The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

not want to go?’

      ‘I’ve only just arrived, Gerald, and we are only just married.’ It shouldn’t be necessary to remind him, she thought.

      ‘I realise that. It’s why I haven’t packed you off immediately. By the time the last group of women leave next week, you’ll have had ample space to recover from the journey.’

      Was he deliberately misreading her concern? Making out that it was the travelling rather than their marriage that was worrying her. She couldn’t be certain, but she was certain she had no wish to be ‘packed off’, no matter how enticing the place. The set look on his face, though, signalled it would be difficult to refuse.

      ‘You’ll try to visit while I’m there?’

      ‘Whenever I can.’ His response mixed relief with cheerfulness. ‘But really you won’t need me. The women get all sorts of things going. Parties, picnics, concerts, amateur dramatics. Even fashion shows. And every Sunday you can wear your best clothes for morning service—the cathedral is always packed—and be certain they’ll stay crisp. The climate is wonderful.’

      ‘So Anish told me.’

      ‘He was right. The scenery is wonderful too. You can see the Himalayas through the clouds and they go on for mile after mile. Great masses of ice and snow almost hanging in the sky. It’s majestic. The gods are supposed to live in the mountains, did you know that? And when you see them for the first time, you’ll believe it.’

      She smiled faintly. He was so enthusiastic and he was concerned for her. He wanted her to be happy and comfortable in her new life and that was reassuring; that was more like the old Gerald. She would do as he wished, she decided, and if she were ever tempted to waver, the thought of escaping an overpowering heat would be sure to persuade her back into line.

      The driver was at the door at five o’clock sharp. She saw the pleat of his turban bend and flutter as he talked with her husband on the veranda. Gerald had warned her not to dress until the last minute and she was glad of the advice. Even though the early evening air was balmy, the warmth still bounced off the ground, hitting legs and body with unbelievable energy. Her entire skin was aflame and once the dress was on, the lightest of silks felt like a hot glove.

      The Jasirapur station had so far been only a word to her but as they drove through what Gerald told her were the civil lines, she had a sense of the power and reach of the administration of which she was now a very small part. Row after row of bungalows spread before them, the homes of civil service personnel, of police and forestry officers, and their families. On the other side of the road, further lines of bungalows stretched into the distance, each whitewashed and red-ochred and separated one from the other by splashes of tired grass. This was the cantonment, her husband told her, the home of the military. Beyond the bungalows, a hotchpotch of interlinked buildings signalled the barracks for the Indian soldiers.

      Daisy glanced across at her husband. He looked splendid in blue and gold, his slim, upright figure admirable in the close-fitting dress uniform. For an instant she was filled with a surge of pure pleasure. It was wonderful to be dressed so prettily, to be sitting beside the man she loved, and to be going into company for the very first time as a couple. Her heart felt lighter than it had since those heady moments in London. These last few days, she’d become wary of betraying her ignorance and swallowed most of her questions, but a new sense of wellbeing encouraged her to ask, ‘Have you always rented the bungalow or did you once live on the station?’

      ‘I lived in the Mess. It’s over there.’ And he pointed vaguely in the direction of the barracks. ‘It’s home to the unmarried officers. Some of the married officers too—if they want to get away from their wives. The centre of regimental life really. Everyone sleeps, eats, spends their spare time there.’

      ‘Then Anish must live in the Mess. Will he be coming tonight?’

      It seemed important that he was. His was a kind face, she thought, kind and familiar and friendly.

      ‘He won’t be at the dinner. Indians aren’t allowed in the Club.’

      She stared at him in astonishment. ‘It’s beginning to change but it’s still difficult,’ he said tersely. ‘Last year the Colonel put up an officer for membership, a cadet from the Indian Military Academy—the same as Anish. He was turned down, so the old boy won’t allow other Indian officers to apply.’

      ‘But surely …’

      ‘It’s the way it is, Daisy.’ His voice rose in annoyance. ‘And you better get used to it. There are all kinds of distinctions to life here and it’s important you learn them. The military and the ICS—the civil service—are on a par, top of the social tree, but planters and businessmen are not quite the thing. If you hear anyone called a box-wallah, that’s who they’re talking about. Tea and indigo planters have more status than the sugar and jute wallahs. They’re trade and aren’t allowed to join the Club either. They have their own place.’

      Daisy knew all about distinctions. She had been on the wrong end of them all her short life and had had little option but to accept that was the way things were. But it didn’t mean she was ever going to think them right. And certainly not a distinction that barred a man like Anish from mixing socially with those he worked beside day after day. But she knew, too, that she was helpless in the face of conventions she imagined had held rigid for centuries, so she said no more.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      The Club was housed in a spacious, white building with a long, deep veranda running its full length. A sloping red roof provided shade and as much coolness as was possible. Cane tables and chairs were scattered along the veranda’s expanse and several groups of people were chatting there, heads bathed in the light that spilled from open windows and doors. Drink was flowing freely and repeated calls of ‘Koi-Hai!’ interrupted the buzz of chatter, as one or other of the Club servants was called to attend. The scratchy sound of an old record filtered through the air and Daisy felt her husband’s arm guiding her towards the sound. As they mounted the wooden steps, she felt the drinkers’ eyes swivel in their direction, their stares variously curious and indifferent. A tall woman rose from a nearby table and came towards them. She appeared to be wearing a floral dressing gown, its skirts flowing around her ankles. At second glance, Daisy could see it was an opulent evening gown, and she immediately felt underdressed.

      ‘Gerald, my dear, how good to see you here. And with your new bride. Such a pretty girl you’ve found!’

      ‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs Forester.’ He certainly looked glad, Daisy thought. Glad and relieved. ‘Daisy, this is Mrs Forester. Colonel Forester is my commanding officer.’

      ‘Call me Edith, my dear. It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You must let me take you in hand and introduce you to as many wives as we can manage. Gerald, get your wife a chota peg.’ She saw Daisy’s anxious expression. ‘On second thoughts, a gimlet might be better—gin and lime my dear, most refreshing.’

      Daisy felt a confusing mix of emotions as they passed into the Club meeting room. It seemed she was approved by this august matron and that had to be good, but she was not at all sure she wished to be taken in hand by her. It was Gerald who should be by her side. But where was he? Making straight for the bar, she saw, along with every other man in the room. And it was an enormous edifice, its huge polished surface filling at least a quarter of the available space.

      In general the clubhouse was not inviting. Its walls were wood panelled and decorated with the heads of various dead animals, interspersed here and there with sepia-tinged photographs of past company. In the middle of the central wall was a full-length portrait of the new King and Queen, looking almost as nervous as Daisy felt. At one end of the room a huddle of women were bunched tightly together, and it was towards this ocean of floral silks and flashing jewellery that she allowed herself to be gently pushed. Edith was propelling her with one hand while with the other she waved to friends on either side, as the women divided obediently