The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ or not, her bridegroom managed his part in the brief ceremony with barely a hitch, needing only the occasional prompt from one or other of his friends, his responses slightly slurred but sufficient. In under ten minutes they were man and wife; a brief brush of lips on her cheek and Daisy was again outside in the molten day. The heat had grown even more intense and the air seemed to solidify around them. You could almost cut it with a sharp knife and step through the opening, she thought. The carriage was still waiting by the kerbside and with Gerald beside her, she took her seat once more, while their two witnesses waved them a relieved goodbye.

      ‘Victoria Station, jaldi!’

      Gerald gave the order, sitting stiffly beside her. She closed her eyes against the searing sun and against the unwelcome thoughts that came thick and fast. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, for it was as though she shared the carriage with a stranger. The last time she had seen Gerald, their final goodbye in the London dawn, he had been warm and tender. She’d bought a platform ticket for the Southampton train and stood watching as his dear face slowly disappeared into the distance. He hadn’t wanted to go, had promised that very soon they would be together again, together for life. She glanced across at him. A bead of sweat had dripped from his brow to the end of his nose but he made no attempt to wipe it away. Perhaps after a while you grew not to notice the discomfort. His skin was sallow and his fair hair seemed unusually dull—and surely he should not be bareheaded—but the same wide hazel eyes and full mouth told her he was the man who’d waved her goodbye at Waterloo. It was her heart that told her he was not.

      They came to a halt outside a large building of red brick. Gerald half-stumbled from the carriage and the driver helped her down. Her new husband strode impatiently ahead while she stood on the forecourt, still and bewildered. Seemingly every soul in the country was on the move. People streamed past, people of all shapes, sizes, genders, people walking or riding bicycles. A pushcart, laden with rolled rugs, bundles of washing and small children, narrowly missed colliding with her. She sidestepped quickly and followed Gerald towards the entrance of the Victoria Railway Terminus.

      It was a monumental building, three tiers of arches, endless small domes and turrets and, above all, a much larger dome in the shape of a crown. The clock, she saw, showed half past one. She had been in India for six hours, and she was consumed with loneliness. She wasn’t sure why since she’d been alone all her life. It was easier that way, easier not to get too close, not to lay oneself open to inevitable hurt. The one friendship she’d braved had been unequal and was now broken. Helena Maddox had been forced to close the London house to nurse a sick sister in Wales and her employer’s news had shattered Daisy’s world. Since then she’d pasted together the pieces of her life but the experience had left its dents and cracks, and these were added to older scars. To the heedless gaze of those she met daily, though, they remained invisible. And that was how she wanted it.

      But then Gerald had come into her life and broken down the barriers she had so carefully erected. When she’d first met him, she could hardly believe her good fortune; it had to be the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. He was kind and handsome and loving. He accepted her for the girl she was and seemed not in the least to care where she had come from. Gerald was to be her future and she would never be lonely again. The thought had brought tears to her eyes, and every night in the weeks after he’d left, she had daydreamed for hours in the tiny room she rented, imagining the home they would make together. Now all she felt was emptiness.

      She pulled herself up sharply. She must shake off this crushing sense of disappointment. There would be an explanation for Gerald’s conduct, she did not doubt, and in good time he would tell her. Meanwhile she must not fall into an abyss of self-pity, for India meant a new opportunity, a new life. She squared her shoulders and walked after her husband.

      In later years she preferred not to think of the journey to Jasirapur. She noticed that most other Europeans travelled with a personal servant who brought them tea or soda or hot water for washing. She had not washed or changed since early that morning and once settled in their compartment, there was no chance of doing so. The floors had been swabbed by a brutal disinfectant and her head soon ached from the smell, and from the noise of passengers filling the train: soldiers returning to their barracks and civilians travelling she knew not where.

      ‘Who are all these people?’ she asked, when they had sat in silence for the first half hour of the journey.

      ‘Officers in the ICS.’ Then, when he saw her confused expression, ‘The Indian Civil Service. They push pens around pieces of paper.’

      He had the soldier’s contempt for men who spent most of their lives within four walls. Grayson Harte was to be a District Officer in the ICS, she remembered, his first posting in India.

      ‘What does a District Officer do?’

      Gerald seemed surprised by her question. ‘He’s in charge of a district. Collects taxes, settles disputes, does the paperwork—that kind of thing.’

      Grayson had enthused over the role he was to take on but she wondered if he would enjoy the reality. She sensed he was a man who had come to India for adventure, and keeping files or adjudicating village quarrels did not seem quite to fit his personality. But what did she know of this immense country or of those who ran it?

      She gazed out of the window. It was early afternoon and a white incandescence hung over the endless plain. From time to time toy villages sprang into being, barely distinguishable from the earth itself except for the occasional temple or mosque. On either side of the train, great dun landscapes rolled themselves out like an endless carpet, sometimes flat and featureless, sometimes rocky with small, spiky bushes but always stretching to an unreachable horizon. It made her feel as small as the smallest of insects. Here and there, a few dusty trees broke through the monochrome beige and, more infrequently, a flaming patch of scarlet would flash into sight.

      ‘They are oleander trees, aren’t they?’ She pointed through the nearest window but Gerald was plainly uninterested in the landscape.

      They had never before had a problem with talking or at least Gerald had not. He had talked and she had listened. He’d kept her enthralled with stories of his childhood, his days at boarding school and most of all his tales of life in India. This new taciturnity was uncomfortable; it belonged to a different Gerald, belonged to a man she hardly recognised. But perhaps she was being too harsh. She should not be surprised they found themselves so awkward with each other. After all, theirs had been a whirlwind romance conducted in snatched moments against the backdrop of a great city. Now they were meeting for the first time in four months, and meeting in a very different world.

      She waited a while and when he said nothing, tried another tack. ‘Have you known Mr Rana long?’

      ‘Lieutenant.’

      ‘Lieutenant?’

      ‘Lieutenant Rana. He’s a fellow officer in the 7th.’

      ‘I didn’t know your regiment had Indian officers,’ she said humbly.

      ‘We’re getting more each year. It’s called Indianisation.’

      ‘And did Lieutenant Rana attend Sandhurst with you?’

      Gerald shifted in his seat and looked out of the far window. ‘He went to Dehra Dun.’ Daisy heard the boredom in his voice. ‘The Military Academy. It’s an Indian version of Sandhurst.’

      ‘He seems very nice.’ It was trite, she knew, but anything more original might again betray her ignorance.

      The conversation fizzled to a close and they sat once more in silence. СКАЧАТЬ