift to leap into the gap. ‘You seem to have made a good friend of Jocelyn, so why not go with her? You can shelter under her wing if you feel the need. As well as being the Colonel’s daughter, she’s a popular girl. With her as a friend, the wives won’t bother you.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said slowly. She turned the idea over in her mind and for some reason it no longer felt so objectionable. She wondered what had changed. Knowing Jocelyn, she supposed, was one thing but there was also the discomfort she felt at being here alone in the bungalow. An increasing discomfort. And then there was the stifling heat, which could only get worse as the plains turned into their summer inferno.

  Gerald revved up his eagerness. ‘Look, Daisy, we’ve got off to a bad start and I’m sorry for my part in it.’ His tone was conciliatory and that was unexpected. ‘I’m wondering, maybe, if we took a break from each other, it might help.’

  He was hesitant and no wonder. How could a break help when so far they’d hardly seen each other?

  ‘Just a short break,’ he went on. ‘If you’re in Simla, I won’t be worrying about you, and you’ll feel a good deal better once you’re in a more reasonable climate.’

  ‘I feel fine,’ she protested.

  ‘You think you do, but consider what’s been happening. You’ve seen a figure in the garden when there was no figure, you thought your door was locked when there’s not even a key to your room, and you accused Rajiv of deliberately leaving you alone to face danger, when he assures me that he was delayed at the market that day. It all adds up to you not really being yourself, don’t you think? But if you won’t take my advice, ask any old hand. They’ll say the same thing. People have to acclimatise gradually and coming out in April, it’s not possible. You’ve been thrown in at the deep end.’

  ‘You still want me to go away to Simla.’ She sounded more combative than she meant to since the idea was beginning to grow on her. The women were still a problem, though. Apart from Jocelyn Forester, there was not one of them with whom she wished to spend more than five minutes.

  ‘It’s not that I want you to go. I think it’s best—for both of us. I won’t deny we’ve got problems but they’re not going to be solved while we’re both sweltering. When you come back, it will be cooler, life will feel more rational. And there’ll be months of entertainment to look forward to, and plenty of chances to enjoy ourselves.’

  She had a lively idea of what winter in Jasirapur would be. Blissfully cool for one thing. She would learn to ride, perhaps sew curtains and cushions for the house to make it more homely, perhaps even tackle the garden if they couldn’t afford their own mali. That was a life she could manage. But it wouldn’t stop there. She would be expected to attend the Club regularly, go to the dances, the parties, the dreadful dinners, and be expected to mix with the same set of people day in and day out, people she already disliked.

  This would be her life and without Gerald’s love, it was a depressing prospect. She needed him to feel close to her, needed him to care. Right now he was being more amiable than at any time since they’d married, and part of her wanted to go along with this new mood of conciliation. But another voice was telling her not to agree to his demands just yet.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she hedged.

  ‘Don’t think too long or a ticket could be difficult. And what’s there to think of? If you go with Jocelyn, you’ll have someone with you who’s lived in India all her life and knows the ropes through and through. I’d feel comfortable knowing you’re with her.’

  She nodded, and he leant across the table and took her hand. It was a rare gesture of affection and she let her fingers lie in his. ‘I’m sorry for what I said the other night. It was the shock, you see. Hearing that news—the baby—I just hadn’t expected it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ She was eager to meet him halfway. ‘I tried to find the right moment to tell you but it never came. Then when I did blurt it out, it was the worst possible time.’

  Still holding her hand, he led her to the lumpy sofa and sat down beside her. Days of marriage and this was the closest they had been together. She allowed herself to lean very gently into him, and the action was sufficient to encourage him to talk.

  ‘I know it’s difficult for you to understand how I feel, and I know I’ve not been thinking straight. But I had such a devil of a job getting into the Indian Army, that getting on, getting promoted, has become very, very important. Maybe too important.’

  ‘Was it that difficult to get accepted?’ She was genuinely interested. There was also a barely acknowledged hope that, if she could persuade him to talk, he might touch on that part of his life he’d kept so secret. It could be the beginnings of a real honesty between them.

  He lay back against the sofa and stretched his legs. ‘It was immensely difficult
. You have to graduate top of your class at Sandhurst to have any chance, and that means a lot of hard work. Getting into the Indian cavalry is even harder. The regiment recruits all the best people. Men from wealthy families, for instance, attracted by the hunting and the polo. And, of course, attracted by the uniforms—they’re pretty colourful.’

  ‘And romantic, too?’

  ‘Yes, romantic.’ He smiled at her, and it was as though they were back together in London, walking hand in hand by the Thames, talking, laughing. She held the feeling tight to her, longing for it to last.

  ‘You see, I’m not naturally academic.’ His expression had grown more serious. ‘I found the studying very hard and when I succeeded against all the odds, and saw my name at the top of the list, that was only the start. There’s a year with a British regiment in India before you’re actually allowed to join the Indian Army. A year when you’re watched very closely to see if you’re suitable. That’s not easy to take, being watched day and night, on and off duty. And you have to learn Hindi because you must speak the language of your men. Urdu as well—it may sound the same but it’s different from Hindi when it’s written—so that’s two more exams to get through. And then when you’ve done all that and plumped for an Indian regiment, you get vetted there too. You may think you’ve done the choosing, but in the end they choose you. The officers of the regiment give you a look over and decide whether they want you to stay or not.’

  ‘It sounds horrid. But you must feel proud of yourself, Gerald. You’ve done so very well.’

  He turned in his seat towards her, their hands still clasped. ‘That’s the damnedest thing. You can never feel proud, never relax. There’s always one more fence to jump. When you wrote from England with your news, it sent me into a panic. It was one fence I couldn’t jump.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What fence?’

  ‘There’s an unofficial rule of no marriage under thirty. The ICS have it too. The army has a saying: Subalterns cannot marry, captains may marry, majors should marry, colonels must marry. If you want to marry before you’re thirty, you have to have the CO’s permission and it’s usually refused. Or you have to send in your papers.’