India Dark (18 page)

The morning after opening night, Lionel sat with the newspaper spread out across his knees. I picked at my breakfast. I didn't really like the sort of food they served us. The fruit made my mouth sting and there were bits of old fish in our breakfast rice.

‘It ain't going to be a good season,' said Lionel.

I swear, that lumpy boy is simply the Prince of Gloom.

‘Since that Alipore bombing, people aren't keen to come out at night. Didn't you notice? Even the
babu
s and nabobs and boxwallahs, all those rich Indians, the ones who would have come ordinarily, even they stayed away.'

‘A bombing!' exclaimed Poesy.

‘Didn't you know?' said Lionel. ‘Two ladies had a bomb thrown into their carriage and they were both blown to smithereens.'

‘They didn't mean to kill the women,' interrupted Charlie. ‘They were trying to blow up a judge or someone important.'

‘Not very good shots, were they?' said Lionel, snickering.

Awful boy. How could he snicker about people dying!

‘Would you please explain what you are talking about!' I said, feeling rather cross.

‘The natives blew up two English women last year,' said Lionel, rather full of himself. ‘The bombers are on trial right now, right here in Calcutta. They've already hanged one of them and the other shot himself rather than get caught. They've got a third one, this Ghosh fellow, he's in prison and they want to hang him too. He's a right stirrer.'

I must have looked a little confused because Charlie said, ‘They want independence.'

‘Independence from what?'

‘Crikey, Tilly, don't you know anything!' said Lionel. ‘Britain, of course.'

I would have rather liked to slap him. Instead I squashed a piece of fruit onto my plate and let him prattle. ‘They say this Ghosh is being painted as a freedom fighter or something ridiculous like that.'

He shook out the newspaper. ‘Listen, this is what the
babu
lawyer said: “Long after he is dead and gone, his words will be echoed and re-echoed, not only in India but across distant seas and lands. Therefore, I say that the man in his position is not only standing before the bar of this court, but before the bar of the High Court of History.” What a lot of twaddle. High Court of History!'

Charlie looked uncomfortable, pushed his chair away from the table and left the room.

I took the paper from Lionel and read and reread the article about the nationalists, trying to understand it. Then my eye drifted down the page to the theatre section and I felt an electric shock. There was a review of the Lilliputians, a rather mixed one, I might add. But it was the interview with the Butcher on the same page that made my flesh creep. He talked about how ‘closely guarded' he kept us ‘to make sure we stayed ordinary, quiet, well-behaved kiddies'.

Though I snorted at the Butcher talking about us as if we were babies, it was when the reporter commented that the lyrics of our songs were rather suggestive that I really sat up. I could almost hear the Butcher's voice as I read his remarks. He claimed we had no idea what the words meant. I thought of Iris and how the reviewers in Penang had said she was quite the coquette when she sang ‘Teach me how to love'. We knew exactly what we were doing, exactly what those songs meant. If he thought we were stupid little kiddies, he didn't have the measure of any of us.

Later, as we left the hotel, the streets seemed ominously quiet. We rode through the rising heat to the theatre for morning rehearsals. As I walked past the Butcher and onto the stage I heard him swear, ‘Damn this Swadeshi business.' As if that was the only reason things were turning sour.

‘What's Swadeshi?' asked Poesy. I swear that child drifts around in a cloud of not-seeing.

‘They're boycotting British goods,' I told her. ‘Anything British, for that matter. They think if none of the Indians buy British things or come and see our shows, that it will drive the Britishers out of the country. Daft, if you ask me.'

‘But we're not really British,' said Poesy. ‘Maybe we should make sure everyone knows we're Australian.'

‘We are loyal citizens of the British Empire,' said Lionel.

‘Well, the loyal citizens of the British Empire won't be staying here in Bengal much longer,' I said. ‘It said in the paper that they're going to move the government to New Delhi. We'll have no audiences while the Indians are marching up and down the streets, protesting. I don't like it one little bit.'

‘You've been swotting up on the newspapers then, have you?' said Lionel, condescending prig.

‘Is it because of this Swadeshi business that we're not getting many people in the audience?' asked Poesy.

I hadn't noticed the Butcher sneak up behind us. ‘No,' he barked. ‘It's because you lot aren't working hard enough. You're like a line of bloody limp rags.'

‘That's not true,' I said. ‘You know that's not true.' It felt good to talk back. It was the first time I'd tried it and it was simply wonderful.

The Butcher looked at me blankly. ‘Mind your tongue, Tilly,' was all he said. I was surprised he didn't box my ears. I almost wished he had. I knew Mr Milligan was watching from backstage. There was plenty going on for Mr Milligan to worry about.

That night, Iris Usher looked positively peaky when she stepped out of the changing rooms. You could see sweat glistening on her neck and brow, no matter how much powder she'd dabbed on it to hide the fact that she was feverish again, just as in Georgetown. She had too much rouge on and her eye make-up was a little smudged. I could see her trembling as she reached down to buckle her shoe.

By the time Mr Arthur came into the dressing room for the first call, Iris could barely stand. He knew exactly what was wrong. He even asked her if she was all right and this time, unlike the last, she opened her little mouth and said, ‘I don't think I can go on. I feel too shaky.'

I felt my heart make a tiny jump. It should have been my moment. I could sing Iris's role. The Butcher knew I could. But he knelt down in front of Iris and gazed into her face, feigning concern. ‘A trooper like you doesn't throw in the towel, does she?'

‘I feel all wobbly, Mr Arthur,' she said.

‘Do you want Tilly to sing your part?'

It was a terrible thing to ask. He knew perfectly well it would make Iris steel herself. I willed her to crumple and watched as her face grew pinched with worry. Then she took a deep breath.

‘I suppose I could try,' she said, her eyes flitting in my direction and then back to the Butcher.

‘Good girl,' he said. ‘That's the spirit.'

Iris struggled through every song and had barely finished singing, ‘The lazy town is dreaming' when she stepped into the wings and her knees buckled under her. She simply folded up like a rag doll. Mr Milligan abandoned his post in the lighting booth and scooped her into his arms. As soon as they'd stripped off her costume and wrapped her in a dressing gown, she was bundled into a gharry with Miss Thrupp and taken back to the hotel.

I gathered up her damp costume from the floor and struggled into it, even though it really was too small for me.

‘Quick, help me fasten the stays,' I said to Myrtle. ‘If we hurry, I'll be able to sing “When the Little Pigs Begin to Fly” before anyone notices a lapse.'

Myrtle had just finished lacing up my costume when the Butcher dragged Poesy into the dressing room.

‘Get out of that costume, Tilly,' he said. ‘Poesy will sing Winifred for the rest of the show.'

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘Poesy! You can't be serious.

I can sing Winifred far better than Poesy.'

‘They've already seen you sing Carmenita. They'll recognise you instantly. Poesy has only been in the chorus. And look at you, you great lump of a girl, you're straining the seams. You can't possibly wear that costume. Get out of that dress this instant and give it to Poesy.'

He flicked his ugly hands at Myrtle and pushed Poesy towards me.

‘Strip her,' he barked. ‘Poesy, you have three minutes to get back on stage.'

I choked down my rage as Myrtle and Poesy meekly began unlacing the stays on the costume. I was numb with humiliation. To be upstaged by Poesy Swift, by a girl who was only in the troupe because I'd encouraged her, was simply too awful. If he'd let me go on as Winifred from the start, everything would have been all right. The Butcher, the Butcher, the Butcher.

We sat down for supper after midnight but I couldn't touch a bite. I went up to my room instead and wrote a letter to my mother. It was the very first time I'd written to her and I told her everything that had happened to Ruby and Tempe and said the tour was a terrible flop. She'd be sorry to lose all the shillings the Percivals owed her but she simply had to send for me. When I'd finished, I realised I didn't have a stamp, nor a single coin with which to buy one.

The next morning, I knocked on Miss Thrupp's door to hand her the letter, knowing that it might never reach its destination if the Butcher saw it first.

‘What is it, Matilda?' she asked.

I could hear her baby mewling in the background and she turned away from me to speak to the Indian ayah who had been hired to care for him. On the spur of the moment, I changed my plan.

‘I only wondered if you could advance me a rupee, against my pocket money.'

She had taken little Timmy from the ayah and was jigging the poor squalling creature up and down on her hip. ‘It's because it's that time of the month,' I said. ‘And I have women's troubles. I don't like to bother Mr Arthur with the details, but the
dhobi
hasn't come back with the laundry. If I had a few
pice
to tip the housemaid, she said she'd hurry him along.'

It wasn't a very good lie and I was half supposing she'd see through it, but Timmy started screaming so loudly that I think he deafened her common sense. She fumbled for the little purse she wore at her waist and handed me a whole rupee without any further argument.

It was still early and there was no one about in the lobby. The hotel had a drowsy feel to it. Even the concierge looked more asleep than awake. I wasn't sure I wanted to trust him with my letter. As I was agonising over whether to brave asking him to sell me a stamp, I noticed Charlie Byrne sneaking through a doorway. I nearly jumped out of my skin with surprise. Charlie raised a finger to his lips.

It wasn't the simple fact that he was about so early that startled me. It was what he was wearing. He was dressed like a low-caste boy, a street-sweeper, with a raggedy piece of fabric tied at his waist, an old, loosely woven shirt and a strip of cloth wound around his head.

‘Charlie!' I mouthed, without saying the word aloud.

He eyed the concierge warily and then crooked his finger at me.

‘Don't tell anyone, Tilly, please,' he whispered.

‘My lips are sealed, if you'll do me one little favour.'

I held up my envelope and then pressed the rupee into his hand.

‘Post it,' I said.

He grinned, took my letter and then slipped out the side doorway again, into the morning streets of Calcutta.

34

WAYS OF SEEING

Poesy Swift

I lay under a tree in the Maidan as tiny yellow and orange petals fell on my face. Charlie lay beside me, and we watched as the Lilliputians picnicked on the grass. The warmth of a lazy afternoon made me feel far away from my body. I listened to the sounds of bells and people's voices speaking words I couldn't understand. Somewhere a man was singing, but it was more like a wail, not a song, at least not one I had ever heard before. I didn't have a name for his song, or for anything in the park. Everything was familiar yet strange – the trees, the birds, the flowers, even the people. It was as if I would need a whole new language to describe India, not just words.

‘What are those birds called?' I asked Charlie. ‘Those blue-black ones that are everywhere and the bigger, raggedy ones that circle over the zoo and the gardens. And the tiny little squirrels – they must be Indian squirrels. They don't look anything like Squirrel Nutkin in the story. I thought squirrels were very English animals.'

‘Maybe those birds are vultures,' said Charlie. ‘There are so many vultures in India that the Parsees put their dead on towers and then the vultures eat them. It only takes minutes. But I don't think there are many Parsees in Calcutta. When we get to Bombay, we can go and see one of their towers.'

I didn't tell him this made me feel squeamish. I simply stared at him.

‘You don't believe me?'

‘Of course I believe you,' I said.

‘It's true, you know. I've learned a lot about India. They have real magicians here, not just ones that do card tricks, but ones who do real magic. Snake charmers and snake jugglers and avatars and
sadhu
s. I'm going to find one, a genuine fakir, who can show me how to grow a mango tree in an instant and conjure a rope that I can climb until I disappear, and get him to teach me everything he knows. You wait and see. By the time we leave India, I'll be a sorcerer, not simply a boy magician.'

‘I heard Mrs Besant talk about seeing that rope trick here in India. She said the fakirs were mesmerists. I'm sure they'd do a better job of it than Tilly but I suppose I'll never get a chance to find out. We can never see
anything
when we're only going back and forth from the theatre, and half the time that's in the dark.'

‘You only have to look around you. I've seen plenty. Yesterday, I saw a fakir sitting on a bed of nails. There are always fakirs in the marketplaces. They're amazing. I saw one that had kept his hand above his head for years and it was all shrivelled, like a little wizened stick.'

I screwed up my nose. I didn't like to even think of them, these people with all their bits missing or mangled.