The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

Undeterred, Anish Rana strode ahead, scattering to one side vendors and children, and weaving his way expertly through family groups.

      Ahead of her, Daisy saw the quay narrow and guessed they were nearing the road. She touched Anish lightly on the arm. ‘Before we leave, Mr Rana, I’d like to visit a washroom. I think we may have just passed one.’

      ‘You must be quick then. We should be at the church in a quarter of an hour.’

      A few minutes before the cracked mirror and she had blotted the shine from flushed skin and corrected her lipstick, but a brush pulled through the drooping waves left them still sadly limp. Then out into the savage heat once more and into the seething city. She had thought the port crowded but here on the street, the smell and movement of a mass of humanity stopped her in her tracks. Everywhere, buses, horses, rickshaws jostled for space. To Daisy’s eyes, there hardly seemed an inch of road unoccupied. Trucks with signs painted on their sides requesting everyone to ‘Please Blow Horn’ swerved between overloaded donkeys, stray dogs, and the occasional camel or bullock-drawn cart. Even the traffic island in the middle of the road was occupied, several cows lazily flicking long ears as they chewed on invisible grass.

      Anish’s voice broke her trance. ‘We should go. See here, I have managed to acquire a topi for you.’

      She reached out her hand for the khaki helmet. ‘Where did you find it?’

      ‘Better not to ask!’

      He grinned and she thought how attractive he was with his white teeth and smooth brown skin. For the first time, her eyes smiled back. He hurried her forward to a four-wheeled carriage waiting by the kerbside. The horse between the shafts looked half-starved, and she felt guilty that the poor creature must carry her in this temperature. But Anish was bundling her into the Victoria and she could do nothing but settle herself as comfortably as she could within its musty leather.

      As they swung out into the road, a man waved to her from the other side of the street. Grayson Harte. When he’d first introduced himself, she had thought it such an elegant name, the kind of name that would have invited instant punishment at Eden House. She had always been glad that hers was so down to earth. Not that she could be sure it was hers.

      ‘Who is that?’ Anish was looking surprised.

      ‘His name is Grayson Harte. He was travelling on my ship and has a job with the Indian Civil Service. I believe that’s what he called it.’

      ‘One of the “heaven born” then.’

      Grayson would be on his way to report for his new post and she wished him well. He had been kind to her, very kind, picking her up from that catastrophic fall and trying to persuade her to see a doctor. She’d accepted a cup of sweet tea and told him all was well. But it hadn’t been. A stab of anger surprised her by its ferocity, though it was pointless to feel rage. The men who had sent her sprawling on deck in their bid to escape, could not know what they’d done.

      ‘Will Gerald be wearing a very smart uniform?’ she asked after a while. ‘I’m afraid I might let him down.’

      ‘Gerald will be in plain service dress. Anything else would be far too hot at this time of the year. And you must not worry, you look splendid.’

      She was grateful for the lie. Since she’d left the ship early that morning, her nerves had steadily grown more frayed, whispering loudly that she was travelling under false pretences and had no right to be in India. Should she even, at this late stage, ask Anish to stop the carriage and take her back to the port where she might beg a passage on the first liner leaving for Southampton? But that was a fantasy. She had no money for a ticket and if, by some miracle, she could raise the funds to return, what would she be returning to? There was no home and her precious job was lost to her. It would be all right, she made herself believe, it must be all right. Gerald would understand. He would be at the church and she would confide everything to him before the ceremony. How much easier it would have been, though, if he had come to meet her.

      ‘I’d hoped Gerald would be here,’ she said. ‘To help me, you know. Everything is so strange.’

      ‘You will be with him very soon,’ her escort said soothingly.

      He talked on, pointing out places of interest, feeding her small glimpses of military life, slowly putting her at ease. He was a comfortable companion, interesting and amusing, and gradually she lost the tension that had been building. They were passing through a quieter neighbourhood now, one of wide, tree-lined roads, and in a short while drew up outside a large building of honeyed stone. Daisy craned her head upwards to follow the slender spire which emerged from the surrounding trees, so tall it almost touched the sky. A golden cross sat at its summit.

      ‘This is the church we are to be married in?’

      ‘It is. St John’s Afghan Church. Built to commemorate the officers and soldiers who died in the Afghan campaigns. It has special memories for the military.’

      It was unnerving to think of death on this day of all days but the church was exquisite, an oasis of calm, and far distant from any battlefield. She took a deep breath, trying to absorb some of its tranquillity, trying to stop her tired mind chasing down dark avenues. These would be the most important few minutes of her life and the thought was making her feel slightly sick. She loved Gerald and she believed he loved her in return. But it was months since she had last seen him and there had been—well, complications. But she must not allow herself to be deflected. The marriage would work, she thought fiercely; it had to, for she had nothing to go back to.

      Anish offered her his arm and together they passed through a square, stone porch and plunged into the cool darkness of the church. A narrow ribbon of red carpet covered the floor’s geometric tiles and made a pathway to the brass rails of the altar. They walked along the nave, between a procession of archways of intricately traced stone and, behind these, window after window of glorious stained glass.

      Figures were moving in front of the altar and she picked out a white-frocked priest, half-hidden in the gloom, and two soldierly forms, one it seemed attempting to support the other. One of the figures turned as she made her way down the aisle. It was Gerald, but Gerald as she had never seen him: dishevelled, unsteadily clutching at his comrade, his face a blank mask. He was ill! Daisy felt panic rise. This was why he’d not been at the port, why he’d sent Anish, who had not wanted to alarm her by telling her the truth. The confession she’d been rehearsing died on her lips and she quickened her step. She must get to him, take care of him. As she drew nearer to the group, the unmistakable smell of liquor assailed her. She might be young and naïve, but she recognised the ‘illness’ immediately. He was drunk, drunk on his wedding day. She was seized with the impulse to turn tail and run. Except that she had nowhere to run to.

      Drunk or not, her bridegroom managed his part in the brief ceremony with barely a hitch, needing only the occasional prompt from one or other of his friends, his responses slightly slurred but sufficient. In under ten minutes they were man and wife; a brief brush of lips on her cheek and Daisy was again outside in the molten day. The heat had grown even more intense and the air seemed to solidify around them. You could almost cut it with a sharp knife and step through the opening, she thought. The carriage was still waiting by the kerbside and with Gerald beside her, she took her seat once more, while their two witnesses waved them a relieved goodbye.

      ‘Victoria Station, jaldi!’

      Gerald gave the order, sitting stiffly beside her. She closed her eyes against the searing sun and against the unwelcome thoughts that came thick and fast. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, for it was as though she shared the carriage with a stranger. The last time she had seen Gerald, their final goodbye in the London dawn, he had been warm and tender. She’d bought a platform ticket for the Southampton train and stood watching as his dear face slowly disappeared into the distance. He hadn’t wanted to go, had promised that very soon they would be together again, together for life. She glanced across at him. A bead of sweat had dripped from his brow to the end of his nose but he made no attempt to wipe it away. Perhaps after a while you grew not to notice the discomfort. His skin was sallow and his fair hair seemed unusually dull—and