The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

green bananas. At one stop, Gerald alighted and returned with food from one of the itinerant sellers but she could not eat it. Her throat was parched, almost closed, and all she could do was sip the water he offered.

      Her new husband slept heavily. He had the soldier’s ability to rest wherever he found himself, and he slept with barely a sound. His face had lost its earlier sallowness and the strands of fair hair falling over his forehead made him look very young. Daisy’s heart stirred. She forgave him his indifference, his impatience with her, even his drinking. He had so far offered no explanation for his discourtesy, but her mind had been busy supplying one. It was wedding nerves, she’d decided, that was all. Marriage brought change, a disruption to the world he knew, and Gerald loved his life in India, that was plain from every conversation they’d ever had. He was immensely proud of being chosen for the Indian Army, so competitive was entry. And proud of being a cavalryman. Whenever he spoke of his regiment, he lit with an inner glow. He must be worried that her arrival posed a threat to the life he loved. Her job was to reassure him, make clear that she had not come to unsettle his world but to build a loving home for them both.

      By sunset, they were travelling through a different kind of landscape. In village after village columns of fire smoke wound their way upwards and spread out across fields of blue linseed. Preparations for the evening meal were clearly under way. She felt her heart open to the tranquil beauty of the land, to the thousands, no, millions of lives, lived beneath its broad skies. A pale, golden dust hung from above, outlining a straggle of cows making the slow journey back to their night shelter. In an instant it seemed the glittering heat of the day had been transformed into one of milky warmth. Darkness fell just as suddenly and, at last, through sheer exhaustion, she slept.

      ‘We’re here. Jasirapur.’

      Daisy felt herself shaken awake, and with clouded eyes looked out on yet another platform. It was early morning but already she could feel the sun gathering pace, its stealthy fingers probing the compartment’s defences. Marwar Junction, she read.

      ‘We get out here,’ Gerald repeated.

      Hastily she scrabbled her possessions together and in a few minutes had joined him on the platform. The train was already preparing to leave for its onward journey to Delhi. She looked around for her suitcase but the luggage had disappeared from sight. An aroma of cinnamon trailed the air, wafting in clouds from the steaming cauldrons scattered at intervals along the platform.

      Gerald stopped in his walk towards the exit. ‘The bags are already in the trap but would you like tea before we set off? The chai-makers are pretty good here.’

      His kindness revived her as much as the tea. She sipped at the cup slowly, readying herself for this last part of the journey. She had been travelling for twenty-four hours with little rest but she couldn’t complain. She had come despite Gerald’s warning that she would not be at all comfortable and her journey was unnecessary. He’d promised to return to England at the first opportunity and when he did, they would marry immediately. She could see she’d upset him by taking matters into her own hands, but he loved her and he would understand why she’d had to come. With his support, she would make a success of this new life. For a while the country would be strange, but she would adapt, she would learn as she went along.

      Though the sun shone hotter by the minute, the pony and trap set a brisk pace. The track they were travelling was little more than a dirt road, rough and unfinished, and she was constantly jolted from one side of the carriage to the other. She saw Gerald looking anxiously at her but she said nothing. It was not the right time.

      ‘Won’t be long now,’ he encouraged.

      This morning he seemed completely himself, looking and sounding the debonair young officer she’d met that morning at the perfume counter of Bridges. Debonair was not an adjective she could claim for herself, for the dress she had so carefully chosen for her wedding looked little more than a rag, and smothered now in the red dust that flew everywhere.

      The driver swung onto a narrower track, following it down and round, the pony skilfully negotiating a series of corners and curves until they were at a rough mud wall enclosing what she took to be a compound. It was hard to discern how large the compound was or what lay within it, since weeds and grasses had been allowed free rein and were now almost thigh high. Patches of red oleanders here and there broke up the wilderness. And right in front of where Daisy sat perched on the trap’s small seat, an enormous tree, its thick, drooping branches growing roots of their own and casting a circle of dense black shadow against the sunlight. Behind the tree and through its huge branches, she could just catch a glimpse of a whitewashed building.

      Out of nowhere, it seemed, a light-skinned servant appeared at the side of the carriage. He was dressed from head to toe in starched white cotton and was bowing his head in welcome. Gerald jumped down and clapped the man on the shoulder.

      ‘Rajiv, this is your new memsahib. Daisy, you must meet my trusted servant, Rajiv.’

      The man bowed his head again but she was aware of his eyes sliding sideways and up, observing her, watchful, even hostile. No, she must be wrong. He couldn’t be hostile since he did not know her. But if he had been with Gerald for years, she reasoned, he might resent her presence, might resent a woman stepping into his domain. She would need to make an effort to get to know him.

      ‘I am very new to India, Rajiv, but I hope you will help me settle in.’

      ‘Of course he will,’ Gerald said a little too heartily, and led the way into the building she’d seen in the distance.

      A thatched roof sat atop its blinding white walls and a wide veranda wrapped itself around all four sides, the paint peeling from its decaying wood. She noticed a bicycle propped against one of the supports. It seemed as battered as its surroundings. Panels of plaited reeds had been hung at every window and, once inside the bungalow, she could see that though they made its interior overly dark, they also helped to keep it cool. Rush matting covered the floor and the furniture was sparse: a horsehair sofa, several chairs made from wicker, a table, a desk. They appeared to be standing in saucers full of water and she bent her head to look.

      ‘That’s to stop the ants from climbing up and eating the furniture.’ Gerald had seen her from the corner of his eye. ‘You’ll soon get used to the wildlife.’ And as though to test his theory, she heard sounds of scratching and scurrying above her head, making her look upwards to the ceiling of whitewashed hessian.

      ‘That will be the rats. We get the occasional bat too, but nothing to worry about. They won’t find a way in. They live between the thatch and the ceiling.’

      ‘But can’t you get rid of them?’

      ‘Not possible. Like I said, you’ll get used to it.’

      When her face suggested this was unlikely, he shrugged his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’m sorry this isn’t the palace you might have been imagining. But you insisted on coming. And you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.’

      ‘No, Gerald.’ She walked up to him and took his hands in hers. ‘You’re right. The bungalow is delightful.’ After all what had she to compare it with, a bleak room shared with five others in the orphanage, a servant’s attic in Miss Maddox’s house or the miserable bedsit she had only just afforded in Paddington.

      Without warning, Rajiv appeared once more at their side. He seemed to have his own peculiar form of locomotion, gliding out of nowhere, silently, effortlessly.

       ‘ Chota hazri , sahib.’

      ‘Yes, of course. Daisy, you must have some food and drink and then I think a long sleep.’

      Tea and fruit had been laid out on the table, which stood at the far end of what she imagined was the main room of the bungalow. The fruit and the small sweet cakes that accompanied the tea were delicious and she ate with appetite. Gerald only picked at the food and was soon on the veranda giving instructions to his servant.

      She wandered into the larger of the two bedrooms. It was another spacious room with a high ceiling,