Joyce's War (25 page)

Mary sent me a copy of Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
for my birthday with a nice cheerful red leather cover. And a calendar, a little premature but not so much, with a picture of Tagore on the cover and these lovely words: ‘Let your life lightly dance on the edges of time; like dew on the tip of a leaf’. Well it would be nice, if one could manage it – somehow – but it isn’t so easy.

Letters have been arriving at long last, including one from Father saying Mother is in hospital, having had an operation. And I didn’t know. Well it can’t be helped of course, but I always seem to be away on such occasions, when I might have been of help. I’m hoping that the enforced rest will cure her legs – it should, if anything does. There have been three or four from Bob too, explaining that at least two letters will not arrive. Rather a blow, after all the labour and time, and I could have done with them moreover. He hopes to get leave during January. So do I. Darjeeling perhaps, if it can be managed. How many months will that be, almost six, surely half a year? What a waste!

Two books from Mali and Phyllis. Steinbeck’s latest
The Moon is Down
and
A Dialogue on Modern Poetry,
by Ruth Bailey, which should prove interesting. They are good to me. But I must now get into uniform and be ready for first lunch.
I’ve been reading Virginia Woolf’s last book,
Between the Acts
.
I always liked her style – so fluid and light, merely touching the edge of things as though it were too painful to penetrate deeper. I can imagine that she might end up as she did, not knowing what to make of the unending tangle of her life. It is disturbing in a way too – one sees so much of one’s self in her characters – their minds, their thoughts – trailing on and on, never getting anywhere.

December 14th 1942

A day off and such a lovely, lovely morning. How really perfect these days are in December here. I must go out and do some solid thinking and shopping for Xmas. My money is all in a glorious muddle again – the army has now decided to take out some advance of pay, which I drew in Cairo at the beginning of 1941! Well, I hope they know what they are about, for certainly I do not. Bob’s letters are coming through in about eight days now, which is better. He still talks of leave in January and I’ve cabled to find out the approximate date of his arrival so that I can ask for leave at the proper time: I don’t want to muddle things.

It’s the mess dance on the 22nd and I believe the MOs are giving us a cocktail party on the 29th. So what with Xmas dinner and all the festivities in the wards, we’ll be occupied enough.

What a terrific surprise two nights ago. I came over to the mess after duty at 8pm and found two Christmas cakes awaiting me. One from home, which Father had asked Mrs Clements to make as Mother is in hospital – and one from Deanie: lovely delicious home-made cakes. How we will enjoy them – here in a land where all cakes are bought. The trees that look like replicas of a Japanese watercolour are stirring lightly in the breeze, just disturbing the mirror-like surface of the lake. I shall miss this lovely outlook if I am ever transferred to the BMH and I have an awful feeling that perhaps I shall be when I return from leave.

I have a card from Gwen’s husband Ronald saying, ‘Ronald Gareth was born November 25th’. How thrilled they will be and I am so pleased for them. Gareth is such a lovely name.

December 20th 1942

Nothing much to report. The viceroy’s lady – after four attempts – eventually paid us a visit a few mornings when I was alone as Harris had gone off in an ambulance train. The boys were very good and the ward looked rather nice although it probably shouldn’t have. I had to curtsey and all that on being introduced and was told afterwards that I was ‘observed’ from the top balcony, which thankfully I was unaware of at the time, as I am sure I should have giggled or something equally monstrous.

Then Mary turned up – quite suddenly. She has been here about three days but left early this morning with Goodridge, of all people, and some others, plus several Indian VADs for Bamilla (district of Calcutta) to form part of a new IGH, the 92nd. It was nice to see her and she is just the same Mary.

The mess dance is the day after tomorrow and after that, a cocktail party in the MOs’ mess. Then Xmas before we recover from that. But all I really feel interested in is leave – which, I hope, will be soon.

Christmas Day 1942

Eleven o’clock and the end of the day, thank goodness. We decorated the wards as best we could with our ‘newspaper funds’ and D2 looked quite festive, with streamers and four long tables down the centre of the ward, and lots of flowers and leaves. The dinner was quite good too, with beer and cigarettes all round. Odd people drifted in and out all day, in the usual fashion. Tea followed almost on top of lunch and supper followed tea. When we left at 8pm, everyone looked completely overfed and ready to sleep. A terrible post-Christmas dinner depression always sets in, when it’s all over and one is glad to escape. We thought of bed but for some reason or other the MOs’ mess decided to ask us over for drinks and to dance there afterwards. As usual it was a complete washout and I have escaped up here to write some letters and this, unnoticed I hope, although I don’t much care.

There was quite a raid last night – Christmas Eve – a bomb dropped on the city among the troops and 20 were seriously wounded and died. So last night the BMH was operating all night. There have been raids over Calcutta in the past five or six nights but last night was much the worst. This building shook with the vibration so it must have been very near. I suppose they’ll continue while there is a moon, which is now full.

December 28th 1942

Off this morning: a perfect morning, cool and sunny, with birds chattering and the merest murmur among the leaves on the trees at the lakeside. I went for a walk yesterday morning – solitary – my first since I came to Calcutta, away, beyond and behind the hospital. Through numerous small native villages where the children popped out wide eyed to watch me pass: wattle and daub huts with straw-covered roofs by the roadside or among the palm groves; nursery gardens full of cosmos and marigolds strangely bright and fresh and clean to be springing out of the dust and dirt. One small boy came up to me and asked, ‘What time is it please?’ and I was delighted to be able to tell him it was quarter to three. He repeated it carefully and solemnly and thanked me and departed; quite a hero among his compeers I fancy. Then a young man stopped and asked me if I was looking for any particular house and I was sorry to have to tell him, ‘No’ and that I was ‘just walking’. He said, ‘Just walking’ after me and I said, ‘Yes, just walking’ and we laughed together and went our ways. They were all sitting cross-legged in the sun on the roadside or on the grass under the palms. I envied them their careless uncomplicated days and the ease with which they walked barefoot while I, with two large blisters on my heels, laboured on my homeward way. It was pleasant to get away and it reminded me of my many solitary walks in
Cymru fy
,
when I felt free and envied no one, swinging along some narrow country lane and within sight of my beloved hills. No hills here – as flat as your hand and dusty and dirty if you like to look at it that way, but it has some appeal and I shall remember India pleasantly enough when I am far away.

It is difficult to get taxis now, I believe, although I haven’t been in town for a week or so. Firpo’s was closed on Sunday night because they literally had nothing left to sell. And at the Grand, where amid the panic of the recent raids, all the bearers have left, I believe one has to line up with a knife and fork and spoon, like the troops, and forage for oneself in the kitchen.

Judi, my bearer, tells me that he is going ‘after fifteen days’ because his wife and child ‘both cry’ when the raids come. I am sorry he is going; he has looked after me so well. I never have to ask him to do anything – he just ‘knows’ beforehand. I don’t blame him for going for I am sure there is little, if any, provision for their protection if things did get bad. I am sure they won’t, but they don’t know and why should they wait to see. After all they are perceived to be like children in the minds of the army officials and aren’t expected to act differently!

I’ve just been lecturing some of the boys in the ward for talking nonsense about India and the Indians. To hear some of them talk one would imagine that they were the ones who were ‘uneducated’ and ‘uncivilised’ as they call the Indians. It causes such bad feeling and it’s only lack of thought. One boy told me that there was no part of India which was worth looking at and he’s been to Darjeeling and the Himalayas. Probably, he’s never moved out of his home village before this war, and when he does go home, no doubt he’ll complain bitterly about the English weather and how marvellous India was. How contrary human beings are – never, on principle, content with their little lot.

It’s our Christmas dinner tonight but there is nothing exciting about that when you’ve dished up Christmas dinner for 65 patients a few days before. The novelty of duck and Christmas pudding has greatly worn off.

I am getting restless about my leave and I think if I hear nothing further before, I shall ask for it from about the 6th or 7th January. I am so afraid I shall be sent to some remote spot beforehand.

January 1943

Benares – Agra – Darjeeling – Calcutta Bombay – ambulance trains

On leave. Benares. Agra. Clarke’s Hotel

After tossing around various ideas about how to spend the first two weeks of my leave, I decided almost at the last minute to take the train for Agra,
63
and to break my journey at Benares.

I managed to get a single compartment all to myself and had a comfortable night after boarding the train at Howrah at 7.20pm (the Punjab Mail). Nothing very interesting en route but the country was pleasant enough with rice and mustard fields and scattered villages and odd towns. I arrived at Benares at around 4pm and got myself a room at Clarke’s hotel. It was pleasant there in the cantonment, a long low whitewashed building with wide verandas overhung with bougainvilleas. The steps were a mass of chrysanthemums in pots and the garden colourful and gay. That afternoon I took a taxi and a guide and set off to see the sights. First the ‘Mother India’ Temple opened by Gandhi some years ago: not very interesting or beautiful. The floor was almost entirely taken up with a huge map of India in marble bas relief. Then, the town: just a succession of bazaars and stalls, straggling and dirty. The ‘Golden Temple’ in which every Hindu is supposed to worship once in his life is apparently very sacred but it is also very tawdry and dirty. Through a hole in the wall we saw the worshippers offering flower petals, leaves and holy water from the Ganges to the god Shiva. The floor was wet and slippery and I’m afraid I was more concerned about not sitting down on it, than able to give my mind to what I could see. Beyond was the temple of the sacred bull Nina but the whole place smelt so terribly that I touched as gracefully and rapidly as I decently could. I would think that they kept a whole herd of bulls and cows somewhere behind the scenes.

I bought some brass at the brass market where they had much that was fine and lovely. And next morning I went to see them weaving the lovely brocades. Children (paid five chips a month!) turned the large shuttles in and out as to the manner born. The brocade is sold in the shops for 30 chips a yard and sometimes much more. It all seemed wrong to think that those who did the actual work received so little. I bought a few pieces for shoes. The trip down the river was really pleasant and most interesting: Mother Ganges, where every Hindu must wash once in his life to become holy. Herein they wash their clothes, themselves and their brass pots; herein too they throw their dead infants (up to two years), the ashes of criminals and their own ashes. The river front is high and much built upon in terraces. Here the Maharajah of this and that builds his house and installs his relations or perhaps his superfluous wives. In between, rise the spires and domes and minarets of other days. The burning Ghats are on the river bank where the nearest relative sets the funeral pyre alight. The ashes are then consigned to Mother Ganges and go on to reach the sea, ‘that gathers all things unto her’.