by CL Skelton
‘Someone you know, sir?’
‘Yes, Miss Westburn.’
‘I’ll see that you sit next to her at meals, sir. Sorry I can’t stay longer. We’ve got to get to sea.’
Before Andrew had time to protest, he had gone. Not that Andrew really wanted to protest. He just felt that it might seem a little forward, sitting next to her at meals. And it was not really too surprising to find Miss Westburn among the passengers. After all, there were not a lot of ships sailing at that time, and doubtless the Resident had been making reservations at the same time as Major Gifford.
After Jarvis had left, Andrew finished putting his things away, and as he did this, he felt the throb of the engines beneath him, and that almost imperceptible sense of movement as the ship pulled away from the quay. It was about five in the afternoon and he went out on to the deck to watch the panorama of the teeming masses of Calcutta scurrying about their daily occupations. There were about ten other passengers on deck; he knew that the ship carried only fourteen. But there was no sign of Miss Westburn.
It was not until he had seated himself in his appointed place at the long polished oak table at seven that evening that they met for the first time. She came into the wood-panelled room which spanned the breadth of the vessel, with windows looking out on to the river shore on either side, and he rose as she started to take her place beside him.
‘Miss Westburn,’ he said. ‘This is quite a surprise.’
‘How do you do, Mr Maclaren,’ she replied formally. ‘I was aware that you were coming. I saw the passenger list when I came on board this morning.’ She looked beyond him. ‘The lady on your right is Mrs Wilberforce, and her husband, the Reverend Wilberforce.’
Andrew smiled a greeting at the rather dumpy Mrs Wilberforce, who was about to become effusive, when the captain tapped on the table with his spoon and asked the Reverend Wilberforce to say grace.
‘My napkin is wet,’ said Miss Westburn.
‘Haven’t you sailed before?’ asked Andrew.
‘I hardly remember the first time.’
‘Well,’ he said, referring to the small square of linen which lay before each diner, ‘they wet these so that if the ship is moving about, your plate will not slide off.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and her tone indicated that she regarded the conversation as closed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the captain, ‘I am Captain Hogg, master of this vessel, and there are one or two details which I feel I ought to give you before I return to the bridge and leave you to your meal. First of all, you will find all relevant information about emergency drill and mealtimes and such like posted in your cabins. Secondly, we are fortunate in having with us the Reverend Wilberforce and Doctor Adams, the gentleman on my right. They have both kindly offered to place their services at your disposal for the voyage. So all our needs, both spiritual and temporal, are well catered to.
‘We are at present in the Hooghli River some seventy miles from the open sea, which we should enter at just after dawn. So I am sure that you can count on a quiet first night, and I would suggest early bed, during which time I hope that all of you will become accustomed to the motion of the ship. In the event of rough weather, the ship’s officers will ask you to remain in your cabins, and I count on you, for your own safety, to obey their instructions. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me, my first mate will be getting very hungry. Goodnight to you.’
As soon as they had finished their meal, Maud Westburn turned to Andrew. ‘Excuse me, Mr Maclaren, I shall go to my cabin now and rest.’
‘May I escort you?’
‘That will not be necessary, thank you.’
She left him with the feeling that she had no desire either to further their relationship, or to recall in any way their recent experiences together. This attitude he accepted; after all, theirs had been a strictly professional acquaintance, brought upon them entirely by force of circumstances.
The other passengers appeared a pretty dull lot. Mostly they were Company officials and their wives who had decided to get out of India before the mutiny caught up with them. Dumpy little Mrs Wilberforce was obviously one of those women who spent her life ‘doing good works’. Already during dinner, she had given Andrew a dissertation on her ‘poor, dear little native children’. No doubt she did do a fine job, but there was equally no doubt that she was determined that everyone should know about it. As for her husband, an angular undernourished-looking individual with greying hair, he hardly said a word, and Andrew felt that he must have become a parson in order to give himself the chance of getting a word in, at least on Sundays, from the pulpit.
The doctor appeared to be a reasonable sort of chap. Andrew supposed he would be in his late forties. He had a heavy tropical tan, and from what little Andrew could gather at table, he was returning home after some fifteen years in the East. However, he, like Andrew, seemed a quiet individual, not given to socializing, and did in fact return to his cabin as soon as the meal was finished.
It did not appear that the voyage would be in any way a social occasion. Not that this worried Andrew; he was not gregarious by nature, and apart from Miss Westburn, had little in common with anyone on board. He found a well-stocked library in the saloon which adjoined the dining saloon, so at least he would be able to read. And that apart, he enjoyed the sea for its own sake.
Andrew selected a book ‒ Pilgrim’s Progress, which he would now be reading for the fourth time since childhood. He walked out into the darkness on deck, went into his cabin, where a hurricane lamp had been lit over his desk, and settled down to half an hour’s reading before turning in.
When he awoke, he could feel the movement of the ship much more vividly than when he had retired. He went out on deck and found that they were in open sea. It was calm and the ship heaved gently in the long ocean swell. India was just a smudge on the horizon.
It took them five and a half days to sail through the Bay of Bengal. There was nothing to see, just the calm waters and the thrashing of the paddle wheels churning up a long, frothy wake behind them. During all of this time, he hardly exchanged a dozen words with Miss Westburn, apart from the formalities which politeness demanded.
On the sixth day, they entered the Palk Straits, that fifty-mile-wide stretch of water which separates Ceylon from mainland India. He could tell this by the two smudges of land that appeared on either side of the ship.
They had just finished lunch, and Andrew, who had by this time got into a routine, was about to find some shade on deck and relax with his book, when Miss Westburn spoke to him.
‘Mr Maclaren,’ she said, ‘I hope you will not consider this forward of me, but I have a mind to take a turn around the deck and I should be most grateful if you would be willing to accompany me.’
Andrew was delighted. It was a most unexpected request. ‘It would give me the greatest of pleasure,’ he replied, and he meant it.
They strolled around the deck for about half an hour, and though they said little and certainly nothing of any consequence, he did not feel embarrassed in her company. They spent most of the time gazing across the calm waters at the thin grey line of the subcontinent to the north. Their walk ended with her heading wordlessly in the direction of her cabin. He accompanied her to the door and she turned to him.
‘Thank you, Mr Maclaren,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed that. You were most understanding.’
Spurred on by her recognition of him, he managed to discover that there was a pianist aboard. It was the captain’s steward, a perky little cockney called Turner. There was a piano in the saloon, and Andrew persuaded Turner to play for them after dinner that night.
When the meal was finished, Miss Westburn rose to leave.
‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’ said Andrew. ‘I have arranged some entertainment next door.’
Smiling, but not comprehending, she agreed. They went into the other room, which Andrew had now discovered was called the smoking saloon, with its leather-covered s
eats built against the bulkheads, and small tables in front of them, but still leaving a clear area in the centre.
Only one other couple followed them into the saloon; that was the doctor and his wife. The redoubtable Turner was waiting for them, and as soon as they entered he commenced to play. They sat for a little while on the bench seats under one of the windows and then the doctor went over to Turner and asked him to play ‘See Me Dance the Polka’. As the music started, the doctor and his wife rose and began dancing.
‘Do you dance the polka, Miss Westburn?’ asked Andrew.
‘I have done, Mr Maclaren,’ she replied.
‘Then may I have the pleasure?’
She hesitated for only a second before saying, ‘Why not?’
‘You must forgive my ignorance of modern dancing,’ said Andrew. ‘But watching the doctor, I think it should not be too difficult.’
‘It is really very simple,’ she replied. ‘Just one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop, and so on. Do you really want to try?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Andrew, ‘if you will be so kind as to bear with me.’
They rose from the table and he took her hand, putting his right hand gently against the small of her back. As he did so, he felt her body stiffen and saw her eyes go wide as if with fear. But it was only for a moment, and then she danced happily, and even smiled at him a little.
A day later, the ship called at Colombo, tying up at the south end of the bay and under the lee of a peninsula which stuck out northward into the sea. From where they were they could see the business quarter of the city. The captain had advised them that as they would be coaling, it might be in their own interests if the passengers went ashore for the afternoon. Lines of ox-drawn, wooden-wheeled carts were drawn up on the quay, some carrying their coal, and some containing cases of tea which was to provide the remainder of their cargo.
‘Perhaps,’ said Andrew, ‘you would care to come ashore with me and see the native quarter? I am told that it is most colourful.’
‘No!’ she snapped back at him with considerable vehemence. ‘I have no desire to see the native quarter.’ Then, recovering her calm, she said, ‘But I would quite like to see that large building over there. It appears to have very pleasant surroundings.’
The building she indicated was, in fact, the Queen’s House, a large new colonnaded structure which housed the government offices. It stood a little back from the quays. Beyond it, they found a large lake and a park, all essentially British in character.
They spent two or three hours in the park, enjoying the sight of the many colourful birds that seemed to be its principal inhabitants. They saw Lady Amherst pheasants with their long black-and-white striped tails walking sedately across the green lawns, and they laughed when Andrew likened a red hornbill, which they saw sitting in a tree not twenty feet away from them, to Mrs Wilberforce. Peacocks there were in plenty, but, to their disappointment, none of them obliged with a display of their magnificent tail feathers. Andrew would have rather taken a look at the native bazaars, and possibly purchased a few gifts, but he respected her abhorrence of mixing with the native population, and her unstated reasons, and did not bring the matter up again.
During the whole of their walk, she never left his side for an instant, staying almost embarrassingly close to him, obviously nervous and not very communicative. But they did manage some conversation, and to establish a rapport that had not existed before. They returned to the ship for dinner just as the sun was beginning to set.
By that time, they were calling each other by their first names, and Andrew was falling more and more under the spell of the woman he had saved.
The same pattern was followed when they called at Zanzibar and Capetown. On several occasions, Andrew tried to broach the subject of the future, but she would hear none of it, and always shied away from the issue. Only once did he try to discuss her aunt in Surrey, but again she would not be drawn.
She became gay, unrealistically gay, when he tried to be serious. Once when he asked her directly what she was going to do, she replied, ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for it’s a long way home.’ There was almost a touch of hysteria in the way she said it, and Andrew, unwise in the ways of women, let the matter drop.
This really set the pattern of their journey. So long as he made no attempt to be serious, he found her a delightful and charming companion. But at the merest mention of anything concerning the future, she would laugh and change the subject.
They rounded the Cape and stood well out into the Atlantic in order to take advantage of the southeast tradewinds. They made very good time, their engines thrusting them through the doldrums and across the Equator for the second time, and soon they picked up the northeast trades, and their sails filled again as they headed on the last long leg of their journey.
If she was reserved about her own background, he never hesitated to answer her questions about his own. He talked with pride of his family. They would spend many hours sitting on deck when the weather was fine and the sea was calm. They had deckchairs which they always positioned on the leeward side of the cabins.
‘Tell me about you Maclarens,’ she said teasingly.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I really have two families, both of which in a way I was born into: the regiment and my home. We are not terribly popular at home among our lordly neighbours. We fought on the wrong side in the forty-five, you know.’
‘The forty-five?’ she enquired.
‘Yes, Bonnie Prince Charlie and all that. I apparently come from very staunch Presbyterian stock who would have nothing to do with Catholic Charles. It was after the forty-five that they made one of my ancestors a baronet. If I survive, I shall hold that title myself one day.’
‘What about your regiment?’ she asked. ‘That seems very important to you, and yet you run away from it and go and serve in India.’
‘I think I probably did that because it was important to me; regiments can become very parochial. I have known since I was able to understand, that this was to be my life, just as it was my father’s and my grandfather’s. You see, we have always been the Queen’s men, or the King’s. My great-grandfather raised the regiment to fight in the Napoleonic wars with Wellington. I suppose we were a little out of step even there, the ‘auld alliance’ and all that sort of thing didn’t really mean very much to us. In a way, the regiment itself became a sort of extended family. I like to feel that we are a cut above most of the regiments in the British Army. Nearly all of our men come from the estate and the surrounding villages. We know them all personally; and our womenfolk know all the wives and the sweethearts of the men who serve with us, and any man who joins us knows that, if anything should happen to him, his family will be cared for. I suppose that if I was honest, I wouldn’t claim that it was a very important regiment, but it matters a great deal to us. It means a lot to be a Maclaren and to be in the 148th.’
She let him chatter on and teased him gently about being in love with a thousand soldiers.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘it’s much more than that. In many ways, we are fortunate. Both my grandfather and father invested heavily in cotton and railways, all that sort of thing, none of which I really understand. My father tells me that it doesn’t matter; financially, the future is secure so all that need matter to me is the regiment. We shall never be poor. You may have heard of this terrible business which has been going on in the Highlands. People having their houses burned down and being cleared off the land that they have called home for all of their lives to make room for the Cheviot sheep. They are a money crop, all right, but we never did it. I think that my father is content with what he has. As a matter of fact, he took in several families who had had their farms burnt by neighbouring landlords. That didn’t increase our popularity with the Establishment. I think, though, that I can say that my family is held in real affection by the ordinary people around us. Do you understand?’
‘It all sounds so very nice,’ she said, and her voice sounded a million m
iles away. ‘I envy you, Andrew.’
‘There’s really no need to,’ he said.
They were silent for a little while and then he said, ‘Maud, I want to talk to you seriously, about the future.’
The old barrier came down between them. ‘Not now, Andrew,’ she replied quickly. ‘I really must go and change for dinner.’
He waited a long time before he tried to talk seriously with her again.
As they sped northward, her gaiety seemed to increase, but to Andrew it seemed even more unreal. Sometimes he wondered if she ever slept. They would say goodnight in the small hours of the morning after drinking a midnight bottle of wine, and when he came in to breakfast, no matter how early it was, he would find her there before him. Andrew did not mind. All he now wanted was to be in her company.
As they entered the Bay of Biscay ‒ which, contrary to its reputation, was smooth and calm ‒ it was late, approaching midnight. Off the starboard bow, they could see the winking of the Corunna Lighthouse. They were sitting together, an empty wine bottle between them. He looked at her, still gazing out the window of the saloon at the reflection of the light in the water, and he saw for the thousandth time that she was beautiful.
‘Are you thinking of England?’ he asked gently, for he could see that she was troubled.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘It won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘In a couple of days, we’ll be into the Channel.’
‘I wonder what it would be like,’ she said, and her mood seemed dark and thoughtful.
‘What? The Channel?’
‘No, I was thinking, suppose someone were to fall overboard? It would be quite simple, especially at night, and if the sea were at all rough. I doubt if anyone would see them go. Go out on deck and look around you, there’s no one about. And then you would be in the water, and you would see the lights of the ship as it went away from you. And that would be the end of everything.’
‘That sounds pretty horrid,’ said Andrew.
‘Oh, I don’t know. There are worse things in life than death. You must believe that or you would not be a soldier.’