Telegram Home

by Kirsten McKenzie

  The Breakfast

  The young lad set the breakfast tray down and knocked softly at the polished door. The gossip in the kitchen was that she’d arrived drunk, carried to her room by the porter. There’d been a scuffle between the various waiters and bellboys before chef had decreed that he’d be the one to deliver her breakfast, by dint of him being related to the wife of the night manager.

  The lady resident didn’t answer his quiet knocking, so he pulled an ornate key from his pocket, and twisted it in the lock, pushing the door open.

  As he bent to retrieve the breakfast tray, trying not to spill the tea or disturb the arranged plate of eggs, he almost gagged at the stench emanating from the room. The tray rattled as he checked his grip and took a tentative step into the darkened room.

  ‘Breakfast service, ma’am,’ he announced.

  The odour inside was pungent, like that of a rotting carcass.

  The boy dropped the tray on the table, as he tried to not to breathe through his mouth, his eyes watering at the foul stench. He raced to the windows, desperate to let some air into the room.

  Wrenching open the heavy blinds, fumbling with the latch on the balcony doors in his haste, he threw open the windows and fell onto the small balcony taking in lungfuls of fresh air. He almost collapsed when a voice came from behind.

  ‘Close the curtains, the light hurts my eyes.’

  The woman in the bed was alive, speaking to him. But even from his position on the balcony, he could see there was something wrong, even if the smell hadn’t given it away.

  ‘The curtains,’ she moaned, lifting a bare arm to cover her face… a face of nightmares.

  The boy expected no one would discipline him for upsetting a customer this time as he fled from the room. Flying from the balcony, past the bed and out the door, his skinny arm held over his nose to avoid the reek of death. He was several feet away from the door, before he retraced his steps and quickly shut the door, locking it behind him. Running back down the corridor, he released his breath, taking several gulps of the untainted air at this end of the hallway, his whole body shaking.

  As he made his way back to the kitchens, he considered what he’d tell the others. They were all eagerly awaiting his report, the trade in gossip the life blood of the hotel employees. Hotels didn’t have secrets. But this was one secret he wanted no part of. He could claim she was still asleep when he delivered the tray, embellishing it by saying that she asked him to open the balcony door when she woke up. Yes, yes, that was what he’d say. That way they’d absolve him from any blame, and he need never go back in that. They could send someone else to clear the breakfast tray and they’d find her and then it would be on their heads, not his.

  The Train

  Robert Williams stretched out in bed and greeted the bellboy as he laid out the breakfast tray. Conscious that the lad was casting his enquiring glances he kept his tone polite with a supercilious overtone. Stories about his late arrival with Patricia would run through the hotel like Chinese Whispers. Who knew what the boy was thinking? He tried not to let it bother him, but the kid kept staring at him every time he thought Robert wasn’t paying attention.

  He finally threw off the covers, shouting at the boy to get out.

  Satisfied, he watched the uniform-clad waiter scurry from the room, bowing as he went.

  A starched envelope sat propped up against the china sugar bowl, his name written in blood-red ink. This didn’t bode well.

  Ignoring the envelope, he poured his tea, the familiar motions soothing his troubled mind. Tea first, then business, no point ruining the day anymore than it already had been. Hopefully, the woman had the good sense to go straight home after her appalling behaviour the night before, although he was loath to ask any of the staff if that had happened.

  Overnight he’d persuaded himself he’d had a lucky escape, identifying her fatal flaws so early in the piece. Heaven forbid if he’d got tangled up in such an unsuitable match. Grace would never forgive him.

  Thinking about Grace gave him pause. His daughter was the love of his life and he should have brought her with him. She had a brain in her head, of that he was certain. He couldn’t say whether he would have talked through his issues with Madame Ye, and what to do about the arrangement she’d proposed, but he might have. He needed someone to discuss it with. All this palaver in the papers about banning the trade in opium. For goodness’ sake, it was such a small fragment of society who abused it. Like alcohol, he’d met many men unable to hold their liquor, and now a woman too.

  Robert shivered and took a sip of the cooling tea. There was no point in imagining what if or if only? Grace wasn’t with him. Samer had gone on a wild goose chase up to the north of England, heavens knew what he was up to, he’d not received any telegrams updating him. No, as usual, he was on his own and had to decide based on the figures, and his gut feeling.

  He scrolled through the letter from Madame Ye, postponing their meeting because of ill health. He threw it down, a headache forming behind his frown. Robert couldn’t abide business associates using delaying tactics. He had business to attend to elsewhere in the country, a contract to negotiate for indigo dye, and treading water in his hotel room wasn’t part of his plan.

  Robert paced the room, like a lion in a cage. Travelling inland was always tedious and took longer than one expected. He could send a telegram advising of his delayed arrival, but what if other traders were sniffing around the indigo? No, there was only one thing to do, and that was to pen a reply to Madame Ye wishing her a speedy recovery, whilst keeping his train booking.

  With a decision made, he ran off a quick reply, and called for the bellboy to deliver it, stretching the aching muscles in his neck. By god he hated hotel beds and travel. If he negotiated the contact for the indigo, and came to a satisfactory arrangement with the Chinese, then odds were he wouldn’t have to leave England again. Samer could do it, he had no ties, no dependents. Then he could relax and concentrate on finding Grace a suitable husband, one which met his sister’s strict quality measures. Then he’d spend his time playing the congenial grandfather, taking his grandsons around his country estate, teach them to hunt and the practical side of land management, perhaps even take up a role in local government. Yes, that would suit him quite well.

  With his case sent on ahead to the luggage car, Robert ignored the grasping hands of the beggars littering the station and climbed into his first-class carriage, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and a folder of paperwork under the other.

  Sinking into his seat, he tipped his hat to the two other occupants of his carriage, ignorant of the dozen other carriages filled several times over their rated capacity. The three first-class passengers cared not one whit for the poor beggars on the carriage roof, or those hanging from the doorways of carriages teeming with humanity, the cloying stink of body odour partnered with the fragrant spices spilling from hundreds of tiffin tins.

  The strangers ignored each other in a way only the English can achieve, each rustling the pages of their papers, trying to ignore the humidity and the ridiculousness of wearing woollen suits and socks in a climate more suited to light cotton and leather sandals.

  Robert pondered who his fellow passengers were but their existence was of no consequence, and tiring of his own thoughts and a newspaper full of pessimistic predictions about the state of India, Robert folded his paper away, choosing to read over the draft contract for the indigo deal.

  He coughed once, as he skimmed the first few pages, laying the papers on the empty seat next to him. He coughed a second time, exacerbating the headache he’d been cultivating since the morning.

  No one had said anything about the peculiar activities of the previous night, and he had to admit that he’d all but scurried from the hotel, lest she was lurking in the lobby. The stress of the subterfuge adding to his aches and pains. He hoped the hotel he was staying in tonight was better equipped given how bad his neck was.

  ‘Indigo, eh?’ commented the gentleman
opposite him.

  Robert, in the midst of massaging his neck, slapped the folder shut. The effrontery of the man, reading his file.

  ‘We’re headed to the same place,’ the man carried on saying, stroking his well-oiled moustache.

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ Robert said.

  ‘The indigo business, plenty of money in that, although the American’s are here too. It’s a big contract they’re offering. Easy to split between several interested parties I’d say. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Robert stared at him. He’d travelled across oceans, suffered threats from the Chinese, endured an unconscionable embarrassment at his hotel, meaning he’d never be able to stay there again, only to find out that the contract he’d hoped to sign might not be his. That he had to share it with a man with more oil in his hair than there was in the ground, was especially galling.

  ‘I can’t comment,’ Robert blustered. ‘I’m a long-time trader in India, our business spans many sectors—’

  ‘Oh I know who you are, Mr Williams,’ the man interrupted. ‘And why you’re on this train today. I’m here to ensure your deal includes provision for our mutual friend,’ he said, leaning towards Robert as he whispered the last part.

  Robert Williams was used to success and deference, and unfamiliar with threats and intimidation. And he wasn’t going to submit to an oily squirrel.

  ‘You, sir, are out of line,’ Robert said, taking to his feet. ‘I’ll have the conductor see you on your way.’

  ‘You don’t want to be doing that, Mr Williams. It would disappoint Madame Ye. We know how much Grace is looking forward to seeing you on your return. Didn’t she ask you to bring her back a small keepsake? You wouldn’t want that to be your heart, in a box?’

  ‘How dare you bring my daughter into this?’

  ‘You’re mistaken, sir. Did you hear me threaten our companion?’ the moustached man asked the third man in the carriage.

  In the far corner, the quiet gentleman lowered his newspaper, his face inscrutable. With long fingers devoid of adornment, he removed his pocket-watch to check the time. Only then did he reply.

  ‘I heard nothing,’ he said, replacing his watch. ‘We’ve arrived,’ he said, peering out the window.

  Open-mouthed, Robert watched the men gather up their belongings, walking to the front of the carriage as they pulled into the station. A uniformed conductor blew his whistle as the train stopped, and more attendants rushed to escort the passengers from the train.

  Left alone, a lethargy took hold of Robert’s limbs as he repacked his bag. Needing a moment to catch his breath, he retook his seat, closing his eyes. They flew open again, after what felt like only a few seconds, but which must have been longer because the train was pulling out of the station, great plumes of steam rushing past the window.

  ‘Stop this train, stop the train,’ he yelled, hammering on the glass.

  But the carriage was empty, and his cries went unheeded. The station disappeared into the distance, the teeming mass of humanity obscuring the faces of the two men who’d expected Robert to alight the train with them.

  Robert sank into the corner, his head on fire. In ordinary circumstances, missing his stop would be a complete disaster, something to rant and rave about, to demand that the train stop and that they take him back to his stop by any means necessary. But this was no ordinary circumstance. He could get off at the next at the next station telegram the indigo supplier, and Samer. He could still resurrect a deal from the delay. Losing his unwanted companions was a silver lining.

  Robert nursed his headache, resting his aching arms. First, he’d find a decent hotel at the next stop, to rest before this malaise got any worse. Stations were the worst place to pick something up, full of coughing and sneezing people, with no respect for cleanliness and personal hygiene. Once he completed his business here, he’d retire to the country. He wanted nothing more to do with the shenanigans of protracted negotiations for a slice of some international pie. He had more than enough put away for several lifetimes, Grace’s lifetime too. Her wellbeing was of more concern to him than his own. He’d send her a telegram too, letting her know where he was, and that he’d come down with a chill. He couldn’t help worrying her, but he felt it prudent to let someone know he was unwell. You couldn’t trust the doctors here.

  When the train pulled in to the next station, any thoughts Robert had of sending a telegram, had fled his mind. He wasn’t in his right mind. By the time the conductor appeared, Robert was a gibbering mess, with a fever shy high and two bright red circles on his pasty English cheeks.

  The conductor brought his handkerchief to his mouth as he ran from the carriage. With a brother training to be a doctor, he knew what was happening. The late morning editions of the newspapers were full of the news — the plague had arrived in India, and people were dying. Local doctors were preparing for it, and the English had finally accepted it as a fact, with the Governor of Bombay sending a telegram to Lord Elgin, the Governor General of India notifying him of the outbreak of bubonic plague.

  The British establishment moved quickly to segregate and hospitalise the infected, but the horse had bolted, and it would be years before the outbreak came under control, as people fled the cities, pulling their loved ones from hospitals, desperate to find a cure elsewhere.

  Robert may have been the first casualty the conducted stumbled across, but he would not be the last. And the conductor did everything in his power to prevent the spread of the disease via his station, in his town. An unsung hero.

  They conveyed Robert by bullock cart to the nearest hospital. And the conductor, by dint of his important role, instructed that they burn the Englishman’s clothes, along with his luggage. One impoverished porter tried ferreting the quality case away, but got a slap around the head for his troubles.

  ‘Do you have a death wish?’ the conductor barked.

  The chastised man scuffed at the ground, refusing to meet the conductor’s eye.

  ‘Wash out that carriage, with hot water,’ he commanded. The lackey scuttled away.

  The conductor refused to allow the train’s departure until they had scrubbed the carriage. He’d doused his own hands with scalding water after transporting the Englishman to hospital. His brother was an assistant surgeon there, almost a full doctor, and he would treat the man, but the conductor didn’t want to give him any other patients. Even one was too many.

  The Survivor

  When the next bellboy retrieved the memsahib’s breakfast tray, he did so with no warning from the first, who’d claimed a terrible headache, before escaping the disease-ridden hotel, his secret stashed away, festering inside him.

  That first bellboy had scuttled away like a cockroach in the sun, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran through the teeming streets, unaware that in rooms all over Bombay, more people were succumbing to the plague. Struck down by fevers and racing pulses and bubo — angry, red shiny bumps and lumps in their necks and armpits and groin, sometimes pulsing black with infection.

  As the first bellboy slid through his doorway and greeted his beloved mother, the furthest thing from his mind was the safety of his colleagues. He was looking out for himself, for number one. Already he’d decided a trip home to their village might be a plan. His dear mother had begged him to take her home, and he would do anything to make her happy. Going home would wipe out his savings, but it would remove them from the necrotising abomination he’d witnessed today, one which he’d never forget.

  As the second turbaned bellboy opened the door, a pungent smell leaked from the room, wending its way into his nostrils, past the abundance of starch used on his uniform and the perfumed oil in his coiled hair.

  He tried ignoring the stench as he called out to the memsahib, but it caught in his throat. The open windows washing the foul odour through the silent room.

  The midday sun gave all the illumination he needed to see that the woman on the bed wasn’t a woman, but more a monster.

 
; Motionless by her untouched breakfast, he hesitantly took a step forward, then another, poking at her swollen black hand with his finger. Stone cold. Panicking, he wiped his hands on his tunic as he backed into the tray, sending the teapot crashing to the ground, along with the congealing eggs and fly-blown fruit.

  By the time he reached the kitchens, he was incoherent and Patricia Bolton was dead.

  The fabric merchant, who’d sold the delicious linen to Patricia, died hours before she did, in much less salubrious surroundings. Laid out in a prostitute’s bed, his blackened tongue hanging from his head, the buboes in his exposed groin as grotesque as the bubo adorning the neck of the prostitute he’d spent the night with.

  The unchecked spread of the disease tore apart families and businesses. Officials blamed the outbreak on fabric from Hong Kong, along with overflowing drains, and damp homes. Some even cast blame on rotting grains. Although the biggest problem was the rampant urbanisation and overcrowding, which encouraged the abundant rat population.

  For all his faults and foibles, Patricia Bolton’s assistant, Ajay Turilay, was one of the lucky survivors. He lay ill in his room for weeks, tended by his mother, who for what ever reason, did not contract the disease. She had burnt his clothes and boiled her own, on the advice of a local doctor who’d passed through on his bicycle, dispensing aid where possible. She’d lime washed the inside and the outside of their two-roomed house and allowed no one across the stoop, save a visit by the Sanitary Commissioner who was more than satisfied that they harboured no festering illness.

  It took several days before the death of Patricia Bolton made the papers. By then, her passing was one of many and she only rated three paragraphs in the newspaper, where the editor praised her designs and her insistence on safe work practices for the local ladies who made her uniforms.