Flood of Fire (60 page)

Kesri was sitting on that bench, waiting for Captain Mee to emerge from the villa after a late luncheon, when he noticed a memsahib walking briskly in his direction, her skirts swinging like the casing of a bell. She was wearing a wide hat with a netted veil hanging from the brim; on her shoulder rested a white parasol trimmed with lace.

When it became clear that the memsahib was heading for the villa, Kesri rose respectfully to his feet and held the gate open. He thought she would sweep past, with at best a nod for him. But instead she came to a halt and cocked her head, at such an angle that Kesri found himself looking directly into the visor of netting that covered her face. Then, to Kesri's astonishment, a low throaty voice emerged from the shelter of the veil, addressing him by name, in Hindustani:
Kesri Singh? Mujhe pehchana nahi?
Don't you recognize me?

He shook his head dumbly, squinting into her veil: not till then did she realize that her face was hidden from his eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she threw back the netting.

Abh?
Do you recognize me now?

After scanning her face once, twice and yet again, Kesri mumbled, in a hoarse, disbelieving voice: Cathy-mem?
Aap hai kya?
Is it you?

She laughed and continued, in Hindustani:
Hã
Kesri Singh! It's me.

Kesri saw now, hidden within the contours of her visage, the chrysalis of the girl he had known some twenty years before, when he had served as her gun-bearer. He recalled the directness and spontaneity that had made such an impression on him then, and it seemed to him of a piece with the way she had stopped to talk
to him now. Yet, even though her face had filled out, he noticed also that it was suffused with a kind of melancholy.

Maaf karna
– forgive me, Cathy-mem, he said, for not recognizing you. But you look different somehow.

She laughed.
Aap bhi
– you too have changed, Kesri Singh, except for your eyes. That was why I recognized you, even though so much time has passed.

It must be twenty years or more, said Kesri.

That is true. I am ‘Mrs Burnham' now – and you, I see, are a havildar?

Yes, Cathy-mem. And how is your father, the Jarnail-sahib?

He is well. My mother too. They have returned to England and my daughter has gone with them.

Only one daughter?

Yes, said Mrs Burnham, I have only the one daughter. And you, Kesri Singh? How many children do you have?

Four, said Kesri. Three boys and a girl. They are at home in my village, with my wife and family.

And your sister, Kesri Singh? The one you used to talk about? What was her name?

The question jolted Kesri: it was as if Deeti had reached out to him again, from the distant past. There was something so uncanny about it that he exclaimed in astonishment:
Kamaal hai!
Amazing that you remembered my sister! Her name is Deeti.

Yes, of course, she said with a smile. And you, Kesri Singh – what brings you here, to China?

The expedition, Cathy-mem. I decided to balamteer.

She dropped her eyes now, and he understood that there was something else on her mind. When she looked up again her voice was quieter and more tentative.

And what about everyone else in the Pacheesi? she said. The officers? How are they?

Kesri knew from her tone that the question was deceptive in its vagueness; he understood also that her inquiry concerned one officer in particular – and who could that be but Mr Mee? After all, he, Kesri, was perhaps the only person who was aware of what had passed between herself and Mr Mee all those years before.

At the thought of this an intuition of danger stirred within
Kesri: no good could come to Captain Mee surely, from lapsing again into the madness, the
junoon
, that had possessed him at that time? Cathy-mem was no longer a girl; she was married now, and no doubt her husband was rich and powerful, fully capable of destroying an officer of the rank of Mr Mee.

On a note of warning, Kesri said, in a low, flat voice: Mr Mee is here with us, Cathy-mem; he is the CO of my company.

Oh!

Kesri saw that the colour had suddenly drained from her face. He added quickly: Mee-sahib is inside this house, Cathy-mem – he has gone there for tiffin.

Yahã hai?
He is here?

Mrs Burnham froze and Kesri had the impression that she was about to turn on her heel and walk away. But just then a voice called out: ‘Mrs Burnham, is that you?'

It was Shireen. ‘How very nice to see you, Mrs Burnham!' She came hurrying down to greet the visitor. ‘Do come in!'

‘Oh hello, Mrs Moddie.'

As they were shaking hands Shireen noticed that Mrs Burnham's fingers were trembling slightly; glancing at her face she saw that she had turned very pale.

‘What's the matter, Mrs Burnham? Are you not well?'

The parasol dropped suddenly from Mrs Burnham's grasp. She swayed, clasping a hand to her chest. Fearing that she would fall, Shireen took hold of her elbow and helped her towards the veranda.

‘But Mrs Burnham! What in heavens is the matter?'

‘Just a spell of dizziness,' said Mrs Burnham faintly, pressing a hand to her temple. ‘I'm sorry to be such a gudda. It's nothing really.'

‘Oh but you must sit down!'

Shireen helped her up to the veranda and showed her to a chair. ‘Would you like a drink of water, Mrs Burnham?'

Mrs Burnham nodded and was about to say something when the voices of Dinyar and his friends came echoing down the vestibule. A moment later the front door flew open and Dinyar stepped out. Behind him came Captain Mee and a couple of other officers.

Captain Mee raised a hand to the bill of his shako: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Moddie – thank you for the delicious karibat.'

‘Goodbye, Captain Mee.'

Shireen noticed that the captain's eyes had wandered to her visitor. She turned to Mrs Burnham, thinking that she would introduce her to Captain Mee – but only to find that Mrs Burnham was sitting with her face averted and her veil lowered: it was clear from her posture that she did not wish to be introduced.

Shireen waved the men off and then went to sit beside Mrs Burnham. Before she could speak, Mrs Burnham whispered: ‘Forgive me, Mrs Moddie, if I seemed rude – but I'm feeling too poorly to meet anyone.'

‘I perfectly understand,' said Shireen. ‘Would you like to lie down for a moment?'

‘Yes, perhaps.'

Taking hold of her hand Shireen led her visitor indoors, to her own bedroom, where she helped her remove her headgear and lie down.

Mrs Burnham's veil came off to reveal a face that was beaded with moisture. The feverishness of her appearance alarmed Shireen. ‘Should I fetch a doctor, Mrs Burnham?'

‘Please, no!' said Mrs Burnham, stretching herself out on the bed. ‘It is just a spell of the chukkers. It will pass in a minute.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.'

Mrs Burnham patted the bed. ‘Won't you sit beside me, Mrs Moddie?'

‘You must call me Shireen. Please.'

‘Of course. And you must call me Cathy.'

Mrs Burnham's eyes wandered to the framed picture that stood beside the bed. ‘That is your late husband, is it not, Shireen?'

‘Yes.' Shireen picked up the picture and handed it to her.

Mrs Burnham studied the portrait for a few minutes, in silence. Presently she said, in a soft voice: ‘He was a handsome man.'

Shireen smiled in acknowledgement but said nothing.

‘I have heard,' Mrs Burnham continued, ‘many stories about your husband. Mr Burnham thinks the world of him – that is why he asked me to call on you today.'

The words brought a quiver to Shireen's lips; she turned her face away and buried her head in her shoulder.

‘You must have loved him very much,' Mrs Burnham whispered.

Unable to speak, Shireen smiled wanly.

Mrs Burnham continued: ‘But you know, Shireen, even though you have lost him, you must count yourself very lucky – it is not given to every woman to spend her life with the man she loves.'

She seemed to choke as she was saying this. Shireen shot her a startled glance and saw that she too was wiping her eyes now.

‘Cathy? Whatever is the matter?'

Mrs Burnham was struggling to compose herself now, trying to summon a smile – but instead she succeeded only in looking more and more stricken. Where her grief came from Shireen did not know and nor did it matter – even though they knew very little about one another, it was as if they understood each other perfectly.

Mrs Burnham too seemed to be moved by the intimacy of the moment. She took hold of Shireen's hand and whispered: ‘We shall be good friends I think, shan't we, Shireen?'

‘Yes, Cathy – I think we shall.'

‘Well then, I hope you will come to the
Anahita
next week – Mr Burnham and I are holding a sunset levée, on the first day of the New Year. We would both so much like to have you with us.'

‘Oh that's very kind of you, but …'

Suddenly Shireen was bereft of words: how could she possibly explain that for her the
Anahita
was no ordinary ship? Every time Bahram set sail from Bombay she had been present at the dock, praying that the
Anahita
would keep him safe – in vain, as it turned out, since it was from that very ship that he had fallen to his death.

Mrs Burnham gave her hand a squeeze: ‘Oh please, do say you will come.'

‘I would like to come, Cathy,' said Shireen. ‘It's just that it's bound to be a little trying for me since I suppose I shall be reminded of my husband's accident …' She paused. ‘But it might be a little easier if I could bring some friends of my husband's – Mr Karabedian and his godson.'

Before she could finish, Mrs Burnham broke in: ‘Yes, of course. Do please bring your friends. It'll be a pleasure to have them with us.'

*

At the end of the day, when Kesri and the officers were back at the camp on Saw Chow Island, a runner came to deliver an order for Kesri to report to Captain Mee's tent.

Although it was quite late, Captain Mee was still in his uniform. ‘Havildar, there's a message from Commodore Bremer. He says we have to be prepared for a resumption of hostilities. A few days ago Captain Elliot sent the mandarins an ultimatum, to respond to our demands or face attack. The ultimatum has expired so we may have to move any day now.'

‘When will we know, Kaptán-sah'b?'

‘It'll probably be a while yet,' said the captain, yawning. ‘I'm sure they'll carry on buck-bucking as long as they possibly can. But I thought you should know.'

Ji, Kaptán-sah'b.

For the last several hours, Kesri had been hoping for an opportunity to speak to Captain Mee in private. Sensing that he was about to be dismissed, he said: ‘Kaptán-sah'b, there is one more thing.'

‘What is it, havildar? Jaldee please.'

‘Kaptán-sah'b – today, when I was waiting for you at the house of the Parsi merchant, in Macau …'

‘Yes?'

‘… a memsah'b recognized me.'

‘So?' The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘What of it?'

‘It was Miss Cathy, Kaptán-sah'b.'

The captain's head snapped back and the colour drained slowly out of his swarthy face.

‘You mean …?'

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah'b: it was Jarnail Bradshaw's larki.'

Picking up a paperweight the captain began to spin it on his desk, like a top. Without looking at Kesri, he said: ‘Was she the lady in the veil?'

Ji, Kaptán-sah'b.

‘You're sure it was Cathy?'

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah'b. She saw me and we talked. She asked about you.'

‘What did you tell her?'

‘I said you were here, with the expedition – she did not know till then.'

A look of incomprehension appeared on the captain's face now as he raised his eyes from the desk. ‘What is Cathy doing in China, havildar?'

‘She is here with her husband, Kaptán-sah'b. His name is Mr Bunn-am. Something like that.'

‘Burnham?'

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah'b. She said her name is Mrs Burnham.'

‘Oh my God!'

Rising from his chair, the captain began to pace the tent. ‘I should have known … I just didn't think of it …'

‘Think of what, Kaptán-sah'b?'

Captain Mee shot him a sidelong glance.

‘I met her husband the other day, on the
Wellesley
. It just didn't occur to me that he was … that he might be … anyway he's invited the officers of this company to his ship on New Year's Day. He wants to make a proper tumasher out of it – presenting arms, saluting the flag and all that. I told him I'd bring along a squad of sepoys, and some fifers and drummers too.'

The captain stopped to look out at the estuary. ‘I suppose Cathy will be there, won't she?'

Ji, Kaptán-sah'b. Clearing his throat, Kesri coughed hesitantly into his fist. ‘Maybe, Kaptán-sah'b …'

‘Yes, havildar?'

‘Maybe you should not go.'

To Kesri's surprise the captain did not snap at him as he had half-expected. Instead he sighed, in a manner that seemed to suggest a kind of resignation in the face of a kismet that he was powerless to change. ‘It's the devil's benison, havildar,' he said. ‘But I can't not see her – I have to go—'

Breaking off, he turned to face Kesri. ‘But I'd be glad if you were there too, havildar. I'd like you to take charge of the squad that'll be going with me.'

‘That is an order, sir?'

‘No,' said the captain. ‘It's not – but I'd like you to do it anyway.'

The captain's air of authority had completely evaporated now; in his eyes there was a look of almost childlike confusion and vulnerability. It was as though the accumulated bitterness of the last many years had drained away and he had become once again the impetuous and open-hearted boy that he had been when Kesri was his orderly, all those years ago – except that even in those days he had never pleaded with Kesri in this way; nor had he ever
revealed his emotions to this extent. It was as if the cavity in which he hoarded his anguish had grown deeper and deeper over time, even as his outward self was growing harder and more coarse: now that the pain had broken through he seemed to be helpless, completely at the mercy of his emotions.