by Ellie Dean
‘You’d better not,’ she giggled. ‘We don’t want your back going again, and I have plans for you tonight.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Well, in that case, we’ll forget the threshold and just go straight to bed.’
Doris blushed furiously as he collected their cases from the boot and then hesitated between the two front gates. ‘But which bed do we choose?’ he asked. ‘Mine or yours?’
‘Mine,’ she said. ‘It’s bigger and I made it up with clean sheets before we left.’
He led the way up the short path and she slotted in the key. Pushing the door open they found a pile of mail waiting on the mat. Doris quickly gathered it all up and shuffled through it, then gasped in delight. ‘There’s one from our solicitor and another from the planning department.’
He put down the cases and looked over her shoulder as she opened each letter. The purchase of the bungalow had gone through; her first mortgage payment would be due at the end of September, and planning permission had been given to turn the two properties into one.
‘Oh, John,’ she breathed, turning into his embrace. ‘Our dreams really are about to come true.’
He kissed her softly on the lips. ‘Mine already came true when you agreed to marry me, darling girl,’ he murmured, gently divesting her of her coat, hat and scarf. ‘Let’s celebrate all this good news in the best way we know how.’
It was quite a while later before they could think about anything else but each other, and it was only the need for the bathroom, a cup of tea and something to eat that stirred them from the bed. Having washed and dressed in their night things, they sat in the kitchen over a pot of tea and went through the rest of the post.
‘There are a lot of bills,’ sighed Doris. ‘I hope all the work we’re having done won’t prove too expensive.’
‘You let me worry about those,’ said John firmly. ‘My pension and the salary I get is more than enough to cover everything, and I do have some savings should we need anything extra.’
Doris bit her lip, reluctant to speak of what had been worrying her ever since they’d decided to do the building work and take out the mortgage.
Seeming to sense her unease, John took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘You’re not to worry about anything, do you hear me? I know you lost everything because your first husband didn’t take proper care of you, but if anything happens to me, you’ll be absolutely secure – I promise.’
‘I know I can trust you, John,’ she replied. ‘It’s just seeing all these bills and estimates has worried me a bit. The amount we’re spending didn’t seem so vast until I saw it all written down in black and white.’
John pulled her gently onto his lap. ‘You can’t have omelettes without breaking eggs, and although it all looks frightening now, think how marvellous it will be when the work’s finished.’
‘Do you think it will be done in time for Christmas?’
‘I’m not sure, but I’m hoping so. It would be perfect to spend our first Christmas together in our new and very smart house, don’t you think? Perhaps Anthony and his little family could visit. Suzy will have had the baby by then, and you’ll be able to enjoy your grandchildren.’
Doris snuggled up to him, happier than she’d ever been, her worries disappearing in the glow of being loved and cherished by this wonderful man.
Part Three
* * *
17
Karachi to Calcutta
They’d left Karachi earlier that morning despite the fact that dark clouds had been gathering and the heat had intensified. There was electricity in the air, and Sarah could taste the copper of the gathering tropical storm as the plane jolted and dipped alarmingly through the clouds.
‘This doesn’t look good,’ she managed. ‘I hope the pilot knows what he’s doing.’
The plane suddenly seemed to drop out of the sky, making her feel weightless, only tethered to her seat by the safety belt, her stomach suspended somewhere beneath her ribs. She clung to the armrests, her heart in her mouth as the lunch trays went flying and suitcases began to topple from the overhead lockers. She closed her eyes and held on as the plane began to rise again and level out, then carry on juddering and thudding towards Calcutta.
‘Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Australian pilot rather tersely over the intercom. ‘I’m afraid we’re in for a bumpy ride until we get to Calcutta. Keep your seatbelts fastened, and your fingers crossed that this storm doesn’t break. I’m going to try and get beneath the turbulence, so don’t be alarmed.’
Sarah and Jane exchanged horrified looks. ‘Why did he take off if the weather’s about to break?’ asked Jane, who’d gone quite ashen. ‘I don’t like this, Sarah. Really I don’t.’
Sarah didn’t either and wasn’t too impressed by the pilot, who seemed to have taken a very gung-ho attitude to the approaching storm. Yet they had to keep faith in him, for he must have experienced these sorts of conditions before and would know how to get them safely to Calcutta.
The plane dipped and rose with heart-stopping regularity as the hostesses quickly cleared away the uneaten lunches and fastened the scattered luggage firmly back into the lockers. They handed out paper bags, checked the seatbelts were correctly locked, their smiles fixed and never quite reaching their eyes. As the thunder began to roll and grumble around them, they hurried to their seats at the back of the plane, clearly as unnerved as their ashen-faced passengers.
The thunder crashed and boomed, drowning out the sound of the engines and the sharp cries of fear from the passengers. And then the cabin was lit up by the flash of lightning – so bright it hurt their eyes. Jagged bolts of electricity crackled and fizzed as they speared the roiling black clouds as if in search of the plane. Never had Sarah felt so small, insignificant and vulnerable in this metal box being tossed about by the elements thousands of feet above ground.
Her pulse was racing and she gripped the armrest as the plane bucked and juddered, then dipped and rose with alarming and stomach-churning frequency. And then it began to slowly descend, the pilot guiding it below the storm clouds and into clearer skies.
But the respite was short-lived and soon they were plunged back into darkness, with momentary flashes of lightning as the thunder growled and boomed. It felt to Sarah as if Thor himself was beating the fuselage with his war hammer, and the awful noise filled her head, reverberating right through every part of her body until nothing else existed.
She began to tremble, and the fear she’d been holding back threatened to overwhelm her. She and Jane were about to die. They’d never see their mother again. Never know what had happened to their father and Philip.
‘I’m sorry,’ shouted Jane over the noise, reaching for her sister’s hand to grasp it tightly. ‘I should never have risked this. If we die today, I want you to know that I love you, Sarah.’
Sarah squeezed her fingers and gave her a strained smile. ‘We’re not going to die,’ she said, despite her belief to the contrary. ‘The pilot will get us through this.’
‘You’ve got more faith in him than I have,’ said Jane, grimly clinging on as the plane suddenly plunged and rocked in the maelstrom. ‘I promise you one thing, Sarah. If we get out of this alive, I will kiss that pilot and I don’t care who sees me.’
Despite her terror, Sarah couldn’t help but smile at her younger sister’s defiant declaration. This was the Jane she remembered from Malaya, who acted on impulse, was childlike in her eagerness to make everything all right, and who dared to speak her mind. Not the self-assured young woman who’d returned from her secret wartime posting with aplomb and a steely determination to live her life as she pleased.
The plane was flying more evenly now, and although Sarah could see the rolling, storm-filled clouds above them, there was land beneath – a barren red land with ribbons of silver glinting amidst the scudding shadows of the overcast sky, and huddles of settlements formed from ochre-stained adobe within the soft folds and jagged promontories of a harsh and unforgiving
landscape.
Flashes of sheet lightning and rolls of thunder continued to accompany the plane as it slowly approached the urban sprawl of Calcutta. Flying low over the city, Sarah and Jane could now see the sights that had been described in the guidebook they’d bought in London.
There was the wide Hooghly River which divided the city on the east bank from vast stretches of wetlands on the western side, and fed into the mouth of the Ganges. They looked down at dilapidated buildings, grand mogul palaces, overcrowded slums, and narrow streets jammed with kiosks, wandering cattle, scavenging dogs, thieving monkeys and people – so many people they were like an ever-shifting tide of colour and confusion.
As the pilot took the plane into a wide arc over the mouth of the Ganges into the Bay of Bengal, they saw exotic temples, street markets, hovels and towering pillars of buildings jammed close together and leaning like weary soldiers on parade. These clearly housed many families within their ochre walls, for they could see lines of washing hanging out and people moving in and out of it. Women in gloriously coloured saris were doing their laundry on the banks of the river where children splashed and others bathed, perhaps following the timeless rituals of their Hindu religion in this holiest of waterways.
The plane began to descend as the heavens opened and rain thundered on the fuselage to streak over the windows and blot out the view. With a roar of its engines it hovered for a moment above the choppy water and then landed with a soft bump to a smattering of relieved applause from the passengers.
The floats churned across the water as the seaplane turned and slowly headed for the series of docks they could see at the foot of the busy wharf. There were three other planes lying idle, and Sarah wondered if they’d been grounded because of the weather. Certainly, it would have been madness to set out in this.
As the hostesses bustled about and everyone hastened to get out of their seats, the pilot came into the cabin with a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Calcutta,’ he drawled. ‘I reckon we might have to stay here for a while until this weather passes over, but we’ll be on our way to Singapore as soon as we can. No worries.’
Jane leapt from her seat and threw her arms around him, dealing him a resounding kiss on both cheeks. He looked shocked and went red, and the others in the cabin tittered, unsure of what was going on.
Jane ignored them all. ‘Thank you so much,’ she breathed. ‘I really thought we’d bought it – but you got us through.’
He went an even deeper scarlet. ‘Fair go, miss. I didn’t spend the flaming war fighting the Luftwaffe for nothing, you know. When the going gets rough, a bloke’s gotta get tough. Otherwise where would we all be, eh?’
He earned himself another round of hearty applause and suddenly everyone wanted to shake his hand and thank him.
Sarah rolled her eyes at her sister and fetched their bags. ‘Honestly, Jane. The poor man didn’t know where to put himself. Do try and behave.’
Jane just laughed, took charge of her bag and headed for the door. ‘In my book, he’s a hero – and that deserved some recognition. Now which hotel are we in tonight? I could murder a gin and tonic before dinner.’
Sarah wasn’t at all sure they had such a thing in Calcutta, but said nothing as she followed her sister down the steps and hurried through the teeming rain into the terminal building.
The first thing to hit them was the all-pervading smell of mixed spices with the tang of onions, garlic and curry powder which seemed to hang in the humid air like a thick pall. The second was one of too many people crammed together in the reception hall, their sing-song voices clamouring to be heard in the confusion of noise and colour. The third, and most uncomfortable, was the overtly hostile stares.
As they stood there amid the babble of noise and confusion, an obsequious and rather plump Indian man in a crumpled linen suit pushed his way through the melee and introduced himself. He was their guide and spoke excellent English, assuring the bewildered flying-boat passengers that he’d soon have them at the very finest hotel in Calcutta.
He clearly knew his way through the red tape of the chaotic customs system, for they were soon following him outside to a covered walkway where he pointed out with great pride the ramshackle bus that was coughing exhaust fumes by the steps.
Sarah watched as their luggage was packed on top of the bus and firmly tied down by the porters. The bus was positively ancient, with bald tyres and rusting bodywork, but every inch of it was decorated with lurid designs of every colour imaginable, with the added flourish of scarlet and yellow swags and tassels, flags, tinsel and streamers and even tiny bells strung from ribbons. In fact, there were so many things dangling over the windscreen, Sarah was sure the driver couldn’t see much of where he was going.
A swarm of ragged, barefoot urchins suddenly came from nowhere, their hands out, or tugging at their clothes as they begged and yelled and chattered for money. Their guide shouted at them to little avail, then chivvied everyone on board.
The inside of the bus was stifling even with the windows down as far as they would go and the leather seats were cracked and spewing horsehair stuffing. The door was shut and the driver set the bus off with a crunch of gears and a groan of reluctance, the swarm of begging children chasing after it, still yelling.
Their guide extolled the glories of the ancient city as they trundled along at an alarming pace, narrowly missing meandering, skinny cows, darting dogs and children. The rain was hammering down, filling the potholes and filthy gutters to wash a flood of debris beneath people’s feet and into the doorways of shops and homes.
Sarah could see by her sister’s expression that she too was reminded of the poorer areas in Malaya and Singapore, but the poverty and sheer volume of people here was quite overwhelming.
It was with great relief that they turned in through a set of elaborate gates and saw their hotel. It looked like a palace, with lush gardens of exotic flowers and cooling palm trees, raked driveway and marble steps leading to a marble-floored veranda where servants waited in their uniforms of scarlet and gold embroidered jackets, white trousers and leather sandals.
As the bus ground to a halt, the servants dashed from the veranda to collect the luggage or provide umbrellas. Everyone prepared to alight, but their guide held up his hands for silence, asking them to wait for a moment.
‘Welcome to the Rajah Palace Hotel. It is the finest hotel in Calcutta and it is an honour for us that you will be staying here.’ He eyed them all, his smile fading. ‘But it is to my greatest sorrow that I must ask you not to leave the hotel grounds unaccompanied – especially you ladies.’
He quelled the uneasy murmurs by raising his hand again. ‘There is much trouble in our beautiful country,’ he said. ‘There are those who are becoming vociferous in their demands for an independent India, and these trouble-makers are also stirring up unrest amongst the Muslims and Sikhs. The British Rule is under great pressure, with many attacks upon their homes and offices. If you do leave the confines of the Rajah Palace, then I strongly advise you to hire a guide who will also act as a guard.’
He smiled and reached into the top pocket of his sweat-stained jacket. ‘My company is proud to supply such people, so I will give each of you my business card as you leave the bus.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ Jane muttered cynically. ‘And here’s me thinking he was actually concerned for our safety.’
‘Hush. He’ll hear you,’ replied Sarah, joining the shuffling queue to leave the bus.
They took the card from the bowing man and, sheltered by the servants carrying umbrellas, made their way to the veranda. More servants quickly appeared as the luggage was placed in the enormous reception hall which was three floors high and topped by a cupola decorated in filigree gold and bright blue. The reception hall was furnished with deep couches, low tables, large ferns in brass pots, a tinkling water fountain, and numerous fans which cooled the torpid heat of the afternoon.
They were assigned their room and followed the porter up the highly polished
teak staircase to the second floor. ‘Goodness,’ breathed Jane as she stepped into a room redolent with the heavenly scent of sandalwood and white lilies. ‘This reminds me of Malaya.’
Sarah tipped the servant and waited for him to close the door before she took in the surroundings. The room was large and airy with plenty of ceiling fans to dispel the heat. There was heavy, dark furniture which had been intricately carved with animals and flowers; a decorative hand-painted screen hid twin bathtubs on clawed feet, and a tiny privy, and the two wide beds were covered with silk spreads and beautifully embroidered cushions. White mosquito nets of the finest mesh had been tied back to the barley-sugar bedposts, and delicate voile curtains gently swayed from the draught of the fans over the floor-to-ceiling shutters that covered the window.
Jane threw the shutters open and exclaimed in delight. ‘Oh, do come and look, Sarah. We’ve got a balcony and the garden below is utterly divine.’
Sarah grinned and went to see what all the fuss was about, and although it was still raining which meant the garden was for now out of bounds, had to agree that they’d been fortunate to have a room at the back of the hotel. The cacophony of the road in front would have been awful.
‘Let’s get bathed and changed into something cooler and then go in search of a large gin and tonic. I’m fairly certain a place like this will have it.’
She turned from the window and opened the suitcase she’d been living out of for the past few days. Most of her clothes were crumpled now – especially her linen dress. She shook it out and hung it up by the window in the hope that the warm, damp air would get rid of the creases.
‘Oh,’ giggled Jane from behind the decorative screen. ‘It looks as if we’ll have to ring down and ask for hot water if we want a bath. There are no taps.’
‘Just like Malaya, then,’ said Sarah, coming to inspect the baths. ‘It seems we’re going to have to rely on servants again, Jane. Wouldn’t Peggy have loved all this?’ she added, feeling the softness of the stack of towels and admiring the luxury of it all.