The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham
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Название: The Girl From Cobb Street
Автор: Merryn Allingham
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Книги о войне
isbn: 9781474020275
isbn:
‘That will be the rats. We get the occasional bat too, but nothing to worry about. They won’t find a way in. They live between the thatch and the ceiling.’
‘But can’t you get rid of them?’
‘Not possible. Like I said, you’ll get used to it.’
When her face suggested this was unlikely, he shrugged his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’m sorry this isn’t the palace you might have been imagining. But you insisted on coming. And you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.’
‘No, Gerald.’ She walked up to him and took his hands in hers. ‘You’re right. The bungalow is delightful.’ After all what had she to compare it with, a bleak room shared with five others in the orphanage, a servant’s attic in Miss Maddox’s house or the miserable bedsit she had only just afforded in Paddington.
Without warning, Rajiv appeared once more at their side. He seemed to have his own peculiar form of locomotion, gliding out of nowhere, silently, effortlessly.
‘ Chota hazri , sahib.’
‘Yes, of course. Daisy, you must have some food and drink and then I think a long sleep.’
Tea and fruit had been laid out on the table, which stood at the far end of what she imagined was the main room of the bungalow. The fruit and the small sweet cakes that accompanied the tea were delicious and she ate with appetite. Gerald only picked at the food and was soon on the veranda giving instructions to his servant.
She wandered into the larger of the two bedrooms. It was another spacious room with a high ceiling, but once again the furniture was sparse: a three-drawer chest, a small chair, a narrow cupboard, which had seen better days, and two single iron bedsteads draped with mosquito nets crammed together in the middle of the room. Was that to avoid what might be tempted to crawl down the walls, she wondered.
Her husband came in while she was opening her suitcase. ‘Leave that to Rajiv. He’ll do it later. The bathroom’s next door if you want to wash.’
‘And the kitchen?’
‘In the compound, separate from the house—more hygienic that way and no cooking smells. But that’s Rajiv’s domain. You don’t go there. He sleeps in the room behind the kitchen.’
‘What if I want—’
‘Whatever you want, he’ll get it. Just ring the bell,’ and he pointed to a small brass bell on the chest. ‘There’s one in each room.’
‘Shall I wash first then?’ She felt shy. They were a married couple now and she need feel no shame at their intimacy. Ever since that night in her room, she had been reproaching herself, for try as she might she could not forget her mother’s fate. But she was not Lily Driscoll; she had a husband and she was free to love as she wished.
‘I’ll wash in the other bathroom,’ he said quickly. ‘You can have this one to yourself. I need to get moving.’
She blushed at the thoughts that had been going through her mind. ‘But where are you going?’
‘To camp, my dear. Work to do. I’ve wasted three days going to Bombay and back. I’ll be home for lunch and in the meantime, I’d advise you to get some sleep.’
‘Gerald …’ But he had kissed her on the cheek, and gone.
She sunk onto the bed and could not prevent the tears. It was because she was so tired, she told herself, but she knew that was not the whole story. Since the accident on board she had held on to the thought that Gerald loved her, that he wanted to share his world with her, come what may. But so far he’d shown little sign of wanting to share, little sign even of wanting her here. She was trying to stay positive but a deep hollow had settled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. What would he say, what would he do, when she confessed the truth to him?
She wandered back into the main room. Everything was quiet. The servant had retreated to the kitchen, busy with preparations for lunch, she imagined. In England she’d heard tales of families in India employing an army of servants but hadn’t really believed them. The way Gerald ran his household certainly disproved it, since Rajiv seemed responsible for everything. She might, perhaps, take on some of his duties, if she could do so without offending him. There seemed little else for her to do.
Whatever coolness there had been in the bungalow had disappeared and beads of sweat began their slow trickle down her back. She wandered out onto the veranda, hoping to find a breeze, however slight. There was none, but there was a garden full of birds. Familiar only with grey streets and grey plane trees, she stood entranced. Pigeons she could recognise, even the bright green parakeets from pictures she’d seen, but what were those golden creatures flashing through the tree tops, and the smaller birds which flew in and out of the long grass, striped in orange, black and white, the crests on their heads opening and shutting like small black fans? She stayed for as long as she could, but the heat eventually overwhelmed her and she drifted back into the main room of the bungalow.
Gerald would return soon, she hoped, but in the meantime she must find some distraction. A few books sprawled untidily across the desk and she picked one up and flicked idly through it, but it contained nothing to keep her interest. There must be something in the house that she could settle to read: a magazine perhaps, or a local newspaper or guide. She must learn as much as possible—about her new home, about the regiment, about India. She was painfully aware of the social gap that existed between her and the man she had married, and was determined not to let him down.
A small pile of papers had been disturbed by her riffling, but they appeared to be correspondence rather than any reading matter. As she turned away, the address of a letter she’d dislodged caught her eye. It was a road in the East End she knew well. Did Gerald have friends there? That would be surprising since it was a very poor district, but for a moment she was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. She scolded herself for her stupidity. Eden House had been a harsh, unhappy place, unworthy of even a jot of remembrance.
She caught a glimpse of the salutation. My dear Jack, it read. That was strange. Why would Gerald have a letter addressed to a Jack? It was none of her business. She should leave the letter where it was, but then she could not quite stop herself skimming to the bottom. The final words gave her a jolt, and for minutes she stood staring, making no sense of them. The letter was signed by a Joseph Minns but it was the line above the signature that mesmerised her. Your loving father. Why would Gerald have such a personal letter in his possession? She scanned the page again, casting adrift her scruples and reading it quickly. It was a plea for financial help. The elder Minns had sold his business some time ago. He had been a master tailor, it seemed, and the entire proceeds of the sale had gone to pay debts he had incurred. But it had not been enough and he was still in debt, forced to return to Spitalfields and live with his wife in a single rented room. He had done it all for Jack, done it so that his dear and only son could train to be the cavalryman he wanted to be. He hated to ask but could Jack please telegraph a little money to help his mother and father, since they had fallen into desperate straits.
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