The Far Pavilions (112 page)

‘It would have to be kept secret,’ said Ash.

‘Then you still mean to marry her? Even though you tell me that she herself can see no reason for it?’

But Ash was nothing if not obstinate. ‘What else? Do you think I want her as a mistress… a concubine? I want to know that she's my wife, even though I can't acknowledge her as such. It's – it's something I
have
to do. I can't explain…’

‘You don't have to,’ said Edith Viccary. ‘If I were in your place I'd feel the same. Of course you must marry her. But it isn't going to be easy.’

The difficulty, she explained, was that marriage being a Sacrament of the Church, no clergyman would consent to employ it to unite a Christian to a Hindu, unless it could be proved that the latter had undergone a genuine conversion. ‘God is not mocked, you know,’ added Mrs Viccary softly.

‘I didn't mean to mock. But then I never think of Him as being an Englishman – or a Jew or an Indian or any other nationality that we've invented for ourselves. Nor do I believe that He thinks of us like that. But I did realize, as soon as I began to think about it, that the Church wouldn't marry us, any more than Juli's priests would, even if I dared risk asking them, which I don't. But I thought perhaps a magistrate -?’

Edith Viccary shook her head decidedly. She knew the local British magistrate a good deal better than Ash did, and Mr Chadwick, she assured him, was the last person to consent to such a thing. He could also be trusted to report Ash's request for a marriage licence to the Commissioner, who apart from being equally horrified would ask a great many awkward ques-ions. And once inquiries were set on foot, the fat would be well and truly in the fire.

‘Yes,’ said Ash bitterly. ‘We can't risk that.’

There seemed to be no way out. It was inconceivable – fatuous and unjust and totally unfair – that two grown people who only wanted to marry each other should not be permitted to do so, when their marriage would harm no one. It was a purely personal matter, and if people could get married at sea without the aid of magistrates and licences, like that couple on the
Canterbury Castle,
there should be some equally simple method by which those on land could do the same, and he –

‘By God, that'S it!’ cried Ash explosively, leaping to his feet. ‘Red Stiggins – the
Morala.
Why on earth didn't I think of that before?’

Red had said something about sailing for Karachi ‘in a few weeks' time' and had invited him to come along for the voyage. And if the
Morala
had not left yet…

Pausing only to bestow a fervent hug on the bewildered Mrs Viccary, he ran from her drawing-room, shouting for Kulu Ram to fetch his horse, and ten minutes later anyone happening to be abroad at that hottest hour of the day would have seen a Sahib riding hell-for-leather down the glaring cantonment road towards the city.

The shrewd Gujerati who looked after Captain Stiggins's business interests in the peninsula had a small office in a street near the Daripur Gate, and he had been enjoying his customary afternoon's siesta when the Sahib burst in on him, demanding to know if the
Morala
had already set sail for Karachi, and if not, when she would be leaving and from where. And this time Ash's luck was in, for the
Morala
had not yet sailed, though she would be doing so very shortly – in the next day or two if all went well, and certainly not later than the end of the week. The ship was at Cambay at the head of the Gulf, and if the Sahib wished to send a message –?

The Sahib did, and was grateful for the offer as he had no time to spare for writing letters. ‘Tell him that I accept his invitation and to expect me tomorrow; and that whatever he does, he is not to sail without me.’

There was a great deal to be done and not much time in which to do it, for the port of Cambay was all of sixty miles from Ahmadabad, and Ash rode back to his bungalow at the same break-neck speed at which he had left Mrs Viccary's.

46

Captain Stiggins scratched the copper-coloured stubble on his chin with a horny thumb and stared thoughtfully at Ash for a full two minutes, pondering the matter. Then he said slowly: ‘Well now… I can't say as I'm pre-cisely the same kind of animal as one of them gilded skippers of a steam packet – no more'n the old
Morala
is a fancy passenger ship. Still, I'm the master of this ‘ere craft, and so I don't see as 'ow that shouldn't give me the right to do anything a cove in a frock-coat and brass buttons can do aboard one of them swanky great P & O boats.’

‘Then you'll do it, Red?’

‘Well, son, I ain't never done such a thing before, so I can't say as I'll go bail for its bein' legal. But I reckon that's yore 'eadache, not mine. And seein' as we're pals, I'm willin' to chance me arm and splice yer… now, now–’old yore 'orses, son. I've said as I'll do it as a favour – but I ain't a goin' to do it 'ere and now. Not for you nor no one will I go pretendin' that this 'ere duck-pond is an ocean, so you'll just 'ave to wait until we're standin' well clear o' the land and a good 'arf way between 'ere and Chahbar, see? That's goin' to make it look a sight better in the log-book; and it seems to me, young feller, that yore goin' to need to do everything you can t' make this caper o' yores look ship-shape and above board. Them's my terms, son. Take 'em or leave 'em.’

‘Where the hell is Chahbar? I thought you were bound for Karachi.’

‘So I am – on the way back. But there's bin a change of plan. I reckon you bin too busy with yore own affairs to notice that there's bin a famine around for nigh on three years now – particular in the south. That's why I'm shippin' a cargo o' cotton to Chahbar, which is way up on the coast of Mekran, and bringin' back a load o' grain. It's a longish haul, but on the way back I could put you ashore any place you fancy. Are you on?’

Ash had hoped to get married with the least possible delay, but he could see the sense of Captain Stiggins's argument, and in any case he had no option but to agree to his terms. It was decided that the ceremony had best be postponed until such time as Sind and the mouth of the Indus lay well astern and the
Morala
was headed north towards Ras Jewan. In the meantime, Red gallantly placed his own cabin at Anjuli's disposal and moved in with his mate, one McNulty, for the duration of the voyage, though in the event all three men (and everyone else on board for that matter) elected to sleep on deck, and only Anjuli kept to her cabin.

The
Morala
only boasted four cabins, and though Red's was certainly the best of these it was far from large and at that season of the year was stiflingly hot. But Anjuli spent the first part of the voyage in it, because she proved to be a poor sailor, and succumbed to a bad attack of sea-sickness that lasted for several days, by which time they had crossed the Tropic of Cancer, and were sailing through a sea that was stained with the silt brought down by the Indus and its four great fellow-rivers of the Punjab.

Gul Baz, who had insisted on accompanying Ash, had also been most vilely ill, but it was not long before he acquired his sea-legs and was up and about again. Anjuli, on the other hand, made a slow recovery. She spent the greater part of the day sleeping, for she was still plagued by bad dreams, and as she found these less frightening by day she stayed awake at night and kept two oil lamps burning from dusk to dawn, despite the fact that they greatly increased the heat in the cramped little cabin.

Ash had nursed her and waited upon her, and he too took to sleeping by day so that he could sit up with her for at least part of the night. But even when she had recovered from her sea-sickness he found that she was still disinclined to talk, and that any reference to Bhithor or the immediate past, however oblique, would make her stiffen into rigidity and bring back that disturbing frozen look to her eyes. He therefore confined himself to speaking only of his own doings and his plans for their joint future, though he suspected that half the time she did not hear what he was saying because she was listening to other voices.

He had confirmed this on several occasions by breaking off in mid-sentence, only to find that she was unaware that he had stopped speaking. Asked what she was thinking of, she would look troubled and say, ‘Nothing’… until one evening, when that question had broken into her silent brooding so abruptly that she had been startled into an unguarded reply, and answered ‘Shushila.’

It was hardly reasonable of Ash to hope that she would by now have stopped tormenting herself with thoughts of Shushila when he himself was unable to do so. But he had got up without a word and left the cabin, and half an hour later it had been Gul Baz and not Ash who had knocked on her door bringing the evening meal, for Ash had been otherwise occupied.

He had taken his problems to Captain Stiggins, and fortified by the Captain's ferocious brandy, was engaged in pouring the whole story into that gentleman's sympathetic ear. ‘The trouble is that her sister has always come first with her right from the beginning,’ explained Ash bitterly. ‘I used to believe that I was the only one she really loved, and that it was only affection and a strong sense of duty that made her stay with Shu-shu. But it seems I was wrong. I tried to make her run away with me before, you know, but she wouldn't do it because of Shu-shu… God! how I came to hate the very sound of that name.’

‘Jealous, were you,’ nodded Red.

‘Of course I was. Wouldn't you have been, in my place? Dammit Red, I was in love with her. I still am. I always will be. And but for that sister of hers –!’

‘Well, now that the pore girl's dead, you've no call to be jealous of her any more ‘av you?’ put in Red soothingly.

‘Oh, yes I have, because even now – in fact now more than ever – she's coming between us. I tell you, Red, she might just as well be here on this ship, battening upon what little strength Juli has left, and weeping and whining for sympathy and attention like she used to do. There are times when I'm even ready to believe that there are such things as ghosts, and that hers has followed us here and is doing its damnedest to take Juli away from me.’

‘Don't be daft!’ snapped the Captain crossly. ‘I never 'eard such poppycock. Ghosts indeed! – whatever next?’ He pushed the bottle over to Ash and said: ‘Better 'av another good swig o' that, son. Won't do you no 'arm to get good n' bosky for a change an' drown yore sorrows, for it sounds to me as though you bin battenin' down yore 'atches too 'ard of late. It'll do you good to open 'em up and let some of the bad air out. It ain't sense to go a bottlin' things up until you gets jealous of a pore lass wots dead and gorn. T'ain't 'ealthy.’

‘It's not that,’ said Ash, re-filling his glass with an unsteady hand. ‘You don't understand, Red. It's because now that she's dead I'm afraid… I'm afraid –’ His teeth chattered against the rim of the glass as he gulped the raw spirit.

‘Afraid o' wot?’ demanded Red, frowning. ‘That yore Juli won't forget 'er sister? Wot's so bad about that? If she did you'd likely begin to think she was an 'ard 'earted piece, and that's the truth. You just give the pore girl a bit o' time, and you'll find you ain't got nothin' to be afraid of, for she's bound to stop grievin' one day.’

Ash drained his glass and reached for the bottle again, observing impatiently that of course she would; and of course he didn't expect her to forget her sister. It was not that he was afraid of.

‘Wot then?’

‘That she won't be able to forget that it was I who killed Shushila.’

‘You
wot
!’ exclaimed Red, startled.

‘Didn't I tell you that? I shot her,’ said Ash.

He explained how this had come about, and when he had finished Red breathed heavily for a few moments, and downed a further generous helping of brandy before replying. But his verdict when it came brought little comfort: ‘It's 'ard to know wot else you could 'ave done,’ declared Captain Stiggins thoughtfully. ‘But I see wot you mean. At the time like, all she'd be thinkin' of would be ‘ow she could save ‘er little sister from the pain of bein' roasted alive. But now that it's all over she's maybe blamin' ‘erself for not letting the lass ‘ave her own way – and you for playin' ‘angman, so to speak.’

‘Yes. That's what I'm afraid of. She seemed so set on it at the time. She
begged
me to do it. But now… now I don't believe she could have been in her right mind. She was half mad with grief, and thinking back I'm not sure I was quite sane myself. Perhaps none of us were… but it was far worse for her, because Shu-shu meant more to her than anyone else in the world and she couldn't bear the thought of what she must suffer. She wanted me to shoot her before the flames reached her, and I did. I shouldn't have done it and I've wished ever since that I hadn't, because I cheated her out of saint-ood. And now I'm afraid that Juli has begun to find that she can't look at me without remembering that it was I who killed her darling Shu-shu.’

‘Bollocks!’ retorted Red inelegantly.

‘Oh, I don't mean that she blames me for doing it. She knows damned well I only did it for her, and that if it had been up to me I wouldn't have dreamed of risking all our lives by hanging around waiting to shoot the wretched girl. But however clearly she may see that with her head, she knows in her heart that I didn't give a damn about Shu-shu – and that makes a difference.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Red reflectively. ‘If you'd 'ad a fondness for the lass and done it for that reason – for love as you might say – it wouldn't 'ave mattered s'much… you shootin' 'er.’

‘That's it. But then I wasn't fond of her. You'll say because I was jealous of her, but it was more than that: I resented the hold she had over Juli, and now I think Juli is probably remembering that, and adding it to the rest and finding that in spite of herself it has changed her feelings for me. One can't really blame her, for though I still don't see what else I could have done, I've never stopped regretting that I shot that damned girl – and if I can feel like that, why shouldn't Juli feel equally mixed up about it? Oh, God, what a mess it all is! Let's open another bottle, Red – I'm going to take your advice and get drunk.’

They had both got drunk: Red rather less so than Ash, by reason of having a harder head. And either the advice had been good, or else the dictum that confession is good for the soul had proved to be sound, because afterwards Ash certainly felt more relaxed and less apprehensive about the future, though he did not again make the mistake of asking Anjuli what she was thinking of. She was still painfully thin; and very pallid, which Ash put down to the airless heat of Red's cabin. He was sure that once they were married and he could coax her out onto the open deck and into the fresh air, her health was bound to improve, and with it her state of mind.

They had been married two hours after the shores of Sind faded from sight and the
Morala
's bows were ploughing towards Ras Jewan and Chahbar. The ceremony had taken place at 2.30 in the afternoon, in the cramped little saloon, the witnesses being the Mate, Angus McNulty (who hailed from Dundee and admitted cautiously that he “might be a Presbyterian”), and an old friend of Red's, one Hyem Ephraim, an elderly Jew from Cutch who had business interests in Persia and had arranged to sail with Captain Stiggins to Chahbar. Red himself claimed to be a ‘free thinker’ – whatever that meant – but he had dignified the occasion by wearing his best suit and speaking in a voice of such portentous gravity that Gul Baz, who had watched the brief ceremony from the doorway, had been convinced that the
Morala
's Captain must, in private life, be a particularly wise and holy
guru.

Gul Baz, a pious Mohammedan, had been full of misgivings. But he had not voiced them, for it was too late for that. It had been too late from the day that the Hakim from Karidkote and his fat servant, Manilal, had driven up to the Sahib's bungalow in a hired tonga and he, Gul Baz, had failed to send them away. This Hindu widow was not at all the sort of wife that he hadd expected his Sahib to choose, and he did not approve of mixed marriage any more than Koda Dad Khan – or Mr Chadwick. Nor did he look forwar to explaining to Koda Dad and his sons how this had come about, or the part that he himself had played in it; though how he could have refused hiassistance, or prevented his Sahib from leaving for Bhithor in the first place he did not know. Nevertheless, today he put up his own private prayers for the safety, well-being and future happiness of the bridegroom and his chose bride, and petitioned the All-Wise to grant them long life and many stron sons.

Anjuli, once a devout Hindu, had not prayed for several years, having come to believe either that the gods did not exist, or that for reasons of their own possibly because of the foreign blood in her veins – they had turned their faces from her. She did not pray now, and she wore the bourka in place of a wedding dress, which struck no one there as strange, since Western brides traditionally wore white and went veiled to the altar, while in the East a widow's weeds are not black but white.

Ash had cut a slit at one side of the tent-like garment so that he could take her hand, and as all else was hidden by the bourka, that small, square hand was all that the wedding guests saw of the bride. Yet strangely enough each one of them, on that evidence alone, was immediately convinced that Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn's bride was a woman of rare beauty and charm. They were also convinced that she spoke and understood English, for Ash had taught her the few words she must say, and when the time came she spoke them in a low clear voice that copied his intonation so exactly that anyone who did not know her story might well have supposed that the cheap cotton bourka disguised some well-bred Victorian miss.