The Girl from Cobb Street (10 page)

They were both guilty of bad faith, she thought, but they were also man and wife and, whatever evils had passed between them, they must try to make some kind of life together. It was their only hope.

‘Gerald,’ she said gently, ‘we’ve both been guilty of deception.’ She felt his sharp glance but said nothing of what she suspected. There was little point in unearthing what should stay buried. ‘Perhaps we’ve been foolish in rushing into marriage but—’

‘There’s no perhaps about it.’ His anger was back.

She tried again, keeping her voice as level as she could. ‘Nevertheless, we are married and must make the best of it. So can we not try to put this behind us?’

It was no use. Her appeal vanished into the thick air that crowded in on them. His armour remained undented. When he rose from the chair, it was to stand looking down at her, his face a study of cynicism.

‘You
are
naïve aren’t you? My judgement was right the first time. As you helpfully point out, we’re shackled together, and there’s precious little we can do about it. But to ask me to put it behind me—how can you even think it? Don’t you understand, you’ve ruined my life. Now tell me, how am I to forget that?’

He turned on his heels and marched towards the spare bedroom. His bedroom now, she realised with a shock. The door slammed behind him while she sat motionless, anchored to the one spot. In a few minutes, though, he reemerged, this time fully dressed.

Seeing her startled face, he said brusquely, ‘I can’t stay here. I’m going out.’

‘But it’s eleven o’clock at night.’

He gave an irritated flick of his head and turned for the front door without another word. She heard his footsteps on the veranda, then the sound of the shabby bicycle being jumped down the steps. The image of Jocelyn Forester came to mind. It was difficult to imagine Gerald storming his Colonel’s house at this late hour but perhaps the lovers had their own arrangement. And they were lovers, she was sure of that now. She had not been wrong about the perfume. Gerald had spoken of ruined plans and Jocelyn was part of them, while she was not.

She remained where she was for a very long while, trying to think her way through the morass. Whatever hopes he’d nursed, Gerald had married her and not Jocelyn. Married her but not wanted her. Was she to be a wife in name only then, to smile and simper to the world, pretending that all was well? She could not bear to think it. A wave of weariness hit and she pulled back the sheet and climbed into bed. Her head found the pillow and she closed her eyes, listening hard for the song of the cicadas and hoping they might soothe her to sleep. But tonight there was no chance of that. Their scratchy chorus was soon overpowered, lost to the sound of the jackals that called in the dark.

When she woke to bright sunlight, she was heavy eyed. It had been hours before she’d managed finally to sleep. After years of fiercely guarding her heart, she had opened it to Gerald. But even as she’d bathed in that happiness, she’d feared it was too good to be true. And she’d been right. From the moment they’d met again in Bombay, she’d felt him another man to the one she’d known, but she’d refused to think that he did not love her. Now it was out in the open. He had married her not from love but because the honour of the regiment demanded it. Last night she had barely been able to understand, but today the truth was scarred onto her mind.

It seemed she knew nothing of the man she had married, had not understood at all the passions that drove him. Passions that were strong enough to make him adopt another man’s name. She guessed it was from shame, shame for his origins. It was an impulse she recognised: to adopt a new identity, to shrug off an earlier hated life. Hadn’t she felt a similar desire every time the girls at Bridges had derided her for having been a servant, every time the servants at Miss Maddox’s had taunted her for having come from Eden House? But that was where the similarities ended. His mortification had led him to cut every tie and that was something she couldn’t understand. To belong to a family, to know the man and woman who had given you life, had been her dearest wish for as long as she could remember.

She was consumed with anger, not for Gerald but for herself. Anger at her own stupidity. He had called her naïve but she was beyond naïve. In the weeks before she’d left England, she had written constantly and when she’d received no answer, had thought her letters could not have reached him. She wondered now if they were hidden in the depths of his desk or had been straight away torn into fragments. In desperation, she’d sent the telegram but had no idea it would be read by anyone other than Gerald, no idea that it would lead to a passage on
The Viceroy of India
and a wedding at St John’s. It was all so unbearably stupid. How could she ever have thought that he truly loved her, let alone wanted to marry, a girl who worked behind a shop counter? And if it was impossible to imagine that Gerald could ever have loved her, charming, successful, well-connected Gerald, how much less possible was it to imagine the same of Jack Minns. If this were indeed her husband, then he was as burdened as she by the past. Jack Minns should have married for advantage; he should have made his family’s sacrifice count.

Sounds of shuffling reached her from outside. She staggered to her feet and slipped a wrapper over the flimsy nightdress. Peering through the plaited blind, she saw an elderly Indian sitting cross-legged on a small rug, which he’d spread across the width of the veranda. Half a dozen needles were stuck in his turban, each a different size and sporting a different colour thread. Head bent, he was busy looping a spool of cotton through an ancient sewing machine. Jocelyn had been as good as her word and this was the
durzi
she’d spoken of.

Daisy did not want to think of her, the English rose, the Colonel’s daughter, an ample reward for any sacrifice. Jocelyn Forester had been Gerald’s intended bride, it was clear, and everyone on the station knew it. No wonder the women at the Club had expressed surprise at the marriage he’d made so unexpectedly.

Still in her dressing gown, she drifted into the sitting room and sat herself down at the breakfast table. She poured herself a cup of tea from the pot Rajiv had left, but had managed only a few sips before there was a loud crash from the veranda immediately outside. A bicycle had been sent sprawling across its wooden planks.

‘Hallo there!’

It was the girl herself, bright and shining, her head craned around the door and a wide smile on her face. Surely no one could be that deceptive, but Gerald’s bed had not been slept in and if he hadn’t spent the night with her, where had he spent it? There was no time to think poisonous thoughts, though, for Jocelyn was already bouncing into the room.

‘I’m sorry, Daisy. Did I get you out of bed?’

She murmured something about having had a bad night, and the girl nodded sympathetically. ‘I can come back another time if you prefer. The
durzi
too. I’ll leave these catalogues with you.’

‘No, please stay.’ The words came out before Daisy could stop them. Strangely she found she wanted the girl’s company this morning but had no idea why. Perhaps it was a perverse wish to pick at a sore place or perhaps it was just that she was lonely and Jocelyn’s was a friendly face. ‘Rajiv has laid out some breakfast.’

‘Wonderful! I can always eat a second
chota hazri.
And while we’re eating, we can look through these.’ She spilled the contents of a large canvas bag onto the table. ‘I’ve brought the
Army and Navy
catalogue and the
Whiteaway and Laidlaw.
There’s even a couple of
Vogues
—they belonged to my cousin who stayed with us over the winter. Julia is a walking fashion plate!’

In between mouthfuls of mango, they flicked through the pages of glossy images, immersing themselves in the serious business of choosing two or three styles suitable to give to the
durzi
. They shared a few grimaces for the more out-dated fashions, and a few chuckles at the most ludicrous of the outfits, and despite Daisy’s best efforts to remain distant, she found herself warming to her visitor. Eventually several dresses were agreed upon and given mutual approval.

‘This one is interesting.’ Jocelyn pursed her lips. ‘It may look like a shift but it should make up well in very light cotton and it will be ideal. Until you go to Simla, that is.’

Daisy felt herself being scrutinised and knew that her intention to stay in Jasirapur had already been relayed. Gerald was the only one who could have passed on that small nugget and she felt her mouth tighten at the thought. For a while, she’d forgotten what must lie between this girl and her husband.

‘I’m not going to Simla—but no doubt you already know that.’ Her voice was devoid of any warmth and Jocelyn flushed at her tone.

‘I had heard,’ she admitted, ‘but I was hoping you would reconsider.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ and she got up abruptly to thrust the magazines into a rough pile.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,’ Jocelyn said awkwardly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she reached for Daisy’s hand. ‘I don’t want to intrude, Daisy—it’s your decision, obviously—but staying here is not the best idea. Really, it isn’t.
I
lived through the summer in Jasirapur one year. Ma wasn’t well enough to travel and by the time she felt better, it wasn’t worth making the journey. But it was hell, I can tell you. You may be coping with the heat at the moment but after weeks and weeks of feeling as though you’re being fried alive, you can start to feel ill. At the very least, you’ll feel utterly miserable.’

‘I know it won’t be comfortable, but Gerald and I are only just married and my place is beside my husband.’ For the first time in her life, she felt a hypocrite. Watching Jocelyn very carefully for her response, she also felt devious. Was she hoping to beard the girl with the reality of Gerald’s marriage or simply confirm her suspicion that they were something more than friends?

But Jocelyn’s face showed only understanding. ‘It must be awful to be separated so soon after your wedding, I can see that. I would hate it too. But the menfolk usually manage to come up for a few days once or twice, so it might not be as bad as you fear. If you change your mind, let my mother know. We’re not leaving for two days and she’ll rustle up a ticket for you in no time.’

‘Thank you, I’ll remember.’ The girl’s seeming innocence confused Daisy and in the face of such evident goodwill, it was difficult to maintain her coldness. ‘Tell me, does the
durzi
take my measurements, or does he just guess at them?’

Jocelyn giggled. ‘He has a tape measure which he waves around, while rigidly averting his eyes. I’ll go and get him. Have you given him the materials?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. I overslept and I’m in a complete muddle.’

‘Not to worry,’ and Jocelyn was out of the front door and calling to the
durzi.

Thirty minutes later the man had his measurements, together with instructions as to which picture went with which material.

‘You’ll look a star!’ Jocelyn exclaimed, lovingly smoothing first one bolt of cloth and then another. ‘You’ve chosen beautiful materials. Where did you get them?’

‘Anish Rana took me to the bazaar and introduced me to one of the stallholders. His name was Sanjay, but I don’t remember the name of the shop.’

Jocelyn was looking thoughtful. ‘I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but you shouldn’t make too much of a friend of Anish.’

Daisy thought she knew what was coming, but she still asked, ‘Why not?’

‘He’s an Indian.’

‘But he’s also an officer with the regiment.’

‘I know but there are clear demarcations. It’s fine to socialise with him on regimental occasions but otherwise you should avoid being too much in his company.’ A swift look at her hostess’s face and she was constrained to add, ‘It’s wise to conform, my dear.’

Daisy knew it was pointless to protest. The arcane rules by which the army lived were as illogical as they were baffling.

‘Is there anything else I should know—apart from not making friends with Indians?’ She tried to keep her voice calm but she couldn’t prevent a sharpness creeping in. Jocelyn looked at her a little warily.

‘If you’ve never had servants before …’ she began, and then tailed off, evidently uncomfortable. Daisy smiled encouragingly at her. ‘If you’re not used to servants, Daisy, you shouldn’t be frightened of them. Make sure that Rajiv—it is Rajiv, isn’t it—make sure that he boils all your water and washes the vegetables in
pinki pani.
And your
mali
, whoever he is, should be told to get on with the job. The garden is in a desperate state.’

‘You’re right. The garden is hideous but we don’t have a gardener.’

‘No
mali
? How extraordinary!’

She allowed Jocelyn to exclaim for a while and then asked, ‘Can you tell me what a
jemader
is?’ She might as well learn as much as she could.

‘He’s the chap who washes the floors and cleans the bathrooms. I suppose you don’t have one of those either.’