The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) (10 page)

“Thank you.”

She thought he would never relinquish her hand. She did not dare look into his eyes.

Then she was free. He was walking away from her down the passage and she felt inexplicably that he was taking with him something of herself.

CHAPTER
FIVE

The bustle and noise on the quay was almost
deafening
.

The passengers coming down the First Class gangway seemed to be plunged into a maelstrom of dark bodies, baggage and bales, children screaming, men shouting and an indescribable general confusion from which one felt that nothing could emerge but chaos.

Orissa’s Steward who had found a coolie to take her luggage waited for her to give him instructions.

She had expected only half-heartedly that there would be someone to meet her. She hoped perhaps her Uncle might have instructed a friend or one of his officers in Bombay to be on the quay when the ship docked.

Then she told herself it was far more likely that he would meet her at Delhi.

After all, if Charles had telegraphed him as they had arranged, he would be sure that she would be chaperoned on the voyage and that whoever was looking after her would see her into the train for Delhi.

Nevertheless she stood for a moment in the
seething crowd wondering if there was anyone looking for her and hoping they would not miss her.

The coolie, half naked and with ragged clothing waited philosophically for her to make up her mind as to where he was to take her baggage.

There was not much of it and she was thankful that she had not, like most of the other passengers, to wait until the luggage which had been in the hold came ashore.

She had forgotten, she thought, how overwhelming the crowds could be in India, and yet even in this moment of confusion her heart leaped at the colour that was everywhere.

There were Indians waiting with garlands of marigolds for their friends to disembark from the ship and the brilliance of
the
saris seemed to be echoed in the uniforms of the various soldiers of all ranks moving about the quayside.

There were vendors selling fruits of green, purple and orange. There were children of well-off Indians carrying coloured windmills and kites, and everywhere there were beautiful faces with huge, brown, liquid eyes.

And above all there was the sun-shine, golden and warm, which penetrated even through the covered part of the quay and enveloped the ship Orissa had just left in a kind of golden haze.

“Is anyone meeting you, Mrs. Lane?”

She had no need to turn her head to see who had asked her the question in his deep voice.

As if she had half-anticipated that Major Meredith would find her again even though she had said goodbye to him, a lie sprang to her lips.

“A carriage will be ... waiting for me ... outside.”

“Then shall I tell your porter to take you there?”

“Thank you, that would be very kind.”

Orissa managed to speak with a cold reserve.

She had the uncomfortable feeling that Major Meredith was trying to find out more about her; perhaps to meet her mythical husband, or even to make sure that she was in fact not left alone in Bombay.

She had said good-bye to the General and Lady Critchley on board and the latter had actually had a note of warmth in her voice when she thanked Orissa for all she had done for little Neil.

Neil’s mother, who had met her father and mother before they had disembarked, had been most effusive.

‘
I
cannot be too grateful to you, Mrs. Lane,” she said, “Mama tells me that you have improved Neil’s health and made him behave like an angel throughout the whole voyage.”

“He is a dear little boy,” Orissa said affectionately. “Have you any children of your own?”

“No”

“I felt you must have,” Neil’s mother smiled, “to have been so clever with mine. But thank you—thank you more than I can say.”

“It has been a very great pleasure!” Orissa replied. Then a number of smart be-medalled officers appeared, to escort the General to his carriage and Orissa slipped away.

She had expected that Major Meredith also would have a welcoming party awaiting him, but he appeared to be alone.

For one uncomfortable moment she thought that he intended to come with her and her coolie in search of the carriage which she had said was outside.

Firmly she held her hand out to him.

“Good-bye, Major Meredith.”

“Perhaps we shall meet again,” he suggested. “I am often in Bombay.”

“I think it is unlikely,” Orissa replied.

She felt this was unnecessarily rude and as an afterthought added:

“My
...
husband and I do not
...
entertain very much.”

“Then I must not try to impose on your hospitality,” Major Meredith said.

And she knew by the twist of his lips that he realised she was trying to be rid of him.

At that moment a truck containing a great pile of baggage from the ship pushed past them amid cries from the porters to clear the way, and Orissa turned and followed her own small pile of luggage without another look at Major Meredith.

‘I really shall never see him again,’ she told herself and wondered why the thought gave her so little pleasure.

Outside a number of
gharri-wallahs,
the cab-drivers of hired carriages, solicited her custom for their shabby
gharris.

Her coolie chose one and having piled the baggage on the seat opposite her thanked her for the tip she gave him.

“Where Mem-sahib go?” the
gharri-wattah
enquired.

“The Victoria Terminus,” Orissa instructed him, “but drive round by the sea.”

She had been to Bombay before, but it seemed to her that it had grown tremendously in the eight years since she had been in India.

There was still the beautiful bay shimmering in the heat so that it gave the illusion of being hardly real.

The enormous group of official buildings to which Orissa was sure a great many had been added, stood like a massive palisade parallel with the sea, separated from the beaches by an expanse of brownish turf, a railway line and a riding-track which she remembered was called “Rotten Row.”

She recognised some of the buildings as ones she had seen before. Many were Venetian Gothic, some decorated in French fashion, others early English, while the Post Office was simply pseudo-Mediaeval.

Enormous palm-mat awnings shaded the windows and there were white-suited figures strolling high on the balconies, while below them were the teaming crowds of dark-skinned figures.

There were stalls piled high with water-melons or vividly coloured glass bowls with drinks so cheap that even the poorest could afford to buy one.

There were men selling sweet-meats or tobacco, chapattis or fruit, and cakes fried in fat.

It was all so familiar; the bustling and shouting, the creaking of wagon-wheels, the bullocks drawing great loads, and the veiled women wearing yashmaks
,
their voluminous enveloping
pulled closely
about their faces.

To Orissa it was part of her childhood, and all too quickly the
gharri-wallah
brought her to the Victoria
Terminus, where there were still more crowds and the Station was so full there was hardly room to move.

A stranger might have been under the impression that a Festival was taking place or that there was some special reason for such a crowd to have congregated at the Terminus.

But Orissa knew from the past that a Hindu, having asked the price of the ticket to where he is to travel, will seldom ask the time of the departure of the train.

When the day of his journey drew near, he would move into the Station with his family.

They spread their sleeping-mats on the platform, cooked their food over small braziers, wash under the Station tap while the railway officials, luggage coolies and passengers step over and around them.

Orissa went to the ticket office and was forced to wait for some time because of several fierce arguments between would-be passengers and the official selling tickets.

“A First Class ticket to Delhi, please,” she said, “and what time does the next train leave?”

She learned that she had missed the morning train which was the fastest of the day and must now wait until the evening.

The wait would not be arduous. She could buy food and there was much to amuse her.

The porter who had taken her luggage from the gharri was quite prepared to do nothing else but watch it and she sat down on a seat enjoying the scene in front of her.

There were not only people to watch, but goats and chickens, pai-dogs running about apparently unattended, and even a sacred white Brahmini hull which had apparently got in by mistake!

She refused offers of curry, savoury hot food and a glass of sherbet, but she did accept a green coconut, off which the seller obligingly hacked the top, so that she could drink the cool milk.

She was thirsty because it was very hot but she knew that she must not drink the water and she did not fancy the cups which the
chai-wallah
offered her, filled with hot tea.

There were many other things to see as well: barrows laden with toys, baskets of wooden animals and birds painted with crimson daisies and yellow roses. There were palm-leaf fans so cheap that Orissa allowed herself the luxury of one.

When at last in the late afternoon the train did arrive, puffing and blowing like some fierce dragon descending menacingly upon the crowded Station, the noise was indescribable.

Those asleep on the platform sprang to life and the Station was filled with an unearthly clamour.

The loud orders of native policemen who had suddenly appeared from no-where mingled with the shrill yells of women gathering up their children, their animals and their husbands.

Orissa’s porter found her a first class carriage marked “Ladies Only.” He reserved her a comer seat before anyone else could enter and heaved her luggage up onto the rack.

He was so delighted with what she gave him for his trouble that she knew that she must have overtipped him.

But she told herself that it did not matter. She had plenty of money left.

When she left the ship the General had tipped the Steward who looked after the State-Room which she and Neil occupied. So apart from her lessons with Mr. Mahla she had in fact incurred no expenses while she had been on board.

The First Class fare to Delhi had not been cheap, but Uncle Henry was waiting at the other end, and she thought with satisfaction that the money that Charles had given her would come in very useful in refurbishing her wardrobe.

She was well aware that she would need many more dresses if she was to do her Uncle credit and perhaps play Hostess for him.

When they went further North with the Regiment in perhaps a month’s time, there would be no need for her to look quite so smart.

But
Delhi
would be full of officer’s wives, and she was well aware that the searching eye of a female would quickly perceive how worn her clothes really were.

Nevertheless she had her pretty new muslin dresses to wear and at least two evening gowns of which she was not completely ashamed.

‘I will go to the native Bazaar,’ she told herself. T can buy really cheap materials and far better than those in the shops which cater for the white population.’

The carriage soon filled up.

There were three officers’ wives, but their husbands belonged to different Regiments so they were politely cool with each other, showing a British reserve which Orissa found amusing.

There was a gaunt-faced missionary who sat in the comer reading tracts and speaking to no-one.

There was a plump little woman—obviously the wife of a business man—who settled herself comfortably as soon as she got in, closed her eyes and prepared to sleep.

The officers’ wives glanced at Orissa from under their eye-lashes but made no attempt to get into conversation with her. She was glad because when the train started she wanted to watch the country speeding by until it grew dark.

They stopped after two hours and everyone surged onto the platform in search of food.

Orissa by this time felt hungry and she bought herself a hard-boiled egg, two large chapattis and some fruit, avoiding the expensive English food in the Station buffet.

Soon after the train started off again it was dark, and the ladies producing pillows, rugs and blankets all settled themselves down to sleep.

Orissa made herself as comfortable as she could, but the noise of the train and the way it jerked nearly to a standstill and then accelerated back to its previous speed was not restful.

Although the windows were shut the dust penetrated and threw a thin grey film over them all, so that at the frequent stops it seemed to Orissa more important to wash than to bother about food.

She did however walk up the train at one stop and found there were a number of horses on the train from the famous Arab stables at Bombay.

She knew that one of the sights of Bombay was the Bendhi bazaar where the dealers from the Persian Gulf sold their horses.

The Indian Army was a great market for Arab horses, and Orissa wished she could see the archnecked animals that were being carried to Delhi to join the others of their kind that were so important a part of the Indian Cavalry Regiments.

It was exciting to think that once she was with her Uncle she would be able to ride again. As she thought of it she wondered what Major Meredith looked like on a horse.

She had the feeling, though she could not think why, that he was an exceptional horseman.

There was something about his hands, she thought, that told her he would handle an animal gently, but at the same time so firmly there would be no mistaking who was master.