Where Earth Meets Sky

by Annie Murray

  One evening when they had camped out in the foothills, the three of them built a fire and were sitting round it in the chill darkness. Arsalan was a complete equal to them for the entire journey. Sam’s respect for his capabilities and sheer likeableness grew by the day, and he sensed that of everyone he had seen the captain with, he was most comfortable with his syce.

  ‘How long have you worked for the captain?’ he asked Arsalan, who was squatting on his slim legs, prodding the fire with a stick.

  But Charles Fairford answered, ‘Oh, Arsalan and I go right back, don’t we?’ He made some joking comment in Hindustani and both men laughed. ‘We grew up together, you see, Ironside. Arsalan’s father was syce to mine; they each had sons within the same year, so we were playmates, and it went on from there. We’ve scarcely ever been apart, except when I was at school.’

  Sam saw just how much Charles Fairford could never have anything like this close understanding with his nervy, Sussex-born wife.

  He looked back upon that journey as sheer heaven, only marred by his aching heart over Lily, and the thought that he might never see her again. When he boarded the liner for home it had felt like being wound in like a kite, the string shorter and shorter as they approached England’s shore. Now his life was contracted back between the walls of the factory and those of their little house in Kenilworth with Helen, who, for all her solid sweetness, could never ever arouse in him the feelings he had known with Lily. It felt all the crueller that now even the wife he had left behind was not quite who he had thought.

  After a time he sat up, brushing himself down, and looked out soberly across the road. He thought about what his mother had said.

  ‘Well, pal,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You’d better pull yourself together and knuckle down.’ Immediately he thought of the one thing that did not seem to disappoint: the motor car. He was good at his work, he knew it, and it was satisfying. At least there was something he could pour himself into, heart and soul.

  Climbing on to his cycle he pedalled on more soberly than before. He had a good job, and now a family. He had responsibilities. Fulfilling those was a way of showing he was a man. He rode home, thinking hard thoughts about life’s limitations. He felt doors closing in his mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mussoorie, India, 1909

  The night train from Delhi rocked its way across the Dun valley towards the northern railhead at Dehra Dun, which nestled between the toes of the Himalayan foothills.

  Lily was travelling during the July monsoon. The rain was tippling down outside as she looked out, in the grey dawn, at the soaked green paddies stretching into the distance. She saw families crouched together under pieces of sacking, under bridges and against haystacks, anywhere they could find shelter from the relentless rainfall. Droplets blew in gusts against the train windows and ran streaming from the roof, spattering down on to the oozing mud.

  The rain had brought the summer temperatures down to a manageable balminess, and in the cool of early morning Lily even felt the need to pull her shawl round her. The other passengers in the ladies’ compartment were still sleeping.

  Yesterday, she had left Ambala and the Fairfords for the last time. The wrench of it was worse even than she had expected. Her heart was like a heavy stone and her eyes kept filling with tears every time she thought about Cosmo on his sea voyage to England, and Susan Fairford’s distraught face when she had kissed Lily goodbye, before the tonga pony trotted off, taking her out along the drive for the last time.

  ‘Chai!’ The insistent voice of a tea vendor rang along the corridor. ‘Chai, garam chai!’

  Lily quickly wiped her eyes, fumbled in her purse for a few annas and opened the compartment door.

  ‘Yes – one tea, please!’

  The man poured a little cup of steaming tea into a clay cup and handed it to her. She thanked him with an inclination of her head and cupped the little pot of fiercely sweet liquor between her hands. That was how she felt, like a child needing comfort.

  She had said goodbye to Cosmo a week ago. They had sent him before the summer vacation so that he could spend some weeks acclimatizing on the family estate in Warwickshire, before starting at his prep school in the Michaelmas term. Accompanying him on the long sea voyage was an elderly missionary lady called Miss Spurling, who was returning to England on furlough and had offered to make herself useful on the journey.

  Parting with Cosmo was an agony. For several days she had been overwhelmed with grief, as if all the losses in her life so far culminated in this one. She had made Cosmo the centre and solace of her life, especially over the past two years after Sam. Sam Ironside: his name was engraved on her heart however much she tried to cast him out. Her love for him and his betrayal of her stayed deep and raw in her. It was only by turning all her attention and affection, her need, onto Cosmo that she had been able to survive and start to imagine a future.

  For these two years she had watched Cosmo develop each day, from a child of four to one of nearly six, and he was her joy. His lively body slimmed down as he grew taller, and he became agile and already a promising horseman. His face was thinner now, but his blue eyes were always full of the loving trust that she had seen in him when he first arrived. And he loved Lily. Loved and trusted her as he did Srimala, both loving, female presences who were always there. And now they had all been snatched away from each other. Lily knew she would miss Srimala very much as well, since the girls had become such friends over the years. What made it even worse was Susan’s lack of faith in Uncle William, Charles’s brother in England.

  ‘Charles calls him eccentric,’ she told Lily bitterly. ‘I’d say he was unhinged myself.’

  ‘He won’t be unkind, will he?’ Lily asked anxiously.

  ‘Not unkind. He’ll probably just forget Cosmo’s there most of the time, my poor little lamb. The housekeeper will be the one who looks after him and I gather she’s kind enough.’

  Sipping the last of the warm tea, Lily slid the window up wide enough to throw the little cup out onto the tracks, where it would sink back into dust. From her bag, she slipped her precious pictures. Before he was sent away, Susan Fairford had engaged a photographer to take several portraits of Cosmo – and one of Isadora, which seemed almost an afterthought. And at the end, Susan said generously, ‘Perhaps you would like to pose for a portrait with Cosmo, Lily? It would be something for you to keep.’

  Lily was touched. She was delighted to have the picture of Cosmo, but it was also the first picture she had ever seen of herself. The two of them had been photographed in a formal pose, with her sitting, her hair arranged prettily. Susan had fastened it up for her and pinned some small white flowers in it with little pearls at their centre. For the first time, Lily had taken out the seed pearls from Mrs Chappell’s velvet-lined box and put them on.

  ‘I say,’ Susan had said admiringly, feeling their warm lustre. ‘Lily, you are a beauty, you know. Now it really is time you stopped looking solemn and put a real smile on your lovely face.’

  Startled, Lily smiled dutifully at her. Did Susan have any idea that she still grieved for Sam? She had managed a radiant smile in the photograph, dressed in her high-collared blouse and long, green skirt, with her beloved Cosmo standing at her knee. He wore a favourite sailor suit, his hair a cloud of pale curls. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, there was just the trace of an impishness in his face, with his raised, slanting brows. It captured him excellently and Lily adored the picture. Looking at it now, she smiled, her heart aching, and kissed his face.

  ‘There, my little darling. Your Lily is thinking of you. Oh, I do hope you’re all right, my little dear, and that Mrs Spurling is taking good care of you. And you know Lily will never leave you, darling. I’ll be thinking of you and I’ll write to you, always.’ It was the only way she had been able to manage the separation, by making this pledge. She would be there, like his guardian angel, watching over him, if only from a distance.

  She sighed, carefully stowing t
he picture back in her bag. They were coming into the town now and the other three women in the compartment were on the move.

  ‘I say, Minnie,’ one of them urged. ‘Do hurry up. We’re nearly into Dehra Dun.’ She pronounced it ‘Derra Doon’.

  Lily looked out, her stomach clenching with nerves. She was on the way to a new post in the hills, not as a nanny this time, but as housekeeper to a Dr McBride and his invalid wife. She had applied for the job because she had liked Simla when the family spent the summer up there, the town nestling precariously in the cool of the immense mountain landscape, and she knew she was going to like Mussoorie. When she heard about the job she thought, I’ll go there. I don’t want to go to another family, not yet. I couldn’t ever replace Cosmo. This still felt like the right decision, but she found the change terribly hard, the thought of beginning again, having to make her way so alone in the world.

  She straightened her back and positioned her feet together determinedly. How frightening could a middle-aged doctor and a sick woman be, after all? Breathing in deeply, as if to fill herself with courage, she waited until the train eased its way into the tranquil railhead at Dehra Dun.

  The bus wheezed laboriously up the mountain road which snaked between the dark trees, all topped with thick swirls of cloud. The rain fell and fell and twice they had to stop while the earth from landslips was cleared from the side of the road. The bus was a very recent newcomer on these mountain tracks.

  Lily had eaten a breakfast of poached eggs in the railway station at Dehra Dun and now her stomach turned queasily as they switched back and forth round the bends. As they climbed and climbed, though, and the rain stopped for a brief interval and there were shreds of sunlight, she caught her first glimpses of the hill station of Mussoorie and her spirits lifted excitedly.

  It’s lovely! she thought, wiping the condensation from the window. She was filled with a sense of exaltation, immediately liking it even more than Simla. She saw Mussoorie’s buildings scattered across the hillsides among the trees, the dark peaks of the foothills ringed with cloud, and she felt at home. She found herself sending up a prayer that she would like Dr McBride and his wife and that she could stay on and on here with them in this little paradise in the clouds. But it seemed too much to hope that she could have as happy a situation again as she had found with the Fairfords and she was full of nerves waiting to see her new home. It seemed a good omen, though, that the rain had stopped.

  At last the bus jerked to a halt and Lily climbed down, and stood at a loss for a moment before an elderly bearer approached her, a lean man in a dhoti with a shawl wrapped round him.

  In Hindi she told him what she needed and mentioned Dr McBride’s name. Taking her bag, which he swung up on to the pad on his head, he beckoned to her and set off up the steep, narrow street through the town. The path was still running with water after the heavy shower and all the shop awnings were dripping and hanging with sparkling water droplets. Lily caught glimpses of the food stores, chemists and drapers of Mussoorie before they turned into a quieter side street where they had to edge round two cows which stood ruminatively obstructing the path. At the end of the street suddenly they were facing out over the mountain valley and he led her to a steep little flight of steps, from the top of which she could see over the roof of a large bungalow below.

  ‘This Dr McBride house,’ the bearer said, setting off down the steps with goat-like agility in his loose sandals.

  Like most of the buildings in Mussoorie, as in Simla, the McBrides’ house was perched on the edge of the mountainside with a sheer drop below it, looking out over a dark valley flecked with white flags of cloud. Across the valley was a similar hillside dotted with other yellow and white painted dwellings. At the back of the house Lily saw a tiny garden, with well-tended flowerbeds. At first glance, the place looking promising.

  ‘Come, Missy,’ the bearer called her. Her young, pretty looks evidently did not qualify her as a memsahib.

  A moment later, the door opened, and Lily first saw a very large, thin, curving grey dog, and behind it, she glimpsed Dr Ewan McBride.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Miss Waters, I presume?’

  Lily found herself facing a large, powerful-looking man. His body filled the doorway and the main impression she had of his face was of two stone-grey eyes and a thick, grizzled beard.

  ‘It’s all right’ – he glanced down at the dog – ‘this is Cameron. He won’t hurt you. Wolfhounds are very gentle creatures.’

  The dog did have mild-looking eyes and he seemed quite timid. She could very easily have been intimidated, however, by the imposing presence and deep-voiced Scottish accent of the doctor, but she was determined not to be overawed. She stood up, straight and self-possessed, and looked directly back at him.

  ‘Yes, Dr McBride. I am Lily Waters. I take it you have been expecting me?’

  ‘Expecting you?’ He was suddenly irascible. ‘We most certainly have! We’ve been expecting you for the past three days! . . . Yes, yes . . .’ He paid the bearer off and the man trotted away, apparently satisfied. ‘Come in, come in.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know why that would be,’ Lily said, following him into the hall. There was a very large oil painting of a waterfall facing the front door. ‘I said in my letter that I should be here on the eighteenth, and here I am.’

  ‘So you are,’ he admitted. He seemed like someone who was unused to ordinary conversation. It was strange to her after Charles Fairford’s easy social manner. ‘I had the fifteenth in mind. My mistake. We’ll get you settled in your room, let you rest, and then we can talk about things, um? I expect you’d like some tea?’

  ‘That would be very nice, thank you,’ Lily said. She smiled, and Dr McBride attempted to smile back, which barely lifted the gloom from his face.

  To her surprise, Dr McBride did not summon a servant to take her to her room, but picked up her bag and led her there himself. His portly frame blocked the light along the darkened corridor, so that she had only an impression of alternating surfaces underfoot, floorboards and rugs, and the dark shapes of pictures on the walls. He opened the door right at the end.

  ‘There – this one’s for you,’ he said rather curtly. ‘The tea’ll be along in a few moments. Everything you need, I hope?’

  Lily gasped when she went into her room. It was simple enough in itself: a wooden bed, with a rich red coverlet, its legs resting on a large bamboo mat, a small writing table and chair, an armchair and stool. Someone, to her surprise, had left a little jug of flowers on the table by the bed and she wondered who in this household would have added such a touch. But it was the view from the window which captivated her. Apart from one other house, nestling into the hillside to the left and a school below, all she could see was a wide panorama of the black mountain peaks, with puffs of white cloud hanging in the valleys between and gathered in heaped piles against the grey sky behind. Dark birds were wheeling across the white cloud. It was one of the most lovely sights she had ever seen. And this was to be the view she looked out on every day!

  A shy servant girl brought her some tea and Lily sat on the chair by the window, unable to tear her eyes from the sight. Gradually the cloud thickened and the rain began to fall again until it was rattling hard on the roof. It felt cosy in the room, though it was a strange feeling sitting there wondering who else was in the house. She wondered if it was the young servant who had left her the flowers.

  Soon she grew sleepy after the long hours of travel, and lay down on the bed, thinking about the doctor. He seemed a gruff, austere man and she knew she felt nervous of him, but he had not been unpleasant. Wondering what his wife might be like, she fell asleep.

  Her first sight of Mrs McBride was later that evening.

  The young girl who had brought her tea woke her and said haltingly that Dr McBride wanted her, if she was ready. Lily quickly washed her face and hands and followed her. She was struck by the fact that so far, this girl, who only looked about twelve, was the onl
y servant she had seen. When asked, the girl told Lily her name was Prithvi.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ Lily said.

  ‘No, no,’ the girl assured her at once. ‘That was Miss Brown.’

  With no further explanation she led Lily to Dr McBride’s dimly lit study, where the walls were lined almost completely with shelves of books. Entering the room, she found him sitting at his desk, a curved pipe in his mouth and surrounded by a haze of sweet-smelling pipe smoke. Cameron the wolfhound was lying close to his feet. The room contained dark furniture, with thick rugs on the floor, and smelled of a combination of pipe smoke and damp dog.

  ‘Ah, Miss Waters.’ He stood up with a slight grunt and gestured at a chair in front of the desk. ‘Do be seated.’

  This was all rather unusual, Lily thought as she obeyed. In most households it was the mistress who dealt with the new staff, but Mrs McBride was evidently not well enough.

  ‘I hope you’re rested?’ he asked, sinking back into his chair.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She sat looking demurely at him. She guessed his age to be about fifty. There was a silence and she wondered if she was expected to say more, but she was distracted suddenly by a loud squawk which came from somewhere behind Dr McBride’s desk and a strange, chirpy voice said, ‘Afternoon!’ with a definite Scottish accent. Seeing her astonishment, Dr McBride smiled for the first time.

  ‘Ah – now that’s Mimi . . . Are you being a cheeky girl, now? Come – see . . .’

  Lily moved to where she was bidden and found herself looking into the mischievous, beady eyes of a black, yellow-billed bird in a cage which stood on a table in a dark corner of the room.

  ‘She’s a mynah,’ he told her. ‘They like to mimic . . .’