Golden Afternoon (34 page)

Fortified by our bazaar-bought and
darzi
-made finery, Mother, Bets and I, accompanied by Kadera, set off for Delhi; this time, in the interests of economy, in the Wolseley. Thereby saving ourselves the price of four train tickets and the cost of railing the car. Tacklow had been a bit doubtful about this, but Mother, having pored over a selection of road maps and
asked the advice of any number of local citizens who professed to be familiar with every road, track and river crossing within a radius of a hundred miles, was quite sure that we could get ourselves and the car to Delhi. We started off bravely, weighed down to the gunwales with bedding rolls and baggage.

For the first hour or so we drove along something which could, at a pinch, have been called a road, but which, without any warning, suddenly petered out into a sandy track that meandered off into nowhere between walls of casuarina shrub. Mother followed it,
faute de mieux
, for about a mile, until it, too, vanished in a waste of sand, and we were not only lost but found ourselves in a spot where there did not appear to be a sign of habitation for miles around.

It is almost impossible to imagine finding oneself in a similar ‘Empty Quarter' in the India of the present day, and from what I have seen of it and its exploding population I don't think that there can be any left. But even in those far-off days one could always be certain that if only you were patient and prepared to wait for a while, sooner or later, in even the loneliest and most desolate tract of land, a wandering goatherd and his flock, or some lone traveller on foot, would appear out of the sun-glare and the shimmering heat-haze that lay like a vast expanse of shallow water across the empty plain, reflecting rocks and thorn scrub, kikar-trees and pampas, so that they seemed to float like ships or islands on a glassy sea.

There was no point in turning back, or ploughing on into the sandy waste, without even a compass to show us which way to go. So Mother pulled up in the scant shade of a clump of casuarina, Kadera spread a travelling rug on the sand and brought out the picnic basket, and we all sat down and ate sandwiches and Mahdoo's superlative curry puffs, drank orange squash from Thermos flasks and waited for rescue. Which duly arrived in the form of an elderly gentleman, armed with a
lathi
and balancing a large bundle on his head, who had been attending a local fair and was returning to his village. The trackless plain held no mystery for him, and he was delighted to be offered a lift home in the car — he had never ridden in one before, he said. Bets and I crammed in together alongside Mother, Kadera and our rescuer and his bundle took over the back, and the expedition pushed on.

I use the word ‘pushed' with intent, because that is what we did for most of the next mile or so; the sand got deeper and deeper, and Mother
kept on stopping while Kadera, Bets and myself and our passenger got out to tear branches of casuarina and sheaves of pampas grass which we spread in front of the wheels before pushing the Wolseley out of a particularly intractable patch of sand. It was hot and exhausting work; and worse was to come, for our passenger informed us that we had to ford an unbridged river. At this point even Mother began to consider turning round and going back. But our passenger was made of sterner stuff, and he urged us to press on. His village, he said, was only a short distance away from the far bank of the river, and he would wade across and fetch help in the form of ropes and volunteers to push and/or shove. So on we went.

The river, when we reached it, was less of a hazard than we'd feared, for there had been no rain for at least two months and it had shrunk considerably. The main channel was not more than five yards wide and barely two feet deep at the ford. But, judging from the wide expanse of silver sand on either side of the water, it was a good deal wider and deeper when in flood, and it was this sand that was the trouble. It took what seemed like hours to get the car across it, and we should never have done it without the help provided by our passenger, who, as he had promised, waded across, and after disappearing over the higher ground that lay on the other side — leaving us sitting collapsed in the small patch of shade provided by the car — eventually reappeared accompanied by about ten or fifteen stalwart villagers armed with ropes and a horde of fascinated children, the majority of whom were barely knee-high to a beetle.

I fancy that they must have become used to rescuing stranded motorists, for they went smoothly into action. There was a good deal of noise, but no arguments as to how to tackle the problem; and after an endless interval of shouts and yells of encouragement, the Wolseley was pushed, tugged and half carried across the powdery sand and on to the firm wet sand at the river's edge. Mother, terrified of flooding the engine, drove with extreme caution across the ford, and encouraged by shouts of advice from her squad of helpers, and delighted squeals from the chorus of cherubim, took the shallows on the far side at speed; aided by those who manned the ropes, she managed to cover quite an appreciable distance on the dry sand on the opposite side before getting stuck again. However, we were across!

Once free of the sand we soon reached the village, where the women offered us cups of milk, fruit and freshly cooked chapattis, and — like
most women in a country of small outlying villages — were friendly and forthcoming, once they had got over their shyness, asking a hundred questions, laughing themselves into stitches at Bets's and my stumbling attempts at Hindustani, and congratulating Mother on her fluency in their tongue. Bets and I taught the assembled cherubim ‘Little Miss Muffet',
^*
in the vernacular, which was very popular. All in all it was quite a party, and I remembered it when, much later on, I heard horror stories about travellers who had attempted to drive over country where there was no main road, and been practically held to ransom by ‘simple villagers' who demanded enormous sums, paid in advance, before they would give any help. At no time did these people, most of whom had probably never seen a white face before, so much as
hint
that they would like to be paid for their help. They had given it out of pure good-heartedness — as they gave the food and drink. Mother hadn't got much money with her, but she gave our passenger — who had to be pressurized to take it — as much as she could spare, and asked him to distribute it to the helpers who had got us across the ford; and he insisted on coming with us to set us on our way and see that we did not miss a field track that would take us on to a passable road.

We parted with him with regret, and ploughed on across unmapped country, hoping for the best; and luck was with us, for towards sunset we actually managed to reach civilization in the form of a little Dâk-bungalow, where we put up for the night and ate the familiar Dâk-bungalow dinner of ‘a couple of Chapattis and a
murgi
grill'. (There was once a topical song sung by the comic in a musical comedy put on by the Simla Amateur Dramatic Society at the Gaiety Theatre, in which every verse ended with that line. Tacklow used to sing it to us. But although I can remember the tune to this day, those are the only words that survive.)

Once again we would be sleeping under canvas in New Delhi, for the members' quarters at the IDG had been booked out for Horse Show Week, and the overflow were put up in tents. Our particular tents were not even in the Club grounds, but on the racecourse a short distance away. That was a lovely interval. A brief taste of fun and glamour after a
spell in the wilds of Rajputana and life as it must have been lived by members of the East India Company a century and more ago.

Our tents were spread out under the shade of a line of gold-mohur trees, and separated from the rails of the race track only by a gravel path and a strip of lawn. We would be awakened in the brilliant Indian dawn, clamorous with birdsong and glittering with dew, by horsy friends who started each day by riding on the racecourse and would draw rein when opposite our tents and shout to us to wake up. And every morning, as I scrambled out of bed and into a dressing-gown, and ran out to greet them, I used to congratulate myself smugly on the fact that however late I had gone to sleep on the previous night — or rather the small hours on that same day! — I always looked my best first thing in the morning: I could thank the Lord for a Grade A complexion that didn't need any make-up to improve it, and was probably given me in compensation for a regrettable figure.

I don't remember the names or faces of any of the young men I danced with during that glamorous Horse Show Week, so I presume that for once I wasn't in love. Yet I do remember having a perfectly lovely time. This, once again, was the Raj at play; and it was wonderful to be young and to be part of it, with all of life ahead of you. The whole of Delhi smelt of flowers. Sweet peas and carnations, delphiniums and roses, pinks, hibiscus, jasmine and orange-blossom grew and flourished in every garden, while bougainvillaea and trumpet-flower poured over rooftops and walls in a blaze of colour; and when darkness fell the air was heavy with the sweetness of night-scented stock, moon flowers and
Rhat-ki-Rani
; and always, somewhere within hearing, a dance band or a gramophone would be playing the sweet, sugary melodies of that era: ‘You Were Meant for Me', ‘You're the Cream in My Coffee', ‘The Birth of the Blues', ‘What'll I Do?', ‘Always', and ‘Fancy Our Meeting'… Odd how they still come back after so many long years.

Bob Targett was still around, and I danced with him and laughed with him, but realized that Tacklow had been right: I wasn't his type of woman at all, and I would never have been a success as his wife. Bets and I struck up a lasting friendship with the wife of Alan Riley, A. I. R. Riley, who ran the Delhi Flying Club. His wife, who was Dutch (her maiden name had been Van Oz), had been nicknamed ‘Ooloo' long before she set foot in India, where
Ooloo
means ‘owl', and is widely used as a term of abuse — ‘You son of an owl!' However, ‘Ooloo' stuck and a more inappropriate
name for the witty, amusing, beautiful (she was like the young Lauren Bacall) and attractive wife of A. I. R. Riley you couldn't imagine. We both loved her dearly — as did almost everyone she knew, and we saw a lot of her, since she and Alan lived in one of the Club Quarters. Dear Ooloo! — how you used to make me laugh. You had a lot to do with making my stay in Delhi, and the Horse Show in particular, a memorable time in my life.

I have, as I have said before, never had any use for horses. I took a dislike to them from an early age, and since I am also no gambler, race meetings have never been my cup of tea. I have attended a good many, but only because I have been taken by some friend whose company I enjoy, and who seems to think he is doing me a good turn by taking me to see a sport that he is sure I must enjoy as much as he does. And because I have lacked the nerve to blot my social copybook by admitting that race meetings leave me cold — except (there is always an exception) when I happen to be personally acquainted with at least half of the amateur jockeys, and know the rest, together with most of my fellow race-goers, by sight. Only then does the whole jamboree become entertaining to me. Which is why I actually enjoyed the Delhi races.

To give an example of their unique entertainment value, there was the occasion when a friend of ours, one McCandlass (better known as ‘Loopy Mac'), whose enthusiasm for riding was not matched by his skill, when competing in an owner-riders race sponsored by the business community, came tearing into view on the first lap and, to wild cheering from his supporters, a full two and a half lengths ahead of the field. Unfortunately there was a narrow side track ahead of him — possibly for the benefit of any rider who had lost a stirrup or otherwise come to grief and wished to retire from the race. But since his horse was in fact bolting, and not even faintly under control, it made straight for the side track and tore off down it — followed by the entire field, who either thought this was the correct way round, or whose horses had also got the bit between their teeth and intended to forge ahead or else … The whole lot, following Mac's lead, shot off the course and disappeared with the speed of diving ducks into a fairly dense patch of wooded land, which at that time bordered one side of the course. After lengthy but unknown adventures, they eventually emerged, looking exceedingly sheepish, wreathed in strands of creeper and assorted greenery and brushing twigs and bits of bark out of their hair.

There was also a more dramatic occasion when one of the amateur jockeys parted with his mount a mere yard or two from the winning post, and crashed to earth among a forest of hooves. At which point a girl rose like a rocketing pheasant from her seat in the stand, and, shrieking his name over and over again, fled down the aisle and across the grass, scrambled over the rails, and, still screaming, flung herself down on his recumbent form yelling, ‘Speak to me, Johnny!
Speak to me!
' Whereupon his wife broke the deathly silence that had fallen upon the stands by tutting impatiently and remarking in a carrying voice: ‘Silly bitch! He'll never forgive her for this.' I gather she had got used to her husband's frequent straying and come to terms with it.

You didn't get those sort of dramas included in the price of the tickets during Ascot week or Newmarket. The only tragicomedy of that exciting Horse Show Week was provided by the ‘ballgown' that Aunt Bee had selected for me much earlier and posted weeks ago to mother, c/o the Imperial Delhi Gymkhana Club.

It had been waiting for us in the Secretary's office, and proved to be a dazzling confection in heavy white
crěpe de Chine
, lavishly embroidered with glimmering silver beads, each one shaped like a daisy and attached to the material by a small central bead. It really was the prettiest thing, and did credit to Aunt Bee's taste; for, frankly, I had been dreading the arrival of some flouncy thing in pale pink with a high neck, puffed sleeves and frills in all the wrong places, ‘suitable for a young girl'. I regretted that it wasn't longer, for hems, after a decade of twenties knee-length-or-above fashions, were at long last beginning to edge downward, which was good news for girls like myself whose legs were far from shapely. I had rather hoped that the London shops would by now have taken the plunge and opted for long skirts, even though the Raj had not yet got around to them. I also regretted (not for the first time) that I wasn't a lot slimmer, for those shimmering daisy-heads (I have one or two of them to this day) did tend to make me look slightly like a stranded salmon. Still, it was not only an attractive garment, but one that was definitely not
darzi
-made, and I set off for the Viceregal Ball feeling definitely pleased with myself.