Robert penned a short telegram to Madam Ye and rang for the bellboy to come deliver it. He kept it suitably vague, trying to use words the woman herself spoke. He didn’t trust anyone anymore, not when his livelihood and the life of his daughter were at stake.
Looking forward to tea. Smoky this week.
Black pudding is on the menu.
With the telegram on its way to Madam Ye’s, Robert stripped off and sank into the bath he’d drawn, the scalding water stripping the stench of opium smoke from his body but doing little about the insidious thoughts butterflying around his brain.
The Game
Waiting for a reply was worse than torture and sent Robert back to his pacing. He’d refused to leave the hotel for fear of missing any word from Madam Ye, so when the bellboy delivered another monogrammed envelope, he snatched it from his hand.
Heart beating, he ripped open the envelope, but it wasn’t a telegram and bore no news of a fire nor any threats. It was an invitation to a polo game, from the Indian Polo Association.
Robert knew polo, he’d even dabbled in the old ball and stick back at his club when he was younger, but he lacked the passion for it. He propped the invitation above the unlit hearth and considered the embossed card. Given his company’s reputation, maybe someone in the Association was trying to curry a favour? He could think of no other reason to invite him, although as he regarded social occasions useful for fostering new business and contacts, he would go.
He made a note of the date; the game was in two days and didn’t impact on any of the meetings his agent had lined up for him. The only ball in the air was Madam Ye and her demands. He just had to trust that she’d interpret his telegram and be in contact. He didn’t have to wait long.
On Robert’s return from his evening meal in the dining room of the Great Western Hotel, a curious mix of a saddle of mutton and veal sweetbreads, with artichokes and asparagus in a creamy sauce. He was full and feeling somnolent when he spied the third monogrammed envelope under his door in as many days.
His dinner threatened to come up as his hands shook opening the envelope. Robert’s blue eyes scanned the short missive, and he released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. A reply from Madam Ye, offering to send a boy to bring him to tea at the end of the week. Another line on the page urged him to enjoy the upcoming polo match. There were no secrets in this city.
The day of the game mirrored the day before and the one before that, the temperature climbing no higher than 27 degrees; hot but bearable compared to other parts of India Robert had visited. The sky was an unimaginable blue, as if Rembrandt himself had painted it, and the city teemed underneath it as Robert travelled to the polo field. A newer club than the more established polo grounds in India. Today teams from Alwar, Bhopal, Jaipur, Jodhpur and Kashmir were competing. The hotel staff urging him to support one or the other of the teams, depending on their origins. Robert had no intention of placing any bets unless he saw other gentlemen such as himself betting on the games. He was there to connect and to establish new trading partners, and where possible, arrange more favourable terms with whichever minor royalty was in attendance, that was the way of things here in India.
After a few enquiries, it transpired that Robert’s shipping agent was sponsoring a game, hence his invitation. And it made sense for him to be there, a valuable client. It may even be fertile ground to find Grace a husband, as Indian polo grounds were the preferred haunt of English Army Officers, where they could show off their horsemanship and ball skills for the glory of their corps.
Every officer desired membership to the Bombay Polo Club. There was a narrow window for applications, so attendance for someone such as Robert, as the guest of a sponsor, was the only way he could enter the club, otherwise he’d he relegated to the ‘B’ enclosure, and as an Englishman, that just wasn’t acceptable.
Bombay was a thriving metropolis, and although Robert had stayed many times, it never ceased to amaze him that the view from his carriage rivalled most other European cities. Surrounded by soaring majestic buildings such as the Tata mansion, Crawford Market, Watson’s Hotel, and the iconic Victoria Railway Station, if you ignored the incessant clamouring, the inescapable noise, and the heat, you could just as easily be in Paris or Rome or Prague, or even London.
After checking his pocket for his invitation, Robert exited his carriage and entered the polo grounds, surrounded by uniforms and men of business. A fair number of the attendees were women with parasols and ribboned sun hats, tittering amongst themselves, angling for attention — part of the Fishing Fleet - third daughter of the pastor type women, sent to India to secure suitable husbands. Most succeeded. The ratio of eligible bachelors skewed in the women’s favour, although the women knew far too much about military ranks now to settle for a minor notary posted to a backwater town. No, they were clever little things the Fishing Fleet girls.
‘Robert!’
Robert Williams turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
‘Winston! What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Competing with the 4th Queens Own Hussars. And how did you wangle an invitation? Those are worth more than gold, every man and his dog wants one,’ Winston motioned towards the invitation in Robert’s hand.
‘Business, Winston. It’s always business. I’ve no time to prance around on ponies like you army chaps,’ Robert replied, a twinkle in his eye.
He’d met Winston at a cram school years ago, when he had a half-baked ambition to join the civil service. He’d dropped out, but Winston had stayed. They’d kept in contact for a brief while before going their separate ways, Winston into the army and Robert into trade.
‘Come on, Winston, hop to it, team talk,’ shouted out another officer, resplendent in his uniform, white jodhpurs pressed within an inch of their lives.
‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ Winston called back, as he dashed away.
Robert made his way into the club rooms, fielding greetings from various fellows — both acquaintances and old friends in equal measures. It was akin to being in his club in London, although adding women into the mix was a novelty. They didn’t admit women to his club. Allowing them entrée was a hideous thought — they’d stamp out the gambling, and the cigars and agitate to gussy up the place with floral print cushions and lace at the windows. A club was a place for men, but he couldn’t deny that here they provided a level of delicate refinement.
Robert had been single for so long that he was unpractised with interacting with the fairer sex. The only women he socialised with were his daughter Grace, and his sister Jessica, the rest he didn’t both with. So it shocked him to end up standing by the trophy cabinet conversing with an all-too-frank dark haired woman who knew more about polo than the staff at the hotel.
‘And what’s that trophy?’ Robert asked, pointing to one of the less ostentatious trophy’s on display, distinctive because of its lack of horse-type embellishment most traditional polo trophies exhibited.
‘With the jade handles?’
Robert nodded.
‘The Ye Family donated that. The Association couldn’t say no to such a magnificent piece, especially as the family are a significant financial supporter of the club,’ Miss Bolton said.
Robert turned to scan the room. The game had begun outside, meaning the club rooms had emptied somewhat, leaving a smattering of couples sitting at the tables, avoiding the stifling dust churned up by the ponies. There were white faces and Indian faces, but not a single oriental face.
‘Are they here?’ Robert asked.
His companion laughed. ‘Here? Heavens no, they frequent the ‘B’ enclosure. They have their own pavilion, you can see it if you come this way,’ she said, pulling him by his hand.
So taken aback by the unfamiliar touch, Robert allowed her to lead him to the windows where she pointed with her gloved hand to the opposite side of the grounds. You couldn’t miss it, the redness of the silk drew the eye as much as fire attracted moths to its naked flames. Robert co
uldn’t see the people sitting beneath the roomy tent, but in his mind he imagined Madam Ye on a golden throne watching him, waiting. He turned his back on the tent, back to his companion.
‘Where should we watch the match from?’ he asked, steering her deeper inside, ostensibly towards the bar, but more to shield himself from any oriental eyes.
‘From the centre of the stand of course,’ she said. ‘But drinks first, an excellent idea. I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
Robert ordered them both drinks, and they made their way out onto the stands decorated with a sea of white parasols, as if someone had lowered a sky full of clouds from heaven to hover above the crowds.
She muscled her way to some empty seats, and without spilling a drop of her drink, pulled a pair of binoculars from the bag looped over her wrist, bringing them up to her eyes in a practised motion.
‘Just look at that form, ooh offside. That’s Buckmaster, no idea how he made the team, he is always offside. Here hold this,’ she answered, passing him her gin and removing a small pocketbook and silver repelling pencil from her bag before jotting off a quick note.
‘What do you think of old Winston?’ Robert chanced, catching sight of his friend cantering past as the umpires and referee decided on the penalty.
‘He’s improving but his handicap is still average. The officers improve the longer they are out here, so hope exists. Seems a shame that he’ll go back to England soon, but that’s for the best given… never mind that. I’ve read that the polo scene is picking up at home,’ she said, flicking through her notes.
Robert ignored the hint of scandal which slipped from her lips. ‘How is it you know so much about this sport?’
‘Mr Williams, only two sports exist in India — polo and gossip. I’m not overly fond of gossip so I’m left with polo. If they allowed me to play, I’d be giving those boys a run for their money. None of them can follow the line of the ball, although the Indians are better than the English, at least they know how to ride off another fellow without being called for a foul. Makes the play so much faster and far more interesting.’
Robert stared at her in fascination, quite forgetting that he had her drink, and she had to ask him for it. Moments later, she thrust it back into his hand, bringing the tiny binoculars up to her large brown eyes.
‘Ooh, now that is fascinating. See over there?’ she said, passing the sterling and mother-of-pearl glasses to Robert and pointing to another tent erected behind the opposing teams goalposts.
Robert adjusted the focus and the luxurious pavilion of an Indian noble came into view, with a phalanx of attendees in immaculate uniforms fussing over an elderly gentleman draped in pearl necklaces and gold braid, a ceremonial sword at his side. A common sight in India, where there were more Indian royal families than there were states, and all as rich as Croesus.
‘We rarely see him out anymore,’ Patricia said.
‘Who is he?’
‘The Raja of Nahan. He was a real man about town back in the day but he doesn’t get out much. Odd that he’s here today with his whole entourage. Can you imagine the secrets he knows? Everyone has heard the rumours about him…’
Robert shrugged, he had no time for gossip regarding people he couldn’t use.
‘Didn’t sit well with his family. Afterwards there were big fallings out over their business dealings, and it got carved into pieces. He kept the largest portion. Still a catch for someone, even at his age, so I’m surprised there isn’t a flock of peacocks around him vying for his attention today. Money always brings out the vultures.’
Her words piqued Robert’s interest.
‘What businesses does he own?’
‘Almost everything, but I don’t know for sure. You should ask the officers, they’ll tell you,’ Patricia Bolton said.
‘Come now, Miss Bolton. You profess to avoiding gossip, but from the little I have observed of you today, I’d wager that you have a sharp head on those shoulders, and that not much gets past you. Am I correct?’
‘Mr Williams, you’ve made a shocking assumption. Here I am, risking my reputation, talking to you unchaperoned, sharing my binoculars, and you suspect me of knowing a gentleman’s business? I am but a mere woman, which is obvious-’
A huge roar went up as the home team scored a resounding goal, and Robert and Miss Bolton paused their repartee to applaud.
‘Hardly a mere woman…’
‘I confess, Mr Williams, I know little of the Raja, or his cotton, indigo and opium businesses. I can find someone who understands his shipping methodologies and who his preferred agents are, if that suits? But if it’s his charitable works you are more interested in — funding of schools alongside the Christian missionaries, then that’d be harder.’
Why was it that every women he’d met in India spoke in riddles? How hard was it to get a straight forward answer to a question? He needed another drink.
‘Another drink, Miss Bolton?’
‘Lovely, thank you. I’ll come and peruse the offerings at the bar. The gin has left me feeling rather light headed in the sun.’
Once at the bar, Patricia ordered a Pimm’s Cup. The waiter looked to Robert for guidance — women ordering drinks wasn’t the done thing. Patricia muttered something under her breath, and stalked off to a table, leaving Robert to placate the distressed wait staff.
Robert joined her, a second gin and tonic for him, and a Pimm’s for her. They’d advised him to drink gin and tonic in India - the quinine in the tonic an effort to combat the threat of malaria.
‘You’re not like the other girls here,’ he said.
‘I’m not a girl,’ Patricia snorted.
Robert cleared his throat. He didn’t want to comment on her age, which he guessed was somewhere in her fifties, maybe, he was no good at judging a woman’s age.
‘You’re wondering why I’m still in India? Without a ring on my finger?’
‘Well, I…’
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Did you notice the uniforms the boys are wearing out there?’ Patricia asked. ‘I designed most of those. Even teams in England and some American teams wear my uniforms. Would that have happened if I’d returned to England? Highly doubtful, as I’m sure you’d agree. There isn’t the scope for a single woman to be as successful as I have been here. There’s plenty of money in uniforms, Mr Williams, if you have the right contacts and if you can read between the lines in the newspapers, which I’m sure you can do. Personally, I’m investing in military uniforms. And I recommend you give that some consideration,’ Patricia said before sipping her drink. ‘I love a good Pimm’s, don’t you?’
‘Where did you get the money to finance it?’ Robert asked, his own drink forgotten on the table.
‘There was another woman who provided the initial capital, sadly she’s long gone now, Naomi Abbott. She took me under her wing after someone abandoned me.’
‘Abandoned? Who would do such a thing, was it an army officer?’
‘No, no, perhaps I used the wrong word. Not so much abandoned, but… hell, it’s too hard to explain. It’s worked out for the best,’ Patricia laughed. ‘There’s nothing left for me in England, so here I am, drinking Pimm’s at a bar at a polo game in India. If I’d gone home, I’d just be drinking the same drink at Wimbledon but with only a tiny shop and not much else to show for a lifetime of hard work. So I chose this life, which has been a dash more life threatening than I thought, but much more enjoyable than what I had.’
Robert shook his head, lost, he’d never have been able to comprehend that Patricia was from the future. He was so focussed on Patricia’s words about military uniforms, that didn’t hear her Wimbledon comment, and had no room to consider what previous life she may have been referring to.
Another roar from the stands swung their heads around, and silence fell at the table. Robert contemplating everything on his plate and whether he should add something else, and Patricia allowing herself a moment of reflection for the life she’d given up once Sarah Lester dis
appeared.
The crowd swarmed inside, wreathed in smiles and drunk on joy. Patricia slipped an embossed card across the table before excusing herself and taking her glass over to another group where their infectious joy cured her of the melancholy on her face. Robert tucked the card into his waistcoat pocket. He’d call on her later, for they had much to discuss. The shipping agent then paraded Robert around the room, making introductions and arranging meetings. An excellent day overall, apart from the glimpses of red Robert caught sight of now and then, red flags fluttering in across the field, blood red.
The Merchant
Patricia fingered the delicate red cloth, the possibilities of the fabric filtering through her mind. It would never fly at home in England, it was too garish, too full of the joy of life. But in India, it was beyond perfect.
‘I’ll take two bolts of this,’ she said to the merchant, whose bedraggled countenance was nothing like the exquisite fabrics he was hawking.
The fabric merchant wasn’t the usual trader she dealt with, but he’d come highly recommended by someone’s cousin’s cousin, or something similarly complicated. That was the nature of business — you either went with the flow, or nothing got done. Everybody knew somebody who could help you, and you were honour bound to trust their judgement. So far, capitulating to the advice of her assistant had stood her in good stead.
Thoughts of home had petered away, but sometimes they nudged their way back in, like today. Dressing a populace obsessed with mourning was never something she’d had to consider in her previous life. But here, people dressed to the expectations of others, and woe betide if anyone strayed from those expectations.
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