Bhowani Junction (17 page)

I met Ranjit in the Sudder Savoy. It was the big ground-floor room of a dirty house outside the northern corner of the city. There was a long signboard over the door:
SUDDER SAVOY RESTAURANT, A. COWASJEE MILKMAN, PROP. IN BOUNDS FOR B.T
.

I’d seen the place, on Friday nights particularly, when there’d been a hundred Tommies in there, eating greasy fried eggs and drinking beer and shouting. They were real old sweats with tattooed arms and hollow cheeks and no sunburn. Rose Mary used to come here often then. In those days she’d had a boy friend who was a corporal. When the last British battalion left Bhowani in 1939 the Sudder Savoy began to decay. Now Rose Mary never came, and Mr Milkman had returned to Bombay, leaving an old Mohammedan cook in charge.

I arrived a quarter of an hour late. I couldn’t afford, even in 1946, to be seen sitting alone in there. In the old days the regimental police would have asked me who I was waiting for and then tried to make a date with me themselves and made trouble if I had refused. Rose Mary said that happened to her once.

Ranjit was sitting at a table in the far corner under a 1944 calendar that had a picture of a blonde girl in a white bathing suit. He was watching the door and he had a glass and a bottle of fizzy lemonade in front of him. There was no one else in the place. In 1939 he wouldn’t have been allowed there. The glass front was half screened with brown paper. Tins of beans and
pineapples and peaches, all flecked with rust, filled the dusty shelves up the wall behind the counter. After all those years the place still smelled of stale beer.

Ranjit got up with a quick shy smile as I sat down. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I have never been in this place.’

I knew that, but I said only that he hadn’t been in Bhowani long.

He said, ‘No, not long.’

The old cook was standing beside me, and Ranjit asked what I wanted. I ordered lemonade, the same as his, though I did not like the stuff. It was too sweet. When I got my drink Ranjit said a little nervously, ‘I have some bad news, Miss Jones. The projector at the Mahal has broken down. They are not showing any picture to-night.’

I said, ‘Oh dear!’ and smiled at him. He seemed really worried, so I said, ‘It’s bad luck, I know, but it won’t kill us. I did want to see those two dancers, though.’

He began to talk about the dancers. He said, ‘They are the best classical dancers working in India to-day, but I do not think they are as good as they used to be. This is a rather recent film of theirs. They have been to London and New York—before the war, of course—and their dancing is not so good, not really classical. There is more posturing, if you know what I mean. They have become too obvious.’

I didn’t know what he meant, because I’ve never been to London or New York. But I knew what he thought I thought he meant—that the dancers had westernized themselves; in other words, betrayed his India.

He said, ‘I am so sorry. I suppose I had better take you to your house.’

I was sure it had been in his mind to ask me to his own home. But I had been there only yesterday, and obviously he was too shy to force himself on me. I would have liked to go there again.

But if my mind was made up, and my boat was moving, why did I have this feeling, almost of guilt, to be sitting there with Ranjit? Why were we meeting in a deserted restaurant and going to an Indian cinema where I knew no one would
recognize me? It had got to stop. The time for feeling guilty and ‘different’ had passed. I said, ‘Let’s go to the cantonment cinema, then. They’re still showing
Hell’s Angels.
Have you seen it?’

He said, ‘No, I’ve never seen it, but——’

I said, ‘But what?’ I lit a cigarette slowly. I felt responsible for him, in this half-English place. It was extraordinary how that feeling made me like him more.

He said in a low voice, ‘Do you think it would be wise, Miss Jones? I am an Indian, and you are not. I mean, you do not look like one. See, you are smoking, and your dress is European. My mother is a wonderful woman, but she does not always understand how difficult it is for people to change from things they are used to.’

‘You think I’ve always got to be half and half?’ I said. ‘You think I’ve always got to wear a short skirt?’

He said, ‘No, no, Miss Jones. Please!’

Looking at him, with my cigarette in my hand, I was suddenly sure that he thought I might have led Macaulay on. He couldn’t make up his mind whether I had or not. He had seen me smile at Macaulay. He had seen me accept Macaulay’s offer to escort me home. All that, after he had saved me the time before. He couldn’t understand. I began to feel cross with him. This was something that must be settled. I said, ‘You think I was flirting with Macaulay, don’t you?’

It was foolish of me to say it, even to think it. Why should he meet me to take me to the cinema if he thought that about me? But in truth I am sure he was afraid of me then. I attracted him, yet I terrified him.

He said, ‘Sssh!’ and glanced nervously around. He would have made a very bad conspirator. He was agitated, and his large soft eyes were fixed on mine, terribly anxious that I should not misunderstand him. He said, ‘It is of you I am thinking. What will your father say, your sister, Mr Taylor? They are not sophisticated people like some, who do not mind.’

I said, ‘I certainly don’t care what Patrick Taylor thinks,’ and felt myself tossing my head. ‘I’m finished with him. I told
him so the other day. As for the rest——’ I played with the empty glass, turning it over and over in my hand. What did I think about the rest? I said slowly, ‘I will be sorry to hurt Pater, but I cannot stand still because of him. It is like being in prison, I tell you.’

I stood up quickly and said, ‘Come along, Ranjit. I want to see
Hell’s Angels
. Jean Harlow is terrific in it.’ Of course I had seen it years before.

So we went to the cantonment cinema, going slowly side by side up the Pike on our bicycles, then through the dark cantonment roads between the low square-cut shapes of the barracks. A few Gurkhas were sitting on one of the verandahs with a little drum, beating it and singing together. They sounded sad, and I had learned to become very fond of them even in this short time, so I said, ‘It is a shame they can’t have their families down here. They are nice little men, you know.’

Ranjit said, They don’t have to join the Army, Miss Jones. They have come of their own free will from Nepal to oppress us. I cannot feel sorry for them.’

A breath of exasperation stirred me. I wanted to ask him whether he would say the same thing if it was the Indian Government of the future, instead of the Government of India of the present, that found it necessary to station the Gurkhas in barracks where there was no accommodation for their families. But I held my tongue because I was willing to believe that all my ideas and my thoughts needed looking at with a new eye—my new eye.

Ranjit bought the tickets, and we went in. The cinema was already dark, and when I got used to the darkness I saw that it was less than a quarter full. A few Gurkhas sat down in front, in the cheapest seats, the foul smoke from their cigarettes curling up like a shaky curtain in front of the screen. I wondered what they thought of Jean Harlow and the long kisses and the huggings. When I turned to look back, peering up along the smoky, flickering beam of the projection lamp, I saw the silhouettes of a few people scattered in the more expensive seats behind. I settled down to enjoy the film. The fans in the ceiling whirred noisily, blowing hot air down on my head.

At the interval, when the lights went up, I sat blinking for a moment and then said, ‘Let’s go and have a lemonade. I’m thirsty, aren’t you?’

Ranjit said, ‘Well, yes. Certainly, Miss Jones.’ He stood up very correctly, glancing round him as though he was afraid to be recognized. He said in a low voice, ‘Mr Taylor will be there.’

I said, ‘Where?’

I looked round and saw Patrick’s back as he walked. head bent and shoulders swinging, up the side aisle toward the bar at the back of the cinema. I knew from his walk that he bad been drinking—not a great deal, perhaps, but probably enough to make him difficult. It might be more sensible not to force a meeting with him now. But I was not doing anything wrong. If I hid now I might as well give up altogether.

I went up the aisle behind Patrick. Ranjit not too close on my heels. Patrick was leaning over the bar when I went in. The big double doors to the road were open on both sides, and a little wind blew through to stir up the dust on the checkered imitation marble floor. Colonel Savage was standing at the opposite end of the bar, leaning against the wall with a big glass of whisky in his hand. He saw me come in with Ranjit. Patrick did not. Savage’s eyes did not flicker, and he said nothing.

Patrick said, ‘Good evening, Colonel.’

Savage said, ‘Good evening. Enjoying the picture?’

‘Oh yes,’ Patrick said listlessly. ‘It is jolly good.’

The barman asked me what I wanted. I said, ‘Lemonade. The same for you, Ranjit?’

Patrick swung round on his toes at the first sound of my voice. I saw that his eyes were bloodshot. Then Savage said, ‘Good evening, Miss Jones. Good evening, Ranjit.’

Patrick said, ‘What are you doing here?’ He stood upright, one hand on the bar, swaying a very little.

‘Seeing the picture,’ I said as lightly as I could. ‘With Ranjit.’

He said, ‘You are seeing the picture with Kasel? You have come here with Kasel to see the picture?’

I said, ‘Yes, Patrick, I’ve just told you—— Look out for the lemonade bottles! Oh, Patrick, you are the most——’ The lemonade bottles smashed on the floor as Patrick jerked his elbow back.

Now he was concerned by his own clumsiness. He was drunk and nearly crazy with jealousy and hurt pride—because Ranjit was an Indian. Patrick turned to Savage and said in a low voice. ‘That was a jolly good idea of yours at the station the other day, Colonel. You know, what you told the Gurkhas to do on those bloody Congress wallahs.’

Savage said coldly. ‘Do you mind not trying to drag me into your mating squabbles?’ He swallowed his whisky and went into the cinema. A bell above the outside doors rang continuously for a half minute. The audience began to drift back from walking up and down in the road or on the weedy grass.

Patrick was swaying more noticeably. His pale blue-green eyes were dull and blinking and watery, as though Savage had hit him on the nose. He said, ‘You are just a bitch, Victoria. You can’t go out with this fellow. I’ll show you!’

He wandered toward us, his fists doubled. Ranjit said, ‘We ought to go, Miss Jones.’

I shook my head. I shouted at Patrick, ‘You call me a bitch, you—you fornicating swine!’ I stood right in front of him, glaring at him, and my voice had gone shrill and all cheechee. It was such a little easy step to be with Patrick again.

Patrick said, ‘I am not going to hit you, Vicky. It’s not your fault. It is that fellow.’

I stared at him until his eyes fell. Then I said, ‘I am going to see the picture with Ranjit and do whatever else I bloody well like, see? Now go home and get sober and learn to behave yourself!’

I walked back into the cinema with my head up. The light began to dim as I went in, but I had time to see Colonel Savage sprawled back in the double fauteuil nearest the aisle, nearest the door to the bar. His feet were up on the back of the seat in front. He must have heard.

Ranjit sat silent through the rest of the picture and did not talk on the ride to my house. Patrick passed us in a tonga. The
Norton must still be out of action. I shook hands with Ranjit in the road outside Number 4, pressing his fingers because he had been hurt and I liked him. On an impulse I said, ‘Do you know what I think I’m going to do?’

‘No, Miss Jones,’ he said.

I said, ‘For heaven’s sake, call me Victoria. I think I’m going to wear a sari. That ought to show them!’

Ranjit was still worried. He said, ‘It will cause you a lot of trouble.’ Then he cheered up a bit and said, ‘But it will be worth it. You don’t know how suitable a sari is for you, Miss—Victoria.’

I said, laughing, ‘Oh, yes, I do! Why else do you think I’m going to wear one?’

The smile was wiped off his face, and he said, ‘Good night, Victoria,’ stiffly and suddenly.

I said, ‘I was only joking, of course, Ranjit. You didn’t think I was insulting people who wear saris, did you?’

He said, ‘I didn’t know. You see, it is difficult, as I told you. That is what my mother does not understand. Everything is plain and easy to her.’

Once more he said good night, and left me. I stared after him, watching his slight body on the bicycle moving from light to dark and dark to light, each time fainter and smaller under the lamp, until he turned out of Collett Road. I thought over what I had said that had upset him—‘Why else do you think I’m going to wear one?’ How could he have thought I meant to be insulting?

I gave up. It would be difficult for a time. They were so touchy.
We
were so touchy—whoever I meant by ‘we’. I opened the front door of the house.

Patrick was there, standing in the middle of the hall, and with him Pater, and, in the door of the parlour, Rose Mary. Patrick pointed his finger at me, his arm stretched straight out. He said thickly, ‘There she is!’

‘Where’s Mater?’ I said, putting my hand up into my back hair and pushing out my curls and walking slowly forward to meet them until our faces were only an inch apart, my voice rising and hardening and my back tingling.

The battalion offices were hushed when I got there the next morning. A couple of orderlies sitting on the bench in the corridor leaped to attention as I came up, but there was no one else. I went to the window of my office and looked out. The parade ground was several hundred yards away, but a corner of it showed between two barrack blocks. I saw the twinkle of movement there, and then the pipe band struck up and the drums thudded and the Union Jack fluttered to the masthead, and I remembered. To-day was May 24th, Empire Day.

I sat down and began to look at the reports and summaries piled up in my In tray. I felt extraordinarily fresh and clear-headed. It had been a good fight last night. The others were at a disadvantage because Patrick was drunk and needlessly abusive, so Pater had spent as much energy in trying to control him as in arguing with me. There would be more to come, but for the moment I felt strong and confident.

I heard a car arrive at the offices, then voices, then footsteps. Someone went into Colonel Savage’s office, and a Gurkha said, ‘In there, sahib.’ Mr Lanson, the Deputy Superintendent of Police, stood in my doorway, his topi in his hand. He was in uniform and looked pale and grumpy, as though he had not been long enough out of bed. Normally he was quite stolid and even-tempered. Slowly I folded away the Intelligence summary I had been reading and stood up.

‘Morning, Miss Jones,’ Lanson said. ‘Sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour.’

‘Not at all, Mr Lanson. Won’t you sit down?’ I said, trying not to sound wary.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He lowered himself carefully into a chak and looked around for a place to hang his topi. Finally he put it on the floor beside him. He said, ‘It’s about Macaulay.’

I held myself, waiting, and Lanson said, ‘The fact is that when he left you he seems to have gone direct to a—well, a brothel.’

He pulled a notebook from his tunic pocket and slowly turned over the pages. He was a slow-moving man. He said, ‘He got there, the man who owns the place says, at about a quarter past eight. He doesn’t remember exactly. They never do. I’ve talked to Colonel Savage, and he says Macaulay might easily have gone to such a place. In fact it was Colonel Savage who advised me to pay particular attention to them. I hope I’m not embarrassing you, Miss Jones.’

‘No. But how can I help?’ I said. To-day I was wearing
the
skirt and shirt.

He said, ‘Of course Macaulay wouldn’t have told you he was going to such a place, but I wondered if he had said anything that would show he intended to go somewhere else—back to his quarters, for instance, or to the station, or the offices here, or the cinema. The man, the owner of this place, is no more and no less reliable than any other witness in a murder case. Somebody might have murdered Macaulay and bribed the brothel man to fake an alibi.’

‘He’d have to bribe the girl too,’ I said. Ghanshyam must have done all this.

‘The woman was—ah—the proprietor’s—ah—wife,’ Lanson said disgustedly. ‘What I mean is that Macaulay had about a hundred rupees on him, apparently—so his orderly thinks—and of course he had the carbine. Either of those would be quite enough to get him murdered. Besides, it seems so damned silly of him to go into the city when those processions were under way, and he’d been specially warned not to go near the place. And he must have known that he’d be missed here if he didn’t get back at a reasonable hour. Yet he is supposed to have stayed in the brothel for about three hours, till some time past eleven o’clock. So I wondered——’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. “He didn’t say anything to me. He just said good night, and then I left him. I didn’t even see him start back from the signal.’

Lanson wrote carefully in his notebook. When he had finished he said, ‘Did he try to kiss you, Miss Jones, or did you kiss him, or—ah—anything? I really am sorry about this, but I have a reason for asking. It seems that Macaulay had been
telling some of his friends here that he was very fond of you. He even indicated that you returned his feeling. What I am getting at is that if you did in fact like him——’

I heard the tramp of boots, the squeak of hobnails on stone, a door opening and shutting. Colonel Savage was in his office next door.

Lanson lowered his voice. He said, ‘If you did return this—passion, Macaulay is supposed to have called it—it is less likely that he would have gone direct from you to such a place. You see what I mean?’

I said, ‘I did not like Lieutenant Macaulay, Mr Lanson. He did make advances to me once, very unpleasantly, I gave him no encouragement then or at any other time.’

‘But you did let him accompany you home that evening,’ Lanson said gruffly. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do, Miss Jones. But you did, and the Gurkha sentry in the yards says you were very close together when he challenged you. He thought Macaulay——’

The inner door jerked open, and Colonel Savage was standing there, his Gurkha hat on his head and his jungle-green uniform clean and newly pressed. He said brusquely, ‘If you want to interview one of my officers, Lanson, you will ask my permission.’

Lanson stood up slowly and turned to face Savage. He said, ‘You weren’t here, Savage, or I would have.’

Savage said, ‘These are my offices, and you may not use them as a police court. I heard the last part of what you were saying. The partitions are thin. Miss Jones never encouraged Macaulay. In fact, she so obviously disliked him that I ordered Macaulay never to be anywhere alone with her.’

‘Then why——?’ Lanson said, and Savage overrode him, saying, ‘If she’d gone home on her bicycle she would have had to pass through a bad corner of the city. The railway was safer, and she didn’t want to go alone. There was no one else except Macaulay to go with her.’

There was Ranjit Singh,’ Lanson said.

Savage said, ‘He didn’t offer to go. Miss Jones has got work to do.’

Lanson stooped for his topi. When he straightened up his face was red He said, ‘All right, Savage. I haven’t got any more to ask her now. But when I have, you want me to subpoena her officially and make her come down to the Kutcherry, is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ Savage said, ‘and she will come, provided she isn’t on urgent military duty. Or you can ask me if you want to see her here.’

Lanson nodded stiffly and went out. When his footsteps had died away Savage said curtly, ‘Bring the map of the city into my office,’ and left me.

I sat a moment in my chair, forcing myself to be calm and cold. It looked as if I was going to be saved by the quarrelling of the British among themselves as much as by Ghanshyam’s schemings. The fools.

When I went in with the map Henry Dickson was there, and Savage was asking him when he expected his wife.

Dickson said, ‘Early in June, sir. Probably on the fourth.’

I stood at the side of the desk, the rolled map in my hand, while the two men talked. I ought to have been thinking of Lanson, but I wasn’t. I was remembering Molly Dickson. She used to ask me quite often to her bungalow in New Delhi. She was a faded blonde woman, youngish, full of nerves. She laughed loudly and suddenly, and moved jerkily, but she was nice. She had a couple of children and used to be an ‘abandoned wife’ in a little house off Lodi Road.

Savage said, ‘The bungalow in good shape for them?’

Dickson, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

Savage said, ‘Good. Let’s have that map, Miss Jones.’

I unrolled it for him and stood looking over his left shoulder. He said, ‘This is the form: The local Congress committee, headed by Surabhai, have got the Collector’s permission to stage a procession in sympathy with the R.I.N. mutineers. The local branch of the Moslem League, not to be outdone, have done the same. Govindaswami believes in safety valves. He’s allotted this as a route for Congress——’ He ran his finger along a zigzag course in the eastern half of the city—‘and this for the Mohammedans.’ He traced a route in the western half
of the city and and went on, ‘Govindaswami thinks the two processions will try to meet. Rather, he thinks that Surabhai will take his procession through to join the Moslems if he can. And he doesn’t want that, of course.’

Why not? I thought; why on earth not? There could be no reason, except that Govindaswami did not want to give the Hindus and Moslems an opportunity to show in public a unity which the British told the world they did not have.

Savage went on, ‘There are too many places where Surabhai can leave his authorized route and go barging through to the other route. Lanson’s police can’t guard them all in strength, especially as half of them are out in the back blocks dealing with a local messiah in Aslakheri, who’s persuaded the villagers that the landowner’s wife is a witch. I haven’t got enough men to do the job properly either. What I’m going to do is this …’

He began to explain. All the battalion trucks would be out, with their canvas covers on and fastened down. In every truck there would be at least two men, but some trucks would be full of men. The plan was to station trucks near every likely corner and junction on both routes. Surabhai would not know which were full and which were, for practical purposes, empty. He would not know that the Gurkhas had orders not to shoot except to protect their own lives.

Colonel Savage rolled up the map and said, ‘I’ll keep this until tomorrow.’ He was in a good humour and seemed to have forgotten all about Lanson and the investigation into Macaulay’s disappearance. He said, ‘I’m going to be hanging round with my advanced headquarters radio. Have you got anything else to do?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘I’m going to work in the railway traffic office this afternoon. I have to get some information about several coal trains they’re going to run through now that the strike’s over.’

He said, ‘Good.’ He looked at me and added, ‘You ought to have an enjoyable time whether it’s Taylor or Ranjit on duty—Miss Starkie.’ He went out.

Major Dickson said, ‘What did he call you Miss Starkie for?
You haven’t changed your name, have you?’

Wearily I said, ‘No.’

Dickson shook his head. He said, ‘I don’t understand the C.O. half the time either.’ As he moved to the door I turned to speak to him, to tell him that I knew his wife. But by the time Mrs Dickson came down I might be out of uniform again. And what would I have to talk about with Molly here in Bhowani, even if she did take the trouble to find out where I lived and invite me up for coffee? So I said nothing. Dickson saluted me—he always did that, and it always made me simper—and ambled out.

I had lunch at home and afterwards bicycled slowly up the Pike toward the station. It was the first hot, still hour of the afternoon, when the Europeans were going to their beds to lie down after tiffin, or sitting at the table and smoking, and the Indians were dozing in the backs of their stores, and everyone was putting off the time when he would have to get back to work. There were few people about. I recited bitterly to myself:

Savage, Savage, savage. Why? It
must
be his nature. And for whose sake had he really ordered that door kept open—mine or Macaulay’s? Savage, cruel and mysterious.

I free-wheeled down the slope into the tunnel under the tracks. It was dark there and not as burning hot as in the sun. I saw a dim face, a man walking my way on the raised pedestrian footpath on the left of the road, looking back at me over his shoulder. When I came nearly abreast of him he turned, and I thought it was Ghanshyam. He said distinctly, ‘Stop. Your chain is off.’

I stopped and slid my feet to the ground. It was Ghanshyam. He said aloud, ‘I will fix it, miss sahiba, I know all
about bicycles.’ He stepped down to the roadway beside me. He squatted on his heels by the back wheel, while I held the bike upright and leaned over the saddle to see what he was doing. He jerked with his finger, and the chain came off. He said, ‘Ah, I thought so. Are the soldiers going to be out this afternoon?’

I muttered, ‘Yes. Can you fix it?’

He said, ‘In time, in time. Will they be at the corner where Blue Lane meets the Street of Suttees, near the station yard there?’

I saw the map of the city in my mind, and Colonel Savage’s finger on it. ‘This one will be full, this one empty. Empty. Empty. Full. Empty.’ I said, ‘No. the truck will have only two soldiers in it. Won’t the chain go back on?’

He said, ‘Don’t you bother, miss sahiba. You’ll get your hands dirty. There’s a lot of oil here. Two soldiers with rifles can stop a crowd without any.’

I said, ‘They have orders not to fire. It’s no distance to the station here. I can wheel it.’

He said, ‘There, it’s done,’ and stood up, his round face twisted into what ought to have been a beggar’s smile. He held his palm out. I fumbled in my bag, thinking that perhaps he could not really smile. The lips split his round, calm face and were shaped into the thing called a smile, but he was not smiling. I gave him a four-anna piece and got on to the bicycle. Colonel Savage would look a fine fool this evening for all his jokes about Miss Starkie.

Patrick was on duty in the Traffic Office. He glanced up when I came in but quickly turned his head down, clearing his throat, and said nothing to me. I sat down at my table, collected my papers, and began to work. It was awkward trying to forget that Patrick was there. I felt a fool pretending he did not exist, and there were a couple of things about the work which I wanted to ask him.

But there was work to do, and continual distraction outside. Jeeps and trucks came and went in the station yard below the windows, and the Collector’s Austin and the D.S.P.’s Chevrolet—I could tell them by the sound of their engines. I tried to
guess what each coming and going meant. Then I heard Gurkhali, and the subadar-major’s unmistakable voice, and others I didn’t recognize.

I hoped at first that I would be finished and gone before four o’clock. That was the time both processions were due to begin. I completed my work at a quarter to, but by then the time was so close that I wanted to see what happened, so I stayed in the office. I got up, walked over to the window, and stood there, looking down at the square. The Street of Suttees led out from it at the north-east corner. About fifty yards up, Blue Lane turned off to the left. I half expected to see Ghanshyam squatting in the yard pretending to be a beggar, or driving a tonga, but there was no sign of him.