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by Kirsten McKenzie

  The merchant presented a bolt of a dark blue pinstripe, eerily reminiscent of a suit Andrew Harvard used to wear. Andrew was the one thing she missed most about her old life. But she hadn’t wasted away without him. There’d been plenty of men to escort her to the theatre, or to entertain her at dinner. There’d been no special companion like Andrew, but she had fantasied about a life with him, before she ended up in India. And now she wouldn’t have it any different.

  ‘No, not that one, sorry. Have you got anything lighter? A cream or a caramel?’

  He rummaged through his collection before pulling out a beautiful coffee-coloured linen, light and beautifully woven. Perfect.

  Patricia’s enthusiasm was infectious, clapping her hands in child-like wonder. Ideal for the most wonderful range of gentlemen’s suits. She tried not to think ‘safari suit’, but couldn’t help remembering the images of colonial Englishmen lounging about on lush Indian lawns from the history books. She strived to keep her designs unaffected by what she remembered of the past, wanting to create her own designs and not just recreating fashion she knew to be contemporary to the times. But the words ‘safari suit’ jangled around in her brain. She’d make it her own. It’s not like the future fashion curators would be any the wiser.

  ‘I’ll take everything you’ve got of this one, and I want to put in an order for another four bolts of the same. Can you do that?’

  The cloth merchant said yes. Whether it was or wasn’t possible, he would agree. It was the way they operated. If four additional bolts arrived, she’d be a happy lady. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be the merchant’s fault, he’d blame it on the weavers or the roads or the weather or anyone other than himself. And she’d nod and smile and sympathise. That was life.

  Patricia lifted the bolt of cloth and wrangled it upstairs to her workroom. The rest she left for her assistant to bring carry but she wanted to unroll this exquisite linen and imagine what she might create with it.

  As she made her way upstairs, she paused to scratch an itch on the inside of her elbow. There was always something trying to bite you in India. Big things, small things, slippery things, flying things. She spent half her life with a fly swat in one hand and applying calming lotion with the other. Patricia hated bugs with a passion and was happiest hidden under her mosquito net laughing at the stupid creatures fruitlessly trying to reach her.

  Once upstairs, she rolled the fabric out over her giant cutting bench, checking for flaws. The merchant was a genius, and she could hug him. She was more excited about working with this than the red fabric Ajay was bringing upstairs. She’d given up designing dresses for lazy women sent out from England to fill in time before breeding. Fashion for men was far more interesting with more scope for clever detailing and pockets and hidden seams and layering.

  She scratched at her arm again. She’d have to remember to put cream on it when she got home.

  Her assistant Ajay Turilay arrived, panting with the effort of carrying the rest of the cloth, which Patricia waved into a corner, her mind focussed on her design.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked, doodling a quick sketch.

  She was lucky to have Ajay as her assistant. As one of the most brutally honest men in India he would tell her if he thought her designs a folly.

  Ajay agreed enthusiastically.

  ‘Excellent.’ Patricia’s face deepened into well-worn smile lines. ‘I’ll keep working on this while you head off to find some suitable buttons and buckles for the jacket. I’m thinking brassy-gold or something similar. Your thoughts?’

  ‘Too much,’ Ajay said, thin eyebrows disappearing under his turban.

  ‘You’re right, too much for here. Silver?’

  ‘A matching colour,’ Ajay replied, cutting a sliver of fabric from the corner. ‘I’ll find the correct ones.’

  ‘Knew I could trust you. See you when I see you,’ she said, waving him off, her mind already elsewhere.

  As Ajay disappeared downstairs, Patricia missed seeing him scratch at his arm, and at another spot under his collar.

  The Malady

  Patricia double-checked her figures. The measurements had to be right otherwise they would waste the cloth. It had been a steep learning curve mastering the old-fashioned fountain pen, but now she found it a thousand times more satisfying than using a computer. There were a million things she missed about living in the 21st century, but being bound to her laptop wasn’t one.

  She rubbed at the ache in her arm. No amount of rubbing it shifted the pain. What she needed was a long soak and a holiday. Repetitive strain injury or occupational overuse syndrome wasn’t just a modern affliction. She’d been working too hard.

  ‘Ajay?’ she called out, not even looking up from her figures. ‘Can you see this goes in the post this afternoon?’

  The young man got up to take the letter from Patricia’s hand. Caught up in her work, Patricia never noticed his slow carriage as he hobbled over to her desk.

  ‘And Ajay?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bolton?’

  ‘After that, don’t come back until Monday,’ she suggested.

  Conscientious about timekeeping, she expected him to argue with her, but to her surprise he agreed.

  ‘Think of it as my gift to you. Go take your girl for a drive, and her mother and I’ll see you Monday, not too early,’ she said, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over her.

  Ajay Turilay bobbed his head and left Patricia’s large office on the first floor of the Crawford Market. From her vantage point, Patrica watched him walk off down the road, not bothering to hail a rickshaw. He was frugal with his money like that. He had dreams of moving to England, and for that he required every penny he could save.

  At her desk, Patricia half-heartedly shuffled paperwork around, trying to decide what to do next. A breeze from the open window ruffled the papers she’d just tidied. Air conditioning was something else she missed. She’d never needed it in London, nor during the years she lived up in Simla, but it would be a welcome addition to her life here in Bombay, and she wondered how long it was until someone invented air conditioning units, probably long after she was decaying deep underground somewhere.

  Patricia opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out an album full of cartes de visite, an album she’d carried around with her for twenty-odd years. The album’s first page revealed a much younger version of herself, clad in clothes of an era long passed. The next always made her eyes water as she wondered what had befallen her friend. A photograph of her and Sarah Lester, or Sarah Williams as she knew her then. A visiting photographer had been passing through Simla, and after the roaring success of Napoléon’s own carte de visite, every man and his dog had lined up to have one themselves. The photographer was in such high demand, he’d stayed long enough for a Fishing Fleet girl to get her claws into him. Before he blinked, she had married him, and demanded that they return to London post haste, explaining that it was a far more suitable location for his photography business. Sarah and Patricia had scoffed that the silly cow had never even considered that the India was the much bigger, and more poorly catered for, market. Even now it made Patricia smile remembering the man’s shellshocked demeanour in the few short weeks he’d stayed in Simla. He never knew what hit him.

  It was during the photographer’s Simla stay that Patricia and Sarah had several sittings, varying their outfits and their positions, quite perturbing the poor man, although there’d been a great deal of mirth at those sessions, until the wife had a ring on her finger, and then they’d come to an abrupt halt. What was it with women and jealousy?

  Patricia’s finger strayed across the sepia-coloured face of her friend. She could only hope that Sarah and Major Brooke were in a safe place. Every birthday, and on every shiny new star, she wished she knew where Sarah was, and if she’d found happiness. There were hundreds of rumours, every year new ones poured out of the woodwork, some so fanciful that they put the truth to shame. But the consensus was that Major Brooke had gone AWOL, taking
Sarah with him. There was to have been a search for the pair, but the uprising had quashed their plans, and after the troubles were over, they’d assumed Sarah and Brooke were two of the unfortunate casualties, recording their suspected deaths at the hands of the Indian mutineers.

  Patricia gazed around her workroom, still marvelling at her workspace in this magnificent building. She’d first met Arthur Crawford, the Municipal Commissioner of Bombay, at a dinner in Simla — everyone of any importance found their way to Simla — you were no one if you didn’t. Although entranced with each other, nothing developed between them. Mainly because she had no family behind her to impress him, and she refused to become a plaything, discarded when something better came along. But their friendship had evolved to where he’d asked her to design the uniforms for the municipal employees in Bombay, and in exchange he’d provide space for her burgeoning seamstress business in his new building. Patricia had hesitated, moving to Bombay meant she wouldn’t be in Simla if Sarah returned, but it had been years and the winds of change were tugging at her hems. She needed to live her own life. After coercing Albert Lester into promising to send word if Sarah materialised, she’d packed up what little she had, and moved to the elegant city of Bombay, and never looked back.

  ‘Silly girl,’ she remonstrated with herself, slamming the album shut. In a fit of industry, Patricia packed the photographs away in a chest half filled with fabric remnants. She kept offcuts from all the fabrics she used in her designs, an album of sorts to remind her of what she’d done and how far she’d come. Stapled to each remnant was a sketch of the design. There were already two tea chests in the basement full of her designs which she’d made Ajay cart down earlier to get them out of the office. He could move this one too, it was ridiculous clinging to the past. She only had a limited amount of future left to her and damn it, she wanted to live it. Patricia sealed up the last tea chest, severing her final link to Sarah and her life in London.

  Patricia left the office early. Tonight she’d throw her past behind her. It was twenty years too late, but she’d give life a chance without the baggage of the past. Drinks and dinner at Watson’s Esplanade Hotel would be an excellent way of cheering herself up, dragging herself out of the malaise she felt, with the potential likelihood of running into the enigmatic Mr Williams high — everyone ate at Watson’s on a Friday night in Bombay, it was the done thing.

  She locked the workroom, tugging her sleeve over the angry red rash which had developed around the bite. Bloody bugs. Not for the first time, she wished for a nice ozone-depleting, industrial-sized can of fly spray.

  Patricia’s bath did little to soothe her painful arm, and the nasty red welt meant she had to change her planned attire. No one wanted to talk with someone who liked like a zombie high on meth had ravaged them. Tonight she’d have to wear something long-sleeved, which she hated. The Indian climate was no more suited to long sleeves than Antarctica suited bikinis.

  Doing her hair proved to add more drama to her night. Even trying to lift her arm to brush her hair was painful. Perhaps it was time for a proper holiday?

  She called for her ladies maid to pin it properly, which wasn’t as restful as one thought. Pins jabbing in at her scalp from every angle, terrifying tugs and twists threatened to wrench her head right off her shoulders, started an almighty headache which went from one side of her forehead to the other.

  But dinner and the prospect of talking with Robert Williams made her push through. She’d plaster on her lipstick, dredge up a smile, and play the part of a society lady. She’d been playing a part her whole time in India, it was a second skin to her now, which rarely slipped.

  But by god, if the itching on her arm didn’t go away soon, she’d scream. After lathering it in every potion she had in the house, it was still unbearable. She’d even allowed the cook to apply some pungent natural remedy, which she’d suffered through for ten minutes before wiping the foul concoction off. There was only one solution, and it was something she almost never partook of, knowing the consequences through innumerable episodes of China Beach and Tour of Duty, back in the day.

  The first sweet puff of the long tapered opium pipe did the trick as she felt the headache melting away. Slipping her sleeve up to check, she smiled with satisfaction as the speckled crimson lines vanished under her gaze. One more puff might help keep the aches and pains away for the night.

  On an opium haze, Patricia climbed into her open-topped carriage, and stared into the skies, remembering a past in London where she never saw a single star let alone a whole galaxy. This too would change, in time. Electricity becoming commonplace, fast-food outlets littering every street. And they would lose the stars.

  The carriage ride jolted the bones in her body, sending spears of pain through every joint. A torment even the opium couldn’t dull.

  Pulling her gloves off, she wiped her clammy forehead. Now was not the time to come down with the flu. She’d been so lucky. Food and personal hygiene had been a big deal since she’d landed here with Sarah all those years ago. The dreaded Delhi Belly visited her occasionally, but she was still one of the healthiest people she knew. It was Murphy’s Law that tonight of all nights, when she was planning to captivate an interesting man with her wit and charm, she fell sick. She couldn’t entertain any defeatist thoughts. A strong gin once she arrived, on top of the opium, and she’d be right.

  As expected, Watson’s Esplanade Hotel was a hive of activity. Officers with medals, ladies in elegant dresses, waiters in pristine uniforms, uniforms Patricia herself had designed. Greeted like an old friend at the door, the maître d’ escorted Patricia into Watson’s, where she ordered a large gin and tonic. A large shot of quinine would keep the bugs away tonight. The bar was full of friends, old and new, and the whole environment was a huge carousel of laughter of hijinks. She spied Robert Williams as soon as he entered the premises and prepared for a night of flirtatious fun. She was behaving like one of this young girls sent out to India to find a suitable husband.

  Patricia stayed by the bar, leading on it for moral and physical support. The gin must have affected her more than usual. Smiling, she allowed Williams to kiss her on the cheek, frowning as he pulled away.

  ‘Your cheeks…’

  Patricia raised a hand, surprised to find that she’d abandoned her gloves at some point. She examined her naked fingers. Age made them puffy tonight. It was just as well she hadn’t put her rings on, because in this state she’d never be able to take them off.

  ‘My cheeks?’ she asked, pressing her fingers into her flesh, recoiling in pain. Of all the things to happen, now she had a toothache?

  ‘They’re quite…’ Williams couldn’t finish the sentence, his own cheeks flushing red.

  Patricia felt the flush of heat in her cheeks, pulling a face as she predicted a trip to the dentist in her future. She added proper dental care to this comprehensive list of 21st century inventions she missed, like microwaves, the internet, dependable hot water, air conditioning, and shorts and singlets, and bikinis by the pool.

  ‘I think it’s a touch of the flu,’ she explained. She couldn’t tell him she had a toothache, highly unladylike.

  ‘Should I escort you home?’

  Patricia laughed off his concern, explaining that after another gin and tonic she’d be fine.

  Robert ordered her a drink, and they commandeered a table.

  Waiters came and went and Patricia regaled Williams with the background to the designs of their uniforms and her plans for the coming season. She probed him about his reasons for being in India, but found her own thoughts getting tangled as he discussed the various business ventures under way.

  ‘Sorry, you lost me there for a minute,’ she said. ‘I’m so silly sometimes, head in the clouds and all that. Can you rewind and run that past me again?’

  ‘Rewind?’

  ‘You know, rewind the tape, start from the beginning? Not that we wind tapes anymore, not with DVDs anyway. Or with streaming, you watch from where you le
ft off,’ Patricia explained. Why was he staring at her? Rewind was such an obvious term to use. Why were men so obtuse?

  ‘I think you should let me take you home,’ Robert said, pushing back his chair.

  ‘Home? Of course. Call me an Uber, I’ll be fine,’ Patrica lurched to her feet where the room rocked underneath her. She hadn’t felt a proper earthquake for ages. ‘Ooh, an earthquake, quick under the table,’ she said, dropping to the ground.

  Patrons at the neighbouring tables tittered at her deliciously unbecoming behaviour.

  ‘There’s no earthquake,’ Robert said, scooping Patricia up from the floor, his face a mask.

  ‘No earthquake?’

  ‘No, you’re drunk.’

  ‘Me? Drunk? Not bloody likely, not after two drinks. Was it two? I think I lost count. Maybe three, but it’s hot in here, and my tooth is killing me.’

  Patricia babbled as Robert and the maître d’ carried her into a waiting taxi.

  ‘What’s your address?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Portsmouth Street, can’t miss it. There’s an entrance round the back,’ she mumbled, slumped in the corner.

  Williams looked to the others for confirmation. They both shook their heads. There was no such street.

  ‘She can’t come in here,’ the maître d’ said. Not good for business,’ he added, scurrying inside.

  The driver waited for Robert to give him his instructions.

  Williams gave the man the name of his hotel. He’d pay for a room, and when she’d sobered up in the morning, she could reimburse him. But what an appalling situation to put him in, highly irregular. He prayed there weren’t any press lurking. The last thing he needed was word getting out linking him romantically with this woman. At the races she’d seemed so interesting, so fresh compared to the vacuous strumpets he’d known — women after him for financial certainty and a place in society. Patricia Bolton was nothing like those other women. She was a drunk though, and he didn’t need that complication in his life.