Ajay’s mother brought the article to her convalescing son. Well educated for a woman, she read the paper every day, always had, sharing the salient points with her son. She’d wanted her youngest son to go into government service, but she’d been soft, allowing him to follow his dream of becoming a tailor like his father. And he’d surprised them all by being taken on by the clever memsahib, and now she was the proud mother who crowed about her son’s achievements amongst the other women — who he’d met, who he’d dressed. She still dined off the story of Ajay meeting the Governor of Bombay, when fitting him for a new uniform. Who would run the business now? What would become of her son, and her?
Patricia Bolton’s contribution to the couture of the Indian civil service, the English army, the expat community in Bombay and the lily-white ladies swanning about in hill country stations like Simla, would have faded away to dust, if it had not been for Ajay Turilay.
Upon recovering, and against his mother’s protestations, Ajay returned to work, expecting to see deserted streets and empty markets, but life went on, even when people were dropping like flies.
His commute had changed, after the English ordered the demolition of the areas of Bombay most affected by the plague, citing public health reasons. Reactions had been mixed, but Ajay supported the measures. Already the city felt cleaner, more open — a huge improvement.
Walking up the staircase to the workroom, losing Patricia and her incredible visionary approach to fashion and design, weighed on his heart. Ajay was still weak, but knew he had to sort things out before some over-zealous official closed them down and burnt their store of fabrics.
His mother had warned him that the Sanitary Commissioners had been ordering tailors all over the city to destroy any cloth imported from Hong Kong, and he was acutely aware of the rolls of caramel linen they’d carried upstairs before they’d both got sick. His arm still ached where something had bitten him that same day.
Musty with neglect, Ajay threw open the windows of the workroom, and a warm breeze washed through the room, ruffling paperwork and fabric swatches. As usual, Patricia’s desk was a study in chaos and Ajay didn’t know where to start. Should he pack everything away or carry on as normal? They had orders to fill and workers to pay, if any of their workers were still alive.
Ajay drew up a plan of action. He’d keep the business running until someone told him not to. Familiar with the state of the financial accounts, he could manage things as long as they had seamstresses to churn out the garments. Could he recreate the magic of Patricia? He thought it unlikely, but he’d do his best. And hopefully their clients would continue doing business with him.
After almost a day of procrastination, Ajay knew he’d have to pack Patricia’s personal things. She’d never once mentioned her family, in India, or in England, so he didn’t know what he’d do with her things other than to pack them away, hoping her family might one day enquire about her whereabouts. As for her home in Bombay, he’d never been there. Despite Patricia’s more progressive ideas about workplace safety and pay, he’d never visited her there, and never expected to. He’d leave that to whatever staff she had; it wasn’t his concern. Only the business was his to sustain, for the sake of both him and his mother, and the ladies who worked for them. No, not them, the ladies who worked for him.
Ajay operated under the auspices that it was easier not to look at Patricia’s things as he packed them up. Unless they looked business related, he stored everything in a sturdy tea chest. Photo albums, old invitations, menus. He cast a quick eye over half finished sketches of abandoned designs before also packing those away.
Once the desk was clear, and the drawers emptied, Ajay sat in Patricia’s chair, the view far superior to the one from his desk. There was always a silver lining. He caught a glimpse of the harbour bristling with ships masts and sails which looked like white-capped waves. His plan of moving to London had faded. From this desk, he was the captain of his own destiny. The man in charge of a profitable business supplying the British. Giving it all up and moving to England didn’t seem so inviting now. As sad as he was about Patricia’s passing, she’d left him a life he’d never imagined possible.
The bolts of linen taunted him from the corner of the room. Patricia had such wonderful plans for that fabric, it would be a crime to destroy it. He’d spend some time working on her initial sketches, before finalising the pattern and then he’d send the fabric out to the ladies for them to work. If he took his time, the panic in the city would die down, and hopefully the manic knee-jerk reaction of the British would dissipate, and they’d all move on. Life had to go on.
The Business
The earlier dusting of snow on Liverpool’s streets had turned into a sooty slush on the side of the road. The pristine snow giving way to a putrid grey mush which leaked into boots and infiltrated doorways — the bane of every housewife and tradesman alike.
As men stood in doorways reading the daily papers, their feet as cold as ice in their hardy boots, the headlines screamed of a very different ailment, the plague.
Samer Kurdi sipped at his honeyed tea, his eyes skimming the paper. The tea did nothing to assuage the twisting in his gut as he read of the casualties in India, both native and foreign, the plague relentless in its pursuit of victims.
He’d heard nothing from Robert, and was even now fielding queries from Robert’s sister and daughter, asking after Robert’s wellbeing.
He had sent telegram after to Robert’s hotel in India, and onwards to his other known stops. It was conceivable that Robert had holed up somewhere safe to wait out the contagion. Robert was a lucky man in all areas of his life, both business and personal. He would have landed on his feet in a delightful town, being entertained by a local dignitary whilst they both waited out the disruption to travel caused by the Special Plague Committees. Or perhaps Robert was being held in one of the isolation camps. But as the weeks passed, Samer had lost hope. Perhaps Robert was dead?
‘A telegram for you, sir,’ said a waiter, presenting a crisp white envelope.
Samer tipped the lad and opened the envelope. It took but a moment to read the one line of text. One line which simultaneously broke his heart and opened his horizons.
Regret to inform you Robert Williams deceased.
Robert, dead. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the possibilities, that was the last he’d considered.
Samer sat staring into the distance. There were lawyers he’d need to instruct to settle Robert’s affairs and dissolve the partnership. His family to tell… Samer’s heart pounded as he considered Robert’s daughter Grace and her reaction to the news. He should tell her face-to-face, not through the impersonal coarseness of a telegram or letter.
He’d almost forgotten about the lovely Grace Williams and the dreams he’d once harboured about asking for her hand in marriage. Sally Glynn had consumed him since he’d arrived in Liverpool, and more than once he’d delayed his return to London to spend more time with her and in the company of the incredible Abdullah Quilliam, a most fascinating man.
It hadn’t surprised him when the police had raided their meeting at the warehouse, as they discussed plans to distribute copies of Koran using his network of retailers. He’d half expected it. The police hadn’t been shy in throwing Meredith’s name out as the man responsible.
Whilst he treasured his friendship with Robert, and valued their lucrative business relationship, he was now free to follow his heart and the teachings of Allah. No more shipments of opium, no more smuggling of contraband or wiggling within the rules of HM Customs and Excise. He could run the business the way he wanted. And with Sally Glynn at his side.
There wasn’t the time for tears, those would come later in the privacy of his room. Now he had letters to write, telegrams to send, and a train journey to arrange. His priority was to Miss Glynn, to beg her to wait for him until he returned from London.
NEW ZEALAND
The Mother
Annabel Lester had never ridden a horse befo
re. The closest she’d been were the years she’d stroked the flea-bitten donkeys littering the English seaside beach resorts she visited as a child. Even then her father had refused to pay the daylight robbery prices he accused the donkey operators of charging to ride the poor beasts, so patting their velvety noses was her lot. She’d never once imagined she’d be galloping across the rugged hills of colonial New Zealand, hands around the waist of a man she’d only just met. A man who wasn’t her husband and had asked no questions when she’d appeared at his doorway, clasping her worldly possessions.
When Annabel Lester was first married, and later when she was raising her only daughter, life caught her in its spiral of consumerism - a larger car, another pair of diamond earrings, the next seasons boots and coat. Holidays in Spain, replacing her crockery with the latest offerings by the celebrity chef of the day. And now, now she was clinging to the back of a man, charging across a frothy windswept beach, the sand as black as the Caribbean men who decorated the streets at home with their brashness.
This seashore was a different beast to the shoreline of her childhood. This sea hurled itself at the shore with a fury only matched by the wind, a bitter gale which pummelled at the surging sea, whipping it into even angrier crests which crashed upon the shore. The ocean held a special place in her heart, going to the seaside had been a rare and relished treat seen through rose-coloured glasses and ice creams in a cone, but Mother Nature’s display today was one to remember. Devoid of a human cast, the only actors in this production were the lonely trees standing sentinel over what had once been forests, now plundered by mankind.
‘We’ll stop soon,’ the man in front of her called out, shouting over the wind and the vicious waves at their side.
Annabel squeezed her arms around his middle in response. She wasn’t sure she cared how much longer the ride was. If it wasn’t for the bitterly cold air flinging needles of sand into her face, she’d have said this was the most memorable moments of her life. But like all exquisite moments, this one ended far too soon, with the cloud saturated sky giving way to a darkness which didn’t so much sneak up on them, but more darted behind them, forcing them from their to horse to shelter from the coastal storm which now threatened them.
Warden William Price made quick work of building a fire in a copse of spindly trees left untouched by the woodsman’s axe. Annabel offered to help, but he’d rebuffed her, so instead sat propped against an ancient tree, knees pulled to her chest, her long skirts tidied away beneath her. She watched him coax flames from the dry undergrowth he’d piled atop of some salt laden logs.
‘Tea?’ he asked.
Her husband used to make her tea in the mornings, bringing it to her bedside before leaving for work. The difference between that past and this present had never been more acute, and the grief and disbelief that she’d quashed over the years, overcame her.
Warden Price had stiffened at Annabel’s sobbing but made no move towards her, focussing instead on the billy boiling over the fire. His mind flew in a million different directions, like the dance of the flames, except the fire didn’t have to worry about anyone else; it didn’t care if plans fell aside or tilted off course. Fire didn’t give one toss if you gave up hunting the woman you thought you loved. Fire loved no one.
He cast another glance at Annabel, unsure of his own feelings and that didn’t rest easily on his shoulders or in his heart. In the fire dappled dark it was easier recall the precious few memories he had of Sarah Bell, but increasingly those images were being overlaid with newer forms, fresher feelings, tinged with the likeness of Annabel Lester, and not of Sarah Bell. It tore at him. The decision which had seemed so solid in Dunedin, so right, wavered like the flames he’d coaxed into life.
Price poured the boiling water onto the loose tea he’d measured out. His supplies wouldn’t last them long. If they reached the next settlement by the end of the week they’d be fine, otherwise the woman he’d become responsible for would go hungry. Although there were worse things than hunger on the road they now travelled.
An icy breeze rubbed itself against his face, forcing its way beneath his heavy coat, burrowing into his skin, sending shivers into his soul.
‘Come closer, Mrs Lester,’ he said, doubting her garments were at all suitable for the West Coast winter threatening to arrive early. He watched Annabel shimmy closer to the fire, her eyes closing as she absorbed the flickering heat.
‘Warmer?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Annabel replied.
‘Have you packed anything… warmer?’ he asked. He’d been about to ask if she’d packed anymore more sensible before realising that was a ridiculous question.
Annabel shook her head, cursing her own stupidity. She didn’t have much, but she’d left her winter weight clothes behind, not imagining a long trek on horseback through the New Zealand countryside was in her future. There was no popping out to the high street. It was all make do and mend, but her sewing was atrocious and hadn’t improved during her time in this crazy reality.
Price had replied with little more than a hrumpf, before magicking up a light supper over the flames to accompany the tea. There was no chance she’d be able to survive out here without him, she’d barely survived the streets of Dunedin before the Reverend had rescued her. For the millionth time she allowed her mind to wander to a different time, to a family she had no hope of ever seeing again.
Annabel had tried suppressing her memories of before, of before she’d ended up here, in this time, but now and then they overtook her. Price’s fire reminded her of the fireplace at The Old Curiosity Shop, and how in winter they had a roaring open fire, at work, and the customers loved it. Even the grubbiness of Price’s trousers were reminiscent of her husband’s jeans after a long day of carting dusty cobwebby furniture in and out of the van. She didn’t miss those days. She’d always been more a dress for the antique fairs type wife, using them as an excuse to pull her fine jewellery out of the safe, wearing a new outfit to impress the other dealers and customers. But now she didn’t miss her jewellery. She considered it a currency she could have used here, which would have solved several issues.
Price placed an enamel bowl of stew into her hands and Annabel looked up in amazement. ‘How did you prepare this so quickly?’ She’d been in a world of her own and had missed his machinations over the fire. Her stomach grumbled, anticipating the hunks of rough cut potato and thick pieces of succulent pork in a fragrant broth. She took a bite. No, it wasn’t a potato, it was something different, sweeter. She considered the unusual buttery taste but couldn’t place it.
‘Is it potato?’
Price looked up from his own plate, his eyes lit by the fire. ‘It’s kumara,’ he replied before returning to his meal.
‘Kumara?’ Annabel parroted, the word foreign to her. ‘Kumara,’ she repeated, taking another bite of the root vegetable.
The sound of birdsong interspersed their companionable silence. Since being in New Zealand, she’d become used to the cacophony of the native wildlife. There was no such music in the London of her past life. She’d never spent a night in the New Zealand bush though, and the variety of bird calls were akin to a complete orchestral performance. In the darkness it was impossible to spot the performers but beautiful song surrounded them.
A crack opened in the sky and the foreshore lit up like a field on Bonfire Night. A majestic sound and light show to accompany the birdsong surrounding them. Thunder followed, drowning out the birds and the waves and the wind, and their conversation. In the flashing lightning and the flickering fire, Annabel felt she was in a nightclub with florescent strobe lights highlighting the seemingly frenetic movements of Price as he gathered up their belongings, pushing further into the undergrowth, and rigging up a refuge for them both. His voice lost to the elements as he hauled Annabel from her perch, the two of them pelted with bullets of rain.
Huddling under the makeshift shelter, Annabel ducked into the protective bulk of the man next to her. She threw her arm over he
r face, shivering as the icy wind forced its way through the branches dipping and diving under the onslaught of the weather. Warden Price wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. The sudden warmth in her cheeks was nothing to do with the jacket protecting her from the violent storm.
Annabel tucked her chin into Price’s chest and closed her eyes. If she could hold on to this moment for ever, she’d forgo hot showers and fresh coffee and diamond rings to be here, in the middle of a storm in the arms of a stranger where she felt safer than she ever had in England. Her life in England, with her husband and her daughter, wasn’t bad, but here she felt complete. Having nothing and being no one of any great import made her safe and free and whole. And she wouldn’t change it for all the diamonds in the world.
The Journey
Aroha’s innate sense of direction had no trouble sending her south, but she hadn’t factored in the seventeen hundred men the Governor of New Zealand had building a road to link Auckland to the mighty Waikato River. At almost every point on her journey, gangs were sawing through the magnificent native forests, determinedly clearing scoria whilst itching to go to war. Rifle shots rang out through the countryside, causing Aroha to stumble, as if someone had shot her. Her mind fumbled with geography. She’d been living in Auckland far too long, and the landscape she’d travelled through years ago, bore no resemblance to the scarred world she walked through now.
Her soul ached for her husband Wiremu, killed at the behest of the Jowl brothers, but life itself was fleeting, and Wiremu’s spirit would live on through his daughter. Now it was the flayed flesh of her home tearing at her heart. Tree trunks lay rotting on the edges of the desecration, the limbs of mother earth torn from her soil, left to decay. And all around her were the sounds of the oppressors — the English soldiers.
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