India Dark (27 page)

Our supplies of limelight ran out in the first week but that wasn't such a bad thing because it meant I could make out the faces in the audience. I felt my heart leap when I finally spotted Mr Ruse. It had been hard to find ways to talk to people in Madras. The Butcher's eyes were on me whenever I wandered out to stand by the buffet at the end of the show.

After the performance, I met Mr Ruse on the balcony at the back of the Pavilion, far away from the ticketing area where the Butcher was counting the evening's takings.

‘Are you all right, my dear?' he asked.

I pushed a hank of my hair away from my forehead and showed him my fading bruises.

‘He beat me the night before we left Bangalore. He knew I'd been talking to you.'

Mr Ruse stepped away from me, and my heart sank. It was like trying to lure a frightened animal out of the forest. I had to be careful not to startle him.

‘The Resident in Mysore received your letter,' said Mr Ruse, his voice so low that I could barely hear him. ‘He's written of his concerns to the authorities in Madras.'

‘Is that all?' I asked.

Then he crooked his finger to indicate I should follow him and he led me to the edge of the balcony. He pointed into the crowd. ‘Those gentlemen down there are with the SPCC here in Madras. Mr St John, Mr Baker, and you might remember Mr Wilkes from Bangalore. They'll be coming to your performances during the week, to keep an eye on things. While you're in Madras, people will watch over you. I'm sure Mr Percival will be mindful of that.'

I wanted to tell him how ridiculously useless it was to be watched while we were on stage. As if the Butcher was going to march out and beat us in public! I gritted my teeth and then took a deep breath, trying to curb my irritation.

‘Mr Percival has booked our fares to Colombo,' I said. ‘We're to go straight to the station when the curtain falls next Wednesday to take the train to Tuticorin and then the ferry across the strait to Colombo. We shan't be there long enough to convince anyone of our situation and then he's taking us to China. We'll be out of the country on the seventeenth. We'll never get home if you can't help us now,' I said, letting my eyes brim with tears.

I rested my hand on his arm again and gazed pleadingly into his face. He shook himself free, little beads of sweat peppering his brow. ‘I will be back in Madras on Tuesday next week,' he whispered. ‘Don't despair, Miss Tilly.'

Mr Ruse didn't know me at all. I wasn't going to despair. I was going to make something happen.

The next day, Freddie, Max and I locked ourselves in the change rooms at the Pavilion and came up with a new plan. We were going to force the SPCC into taking action.

That night, I told the others to be ready to work the crowd. As soon as the curtain fell, we ran among the audience, our photos sweaty in our hands. I sent Iris to talk to Mr Baker and Ruby to find someone new while I took charge of Mr Wilkes.

‘Poesy, you have to work on Mr St John. You have to walk him down near the stage door so he's in place when Max does his bit.'

‘I can't. I don't know what to say!' said Poesy, wringing her silly little hands.

‘You can't get cold feet now. Tell him Percival's a beast, that he beats us all. Tell him that the Butcher lied to our parents, as good as kidnapping us. That they all must help us before he takes us out of India.'

‘What if he doesn't believe me?'

‘Why wouldn't he? Show him your bruise. That one on your arm.'

‘But you gave me that and it's only tiny.'

I pushed my hair back and pointed to the welt on my forehead. ‘But the Butcher gave me this. You saw him do it, Poesy. And remember, you're not Lizzie's pet any more. There's no one to protect you. Next time, it could be you.'

She made a little hiccupping noise of grief and then marched down into the stalls.

We'd planned for Max to stir up trouble by baiting Lionel, but the whole thing turned out better than we'd expected and the Butcher played right into our hands. As Lionel walked past Max, Max whispered under his breath ‘Butcher's Boy'. It was guaranteed to make Lionel mad with rage and Max knew it. Before anyone could stop them, the two boys were on the floor, punching each other furiously. The Butcher pulled them apart and dragged Max into one of the change rooms.

We all heard Max cry out. Not just a small cry of distress. He howled at the top of his voice as if the Butcher was flaying him alive. I ran to the stage door and shoved it wide open, hoping that the audience milling around on the verandah would hear Max's cries. Eddie Quedda's face lit with alarm and he hurried towards me, slamming the door in my face. I could hear him speaking outside with Mr St John. Poesy had done her duty and pointed him in the right direction.

‘Who is that crying out? The boy needs assistance. What's going on back there?'

‘Look, he's a troublemaker, that one,' said Eddie, his voice jovial. ‘The boy played the fool on stage tonight, jumping around like a ruddy jumping jack, and he made trouble backstage – against the rules – so I reported him to Mr Percival. Mr P is meting out a bit of discipline, that's all.'

‘I've heard reports, you know. Rumours from Bangalore . . .'

‘They're rumours, I assure you.'

‘Look, young man, I'm no expert on children but I know the sound of a child in distress.'

‘He's an actor, sir. He's going to be louder than your average boy. Mr Percival knows how to handle him.'

Mr St John didn't persist. He probably needed another whiskey to get his Dutch courage up and working. But I was pleased to see there was still a crowd milling about as we left the Pavilion. You could almost feel the swell of rumours, like distant thunder, gathering force and rumbling through the audience as they drifted out into the warm night.

48

DARK MAGIC

Poesy Swift

On Sunday evening, Charlie tried to slip away without me. I wouldn't let him. He'd promised to take me and I held him to his promise.

Prem was waiting for us at the back of the Castle Hotel. While Charlie slipped into the shadows to change into his street disguise, Prem handed me a cloth bag. ‘For you, Miss Poesy, so that you can come about with us as our sister.'

I pulled the drawstring top open and peeked inside. ‘It's not a sari, is it?' I asked, anxiously. I had no idea how the Indian ladies stopped those long pieces of cloth from falling off.

‘No, we call this costume a
salwaar kameez
,' said Prem. ‘I have borrowed it from my sister, Meenakshi.'

When I still looked hesitant, Prem reached into the bag and pulled out a corner of each of the three items inside.

‘This is a
salwaar
,' he said showing me some light white cotton trousers, ‘or this type we actually call
churidar
. And then this blue shirt, we call a
kurta
and you wear this over the top of the churidar. Then you must wear a
dupatta
, which is the long shawl, to cover yourself.'

I nodded and took the bag back into the hotel. I couldn't possibly change in the laneway like Charlie. In the ladies room, I locked myself in one of the cubicles and struggled into the strange outfit. The light cotton pants were almost like pyjamas, with a drawstring waist. The indigo blue shirt was as light as a feather but it had long sleeves and came right down to my knees, almost like a dress. But the shawl was the piece I liked best. It was a beautiful deep peacock blue and it was so long that I could wrap it around my head to hide my blonde hair and fair skin and still have enough to cover my shoulders and drape over my wrists. At the bottom of the bag, there was a pair of worn cloth slippers that covered the whiteness of my feet.

I stuffed my day clothes into the drawstring bag and hid it on top of the cistern before sneaking out into the laneway to meet the boys. Charlie beamed at me, as if I was in the loveliest costume rather than borrowed clothes. I smoothed the
salwaar
shawl across my shoulder and smiled. It smelt faintly of attar of roses and sandalwood, and I wondered what it would be like to be Prem's sister.

We walked down to the shore first, to the wide, warm beach opposite the Senate House. Small groups of people sat watching fishermen pull their boats up onto the sand as night fell. Scattered along the shore were little stalls from which the smell of hot oil and fresh fish came wafting up the beach. Prem and Charlie wandered across to a stall where they ordered some supper. Charlie bought something called a
dosa
, which was like a great big crispy pancake, while I had some rice and curry and a tiny fried cake on a banana leaf. I wasn't very dainty at eating with my fingers. It seemed to be a terribly untidy way to go about things but Prem ate quickly, deftly, without making a mess at all.

We walked along the warm sand. There were no Britishers about and I felt oddly uncomfortable, even though it was growing too dark for anyone to see me. I wasn't afraid but I was out of my element. Charlie seemed to fit perfectly.

We came to a section of the beach where a fakir had set a straw mat and in the middle was a cane basket. Around the mat, flaring torches were embedded in the sand. We stood about waiting for him to begin.

His assistant stepped forward, a small, thin rag of a boy with thick black hair. At the fakir's command, he climbed inside the basket and pulled the lid over his head. Then the fakir took out a shiny sharp sword and plunged it into the basket. From inside came a terrible wail. I clutched Charlie's arm in horror. No one in the crowd moved as the fakir plunged in sword after sword until blood began to flow out through the cane and the wails of the little boy stopped.

I felt quite weak at the knees. I squeezed Charlie's wrist. ‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘It's only a clever trick. Watch.'

Charlie and Prem acted as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to see a little boy murdered before our very eyes.

The fakir began to chant and remove each of the bloodied swords. When the last sword was withdrawn, he waved his hand over the top of the basket three times and cried out something magical. Suddenly, the lid popped off and the little boy jumped out, grinning. He did a dance around the basket and all the audience cheered. In the glow of the torchlight, it was clear that the child didn't have a mark on his skin and yet only moments before he had been howling in pain.

Feeling queasy, I walked away from the boys, down to the water's edge, and stared out at the black sea. I couldn't bear to watch any more dark magic. I'd only meant to stay away for a minute, but when I turned around the fakir was rolling up his mat and the boys had disappeared.

I wrapped my shawl tightly about me and studied the thinning crowd with alarm. Every face seemed dark and utterly foreign. My feet sank into the deep sand and I had to carry my slippers as I ran in a panic up the beach to the boulevard. Standing on the pavement, I looked in every direction, but though there were groups of men and boys everywhere I couldn't see Prem and Charlie. I hurried back into the city, staring up at the buildings, trying to get my bearings. With horror, I realised I had no idea how to find my way back to the Castle Hotel.

I hurried through the Madras streets, self-conscious about my strange clothes, unable to speak to either Indian or Britisher. What would they make of me? A pale-skinned Australian girl dressed like a native. A group of young Indian men called out to me but I couldn't understand what they were saying and I dashed into the next street, terrified. I nearly collided with two British soldiers who came reeling through the doors of a club. I ran faster, blindly, my gaze flitting from one building to the next, hoping to recognise one that was familiar.

Then, to my horror, I saw Mr Arthur coming out of a doorway. Part of me longed to fling myself at him, to beg him to take me back to the hotel, but then I remembered what he'd done to Lizzie and I stepped into the shadows and hid myself. I could smell the rank scent of whiskey as he reeled past.

I wanted to be sick. I knew I simply had to get off the street and calm myself. When I was almost at my wits end, I turned into a wide street and saw golden light flooding out through the doors of a public hall. Both Indian and white people, ladies and gentlemen, were crowding into the hall, beneath a sign that read ‘Free Lecture'. I slipped in through the doors, my head bowed, and found myself a seat on a bench in a shadowy corner of the hall. I kept my eyes down and the shawl pulled forward to hide my face.

It was a strange twist of fate to discover Mrs Besant was delivering the lecture. I remembered that the Theosophical Headquarters were somewhere in Madras. She stood in the centre of a small stage at one end of the hall. Her silvery hair was thick, like a girl's, and her eyes were bright and sharp. She wore a white satin gown with a fichu of pale brown lace at the collar. When she took off her white gloves to speak, her hands were strong and brown and sinewy. Beside her, dressed in a white jacket with tiny gold buttons, was an Indian boy. He couldn't have been more than fourteen.

Mrs Besant spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the audience. When she spoke, her voice was like a song. It rang out across the hall.

‘Truth may lead me into the wilderness, yet I must follow her; she may strip me of all love, yet I must pursue her; though she slay me, yet will I trust in her; and I ask no other epitaph on my tomb but “She tried to follow Truth”.'

To follow Truth. I had no idea what that meant any more. The world was full of liars and the ground beneath my feet shifted from one day to the next.

I couldn't make sense of what Mrs Besant was trying to explain until she turned to introduce the boy beside her. He must be the one she was adopting, the boy that Charlie had talked about. She called him Jiddu Krishnamurti. He reminded me a little of Prem but he was thinner. His eyes were like beautiful doe's eyes – brown and soft – and he looked at the audience with a strange, unboyish tenderness. ‘His mystical name is Alcyone,' Mrs Besant announced, ‘but his aura is completely free of selfishness, his past lives have made him wise beyond his years.'