Washerwoman's Dream

by Hilarie Lindsay

  ‘I am interested in your life in Australia. I know so little of your country. You have children?’ she asked.

  ‘Three,’ Winifred replied. She did not think to mention the four children of her first marriage. It had been so long ago.

  ‘And your husband was Indian?’

  ‘He died in India. I still miss him.’

  Her hostess put out her hand and touched Winifred gently on the arm. ‘When you love it is hard to forget,’ she said. My husband was chosen for me. I think it is different in your country.’

  Winifred thought about her words. She had chosen Charles but then he had not chosen her.

  ‘When I was a girl I was never allowed to leave the house unless someone was with me. My mother never left the house, though she was not in purdah. She entertained visitors, walked in the garden, but that was as far as she went.’ She smiled and, leaning across, took Winifred by the hand. ‘We have lived different lives. You have been to Mecca. You have travelled to India without your husband. We Indian women need to be more like you.’

  She paused and rang a bell, then turned back to Winifred. ‘We are worried for Queen Souriya. She is in danger because she tried to help her women. We are afraid for her safety and that of the child she is carrying.’

  A servant entered, wheeling a trolley, which he placed beside his mistress.

  ‘I will pour,’ Bebe Feroza said, and waved the servant away. ‘My husband will be home shortly. He is most anxious to meet you.’ She lifted the teapot, and the glass bangles on her arm tinkled. ‘How do you like your tea — with milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just black,’ Winifred replied, looking at the delicate eggshell china cup decorated with pink roses that her hostess handed her, thinking how different tea tasted from a nice cup than from a tin mug. She had no idea what made the thought come into her head. It was long while since she had used a tin mug.

  After they had finished their tea they walked in the garden, where the bey joined them. His wife excused herself and the bey led Winifred to a secluded spot where there was a garden seat and table. It was late afternoon; dappled sunlight fell on a large tree that dominated the corner where they sat. Winifred reached down and picked up a long heart-shaped leaf that had fallen at her feet. She smoothed it with her hand, saying, ‘It’s so peaceful here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so if you had been here earlier. The monkeys spend their days playing in the tree,’ the bey replied.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘The servants feed them. They say they’re sacred because they live in a bo tree, the sacred fig. It was under such a tree that Buddha had his enlightenment.’

  ‘In Medina we saw a shrine to Jesus Christ in the Great Mosque.’

  ‘Just because we are Moslem does not mean we cannot revere the great teachers. There is but one God. We all travel the same path to meet Him.’ He raised his hand and a servant came walking along the path and stopped in front of him.

  ‘You wanted something, sahib?’

  ‘Bring the mem-sahib a nimbu pani.’

  ‘And for you, sahib?’

  ‘The same.’

  The bey turned towards Winifred. ‘I want to talk to you. There is fighting in Kabul. There will be wounded. We are sending a small medical team. We would like you to be part of the group.’

  Winifred stared at him, wondering if she had heard correctly. His face was serene under a black fez. He returned her gaze, then smiled. ‘You are surprised.’

  ‘I know nothing of nursing.’

  ‘It is not your nursing skills we require. You are an Englishwoman. Your presence will assist us.’

  The servant returned with two glasses of liquid on a silver tray. He put them on the table and returned to the house.

  Winifred picked up the glass and sipped it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Lime juice. We have a lime tree in the back garden.’

  ‘It’s very refreshing.’ She took another mouthful, tasting the sour-sweet liquid on her tongue. ‘I thought the British were not liked.’

  ‘That is true, but they are still respected for their knowledge. Even Gandhi, who is most vocal about the need to get rid of the British, would agree. We have learnt a lot from them.’

  ‘But I know very little. I am only a simple woman.’

  ‘Some of the village people will not bring their women to be treated by a male doctor. If a woman is present, then it will be different.’

  She was still doubtful. She had come to India hoping to go to Afghanistan. Now she was being asked to do something completely different. It would mean staying in India.

  ‘There is something more. Did you know that the king has denounced his abdication? He is trying to fight his way back to the throne. There are those who are loyal to him. But those who are not have threatened to kill Amanullah and his queen. We need to find some way to rescue them.’ He looked around and whispered, ‘Tell no one of what I have said. Even monkeys have ears.’

  Winifred’s mind was racing. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Then she thought about her children. How could she leave them again?

  As if reading her thoughts the bey said, ‘Your children will be cared for. The da Silva family has offered to look after them. Your boys can go to school with their sons.’

  ‘Will we be away that long?’

  ‘It all depends. Refugees will be fleeing from Kabul. We need to make contact. That is the only way we will find out what is happening in the capital and what has happened to Amanullah.’

  ‘When do you plan to leave?’

  ‘Almost immediately. Where we are going the rivers run dry and are easy to cross. Once the monsoon starts they become raging torrents.’

  She was still not convinced. ‘Will it be dangerous?’

  He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Just to be alive is dangerous. Even here we are not safe. At any moment a rogue elephant may come crashing through the wall and crush us to death.’

  For a moment she thought he was serious. Then she saw that he was laughing and she laughed in return. It pleased her to know that he had a sense of humour. She thought that with him she would be safe. ‘I will have to talk it over with my children.’

  The sun was about to set and he rose. ‘Come, before the monkeys return,’ she said.

  It was almost time for prayer. The bey took his leave while Winifred went to join Bebe Feroza, who invited her to join in the prayers and stay for dinner.

  Later, with Bebe Feroza present, the bey took out a map and spread it on the table. ‘We will travel to Delhi by train, but not together. We will meet there and go by foot through the villages to Lahore, skirting the Punjab to the north. Then we will travel through the foothills of the Himalayas and head for the Khyber Pass. Wear something Indian on the train so as not to draw attention to yourself. Later you will change into Western dress. My wife will help you choose something. The Khalifat will pay for everything.’

  As he escorted her to the waiting car he said, ‘I think you will enjoy the experience. You will see parts of India that you have never seen before. Life in the country is nothing like life in Bombay.’ He was taking it for granted that she would make the trip.

  Winifred thought about it as the car sped along, dodging bullock carts, and a herd of donkeys that came charging out of a side street, causing the driver to brake sharply. She was not afraid of danger. Death was everywhere. She could be bitten by a snake, or gored by a bullock. Trying to run away from it didn’t work. She had been offered an adventure and would be foolish not to accept.

  The next morning Bebe Feroza called for Winifred by car and took her to Laidlaws, where she ordered a white linen suit, a pith helmet and a puggaree to wrap around the helmet as a protection against the sun. ‘Dressed in this everyone will bow before you.’

  Winifred looked at her reflection in the mirror. The pith helmet gave her a fierce, determined look and she wondered what the villagers would make of her. The few Englishwomen she had met in Bombay wore flowing white
muslin or silk garments that hid their figures, and carried a parasol to ward off the sun. The white suit felt tight and she knew she would have to wear corsets, stocking and shoes, instead of the leather sandals she was used to wearing with her saris. She loved these graceful flowing garments that disguised her thickening waistline. Now she looked like a sack tied in the middle, and suddenly she was laughing at herself and how she looked, while her companion stood there, a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘The white suit is for special occasions when you go into the villages to meet the headman. You will need some cotton skirts for everyday. Divided skirts will be more comfortable than a conventional skirt when you are riding.’ She helped Winifred choose some white cotton blouses, a jacket and a pair of riding boots. Then she called the manager, who sent a tailor to take Winifred’s measurements, promising to send the garments when they were ready.

  Bebe Feroza was not yet finished and ordered a gold-topped walking-stick. ‘For your protection, my dear Mrs Steger. I will see that it is packed in my husband’s luggage. You would look strange carrying it on the train in a sari.’

  * * *

  It was not until the time came for Winifred to say goodbye to her children that she realised the enormity of what she had promised. If anything happened to her the children would be thrown on the mercy of strangers who might not care for them. They would be brought up in India whether they wanted it or not. She knew she was being selfish and had admitted to herself that she was going not so much because she wanted to help the Afghan king and queen, but because she yearned for change and excitement. It was the reason she had gone to Mecca. That experience had affected her life deeply and her story was still running as a weekly serial in Adelaide. Once she returned to Australia she could tell the story of this latest adventure. And surely when her children were old enough to understand they would be proud of her.

  She tried to gloss over the separation. Mrs da Silva had said, ‘I will care for your children as if they were my own.’ Winifred knew that their lives would go on as usual, except that she would not be there to tuck them into bed at night and tell them a story.

  The night before she left, the children stayed up late, sitting in the courtyard with Winifred and their hosts. When the moon rose Winifred pointed to it. ‘When you see the moon you will know that I am not far, because the same moon will be shining on me. When you see it think of me, and I will think of you.’

  ‘Your mother is a very brave woman,’ Mr da Silva said. ‘There is a war in Afghanistan. She is going to help the sick and wounded. It will be a long journey through villages and jungle tracks.’

  ‘Will there man-eating tigers?’ Rhamat’s eyes shone.

  ‘And elefunts?’ Pansy asked, ‘I’d like to see an elefunt,’ and she climbed onto her mother’s lap and snuggled up close.

  Mr da Silva laughed. ‘There are elephants and tigers in India, of course. But where your mother is going there are no elephants. There may be a tiger or two still around. But I don’t expect she’ll meet any face to face.’

  ‘All you have to do is to stare it in the eyes and it’ll go away,’ Rhamat said. ‘Our teacher told us.’

  ‘Well, if I see one I won’t try it,’ Winifred laughed and patted her son on the head.

  ‘There are still tigers roaming in the jungle,’ Mr da Silva said. ‘The British hunted most of them for sport, other times to save lives. There was one village where a tiger killed over a hundred people. The villagers fled. It was not until an Englishman killed the beast that it was safe for people to return. Most tigers keep away from humans. They live on antelopes and wild pigs. It is only old tigers that can no longer hunt that attack humans.’

  He ruffled Rhamat’s hair, then walked to where Yusef was standing alone, looking out into the night, and put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘There is nothing to worry about. My son, the doctor, is going also. Every year before the monsoon he makes this trip through the villages to care for the sick. Your mother will return home safely, I promise. My son will see that she is cared for. While she’s away you’ll be head of the family.’

  After the children had been put to bed Mr da Silva took Winifred into his study and, unlocking his desk, took out a small pearl-handled revolver. ‘Have you ever handled a gun?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I hate the things.’

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I do not know what dangers you may encounter. I have promised your son that you will return. The bey will show you how to use it. Gandhi would say to face the enemy in peace and without weapons. But sometimes, if the enemy has a gun, it is a matter of who fires first. Use it if you must. Your children are young. They still need you.’

  The bey wanted Winifred to be as comfortable as possible and gave her money to buy a first-class ticket to Delhi. Instead she travelled third-class, thinking to pocket the difference, knowing that if she stayed in India much longer all her savings would be gone and she had no way of earning money. Though she lived in luxurious surroundings, at no cost to herself, there were the day-to-day expenses of taking her children on outings and buying new clothes in keeping with the functions she was being invited to attend, where all the people were wealthy.

  Once on the train she realised how foolish she had been. Even travelling steerage on the Istophan had not been as bad as this. It was not just the hard seats and the lack of ventilation, but the uncouth behaviour of the other passengers, who chewed betel nut and tobacco and spat noisily on the floor. A young boy and his grandfather got in with a goat, which urinated, the urine splashing on those close by. Empty milk cans were tied to the outside of the train and banged against the doors and windows. Passengers were clinging to the outside guard rail and others were sitting on the roof. A group of men passed the hubble-bubble pipe, a woman lit a spirit stove on the floor and cooked a meal with the overpowering smell of ghee and curry until the air was the consistency of a London smog and Winifred felt like fainting.

  She had forgotten to bring any drinking water and could not quench her thirst because there was none provided. When she ventured along to the lavatory she found it like a cesspit with brown sludge threatening to spill into the corridor with every movement of the train. It was impossible to use without getting the bottom of her sari and her sandals soiled.

  When she returned to her seat she found her neighbour had stretched out and fallen asleep. She managed to wake him and he curled up his legs so that she could squeeze into her seat. Sitting there, cramped, she was feeling savage and wished she had her gold-topped cane to give him a thrashing. The revolver was in her purse and she was tempted to pull it out and order everyone out of the carriage. But she resisted. She didn’t want to be arrested. She could imagine the scene and suddenly she was laughing at the thought of the commotion it would cause. It kept her going until the first stop, when she got out and bought a first-class ticket.

  The bey and Dr John da Silva met Winifred at Delhi Railway Station. They were both wearing armbands bearing the insignia of the Red Crescent, a Moslem group that performed the same function as the Red Cross. With them was a young woman called Ayesha, who was to be Winifred’s companion. The group spent the night in a government rest house. Here Winifred waited while the men organised a cook and bearers to carry the equipment, which consisted of medical supplies, food, tents, bedding and cooking utensils. The next day the small party set off.

  The road streamed through the plains like a great river, a river bursting with people and animals. Winifred felt as if she had been sucked into it, that she was no longer an individual but part of something greater than herself. It was as if she was seeing the real India for the first time. Fields stretched into the distance on either side. There were no footpaths. Bullock waggons plodded along laden with sacks of grain, while their drivers walked alongside holding a stick. Women in cotton saris made their way to the village well, holding brass pots on their heads, their bare feet whispering in the dust.

  Herds of goats driven by young boys clad onl
y in white dhotis bleated as they threaded their way through men pushing barrow-loads of potatoes, with their wives and children perched on top. Cows ambled along, stopping to browse on thornbush and tufts of coarse grass growing on the verge.

  A car with the insignia of Great Britain went flying past with its horn blaring, sending up a whirlwind of dust and scattering everything in its path. As Winifred scrambled up an embankment she saw the bearers spit after the car. The bey put his hand under her arm to steady her. She could see that he was angry. ‘The British are so arrogant. This is not their country. We will leave the road and make our way through the villages.’

  They stopped for prayers beside a clump of small trees. Dr John spread a waterproof sheet on the ground and they sat there while the cook prepared a meal of millet with curried vegetables and chapattis. A cloud of flies arrived with the smell of food cooking. Winifred brushed them off her face, which was scarlet from the heat and covered in sweat. Her wet sari clung to her body. The pallus of her sari, which she had draped over her head, gave her little protection from the sun. She wished she had been able to wear her pith helmet like the bey and Dr John.

  The men seemed cooler and more comfortable in riding breeches and long-sleeved white shirts. She thought it was because they were more used to the humidity than she was. It was a different heat from the dry heat of the Australian outback. Either that or she had grown soft since she came to India, living in luxury, with fans to cool the rooms, a sea breeze in the afternoon, no washing to do, no bread to make, nothing more arduous than entertaining her children and socialising.

  All she wanted was a cool bath to rinse away the sweat that was pouring down her face, from under her armpits and between her breasts. She looked around, hoping by some miracle to see a lily-covered pond like the ones she had stumbled on in the middle of the Australian desert. The fields were bare, with a few black birds hopping along, and to one side a wooden plough. The bullocks had been freed and were wallowing in a muddy waterhole, while the farmer squatted alongside chewing betel nut. She wondered what he would do if she waded in beside the beasts. The thought made her laugh.