by CL Skelton
It was a couple of months before he, at last, took her to bed again. He did it because he loved her and could no longer take the sight of her pain, and because he wanted her.
They made love. Gently and tenderly this time. And she found that the pleasure could be just as intense as it had been when he had been so forceful. Afterwards, when they lay together in the dark, relaxed and on the edge of sleep, she turned to him and gently took his hand.
‘Willie,’ she murmured, ‘I’m going to have another baby.’ There was no reply.
‘Willie,’ she said again, ‘are you asleep, did you hear me?’
‘Aye.’ And all the old jealousies flooded back into his mind as he drew his hand away. ‘Aye, I heard you.’
‘I’m going to have a baby, Willie,’ she repeated.
‘Then no doot we’ll be able to pass it off as mine. For if yon is the father, there’s no man living who could tell the difference.’
She started to sob silently and he turned away from her, gazing wide-eyed into the darkness and praying for the sleep and its attendant oblivion that would not come.
Months later, when the child was christened, Willie named it Gordon Maclaren Bruce. This made Sir Henry and Lady Maclaren delighted, it made Andrew ashamed, and it made Maud furious.
Chapter Seventeen
The train rattled and clanked and puffed its tortuous way up the winding branch line that climbed another five thousand feet into the foothills of the Himalayas en route from Ambala to Simla. Its occupants were a fair smattering of the Indian Establishment, army officers, and high government officials going up to the hill station to avoid the worst of the summer heat. The train did not hurry; it stopped several times on the sixty-mile journey, once when a sacred white Brahman bull had decided to lie on the track chewing its cud. The driver, faithful to his beliefs, had waited until, half an hour later, the animal decided to move on.
As they climbed, the brown earth started to give way to patches of green, and here and there they would pass near a village where men spent their days treading a waterwheel to bring the precious liquid to the miserable patch of earth on which their survival depended.
Willie Bruce and Andrew Maclaren shared a compartment. They did this not out of choice, but because it would have been improper for two officers of equal rank and belonging to the same regiment to travel apart. In any case, it was the movements officer at Lahore who had made the travel arrangements.
Their compartment was upholstered in purple plushy velvet cloth, deep comfortable seats buttoned back against their frames of figured walnut. Above them a fan turned lazily, drawing the hot humid air away from them and out through the two ventilators in the roof, only to have it replaced by air that was equally hot and humid.
The only other occupant of their compartment was an older man, a typical product of the Indian Establishment of the seventh decade of the nineteenth century. He was a civilian in white ducks who had joined them at Ambala and carefully placed his pith helmet, attaché case, and gold-topped cane in the luggage rack. He took the window seat opposite Andrew with his back to the engine, Willie being on the same side and by the corridor, as far as possible from his brother officer.
‘Been up to the hills before?’ asked the stranger, obviously intent on making conversation.
‘No, sir,’ said Willie, and Andrew merely shook his head.
‘You’ve got a treat in store for you. Simla always reminds me of Brighton. No beach of course, what?’ He laughed, and Andrew suppressed a sigh.
‘I’ve never been to Brighton, either,’ said Willie.
‘Good God! Thought everybody went to Brighton. You’re Scotch, aren’t you?’
‘Scottish,’ corrected Willie.
‘First tour in India?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’ll like it. I think we’ve got the native where we want him now. They were gettin’ a bit uppish before the mutiny. Company made a bit of a hash of things. But it’s all right now, thanks to you fellahs.’
‘There are no many of us,’ said Willie.
‘Aye, lad, but you’re British. Thirty thousand troops, three hundred million natives, and you can handle them. That’s what being British means.’
‘You mean looking after the likes of you?’
‘And why not?’ replied the man, stroking his immaculate greying moustache. ‘I grow cotton in the Punjab. Cheap labour, high profit. Good for the Empire. Take that fellow, for instance,’ he stabbed the window with a soft, manicured finger. Outside there was another waterwheel with a ragged, ill-nourished youth treading wearily away at it. ‘So long as he’s got his rice, and he can breed, that’s all he needs. Why give him more?’
‘You don’t think of him as human, then?’ said Andrew butting in. ‘I mean, you’d do as much for your dog.’
‘Human, yes, I suppose he is. But he’s not British. He’ll never be a gentleman.’
Andrew looked across at Willie. This man was an insufferable bore and even though, since their arrival in India, theirs had been a strained and purely professional relationship, this was too much for both of them. ‘Let’s go and get a drink,’ he said.
Willie glanced at him, surprised, but almost anything was better than this. ‘Aye,’ he replied.
They edged their way along the corridor to the next carriage, which was equipped with a small bar where several other officers were already ensconced, sipping their ‘pegs’, and Andrew ordered.
Even before leaving for India, the only conversation that had passed between them was on matters military. However, they had been travelling many hours, all the way from Lahore, and it was just not possible for them to sit and glower at each other for the entire journey. So once at the bar they talked, taking great pains to mention neither Maud nor Emma, though both were very much on their minds, as they would both be waiting for them in Simla.
Until Willie had attained his majority, they had ignored the custom that in the mess all officers except the C.O. referred to each other by their Christian names. Willie had always said ‘sir’ when speaking to Andrew, and Andrew had always said ‘Captain Bruce’ when speaking to Willie. Now that they were of equal rank, they referred to each other only by their surnames.
Andrew opened the conversation by asking Willie what he thought of the Gatling gun. This had been shipped to India with the regiment, much to the colonel’s disgust. But people in high places had decided that it would be a good idea to try the thing out in the field. This was to be a final trial before deciding on its adoption by the army as a standard weapon.
On this subject, Willie and Andrew were professionally divided.
Andrew had inherited his father’s enthusiasm for gadgetry and treated the Gatling rather as a child would treat a new toy. Willie’s approach was more practical. First of all, it was his company that had been given the gun, and if anything went wrong, it was his men who would suffer. Willie complained bitterly about the ammunition which had been supplied ‒ thin copper cartridges packed with black powder which gave off vast quantities of heavy smoke. In thirty seconds, by which time a hundred rounds had been fired, it was impossible for the gunners to see the enemy, and you had by then provided your opponents with an excellent aiming point. Under pressure from above, the colonel had decreed that for their next stint on the frontier, they would take the thing with them.
‘I wish we hadna brought that bloody Gatling,’ said Willie, sipping his drink contemplatively.
‘Why not? It’s a good weapon. It’s worth a hundred men.’
‘When it works. I tell you, Maclaren, it was the last thing that your father did to us. Arrange for that. He did us nae favour. Ye canna rely on a contrivance. It’s men that count.’
‘Well, I admit it isn’t perfect, but we have been promised better ammunition, and when that arrives ‒’
‘Och, mannie, de ye think it will arrive? We’re thousands of miles awa’. They’ll forget all about us until the day that it does us a real hurt. That day will cost us men.’
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‘I’m not suggesting that we should rely on it.’
‘I should bloody well hope not, for we’ll nae get any help from Whitehall. We’re too far away to make a nuisance of ourselves.’
Their argument became quite heated, and in a strange way the disagreement brought about a certain rapport between them. But as the train rounded the last curves and Simla came into view, and they gazed out the windows at that city of brick bungalows and towering greystone hotels, they became silent again.
Simla, sitting in the middle of India, might indeed have been Brighton. Set against a backdrop of the snow-capped Himalayas, it clung to the sides of the cliffs some seven thousand feet above sea level. Here, apart from the eastern quarter which held the native bazaars, was the home of the sahib. It even had a brewery ‒ discreetly tucked away, of course, but with high chimneys ‒ where it was said that the best beer outside of England was brewed. With a year-round temperature in the low seventies, it made an ideal spot for the military sanatorium which had been established there. Green lawns and rosebushes, elms, and oaks were everywhere. It was so like England, but just a little larger. The houses were bigger because they had to accommodate the staffs of servants which were so cheaply come by. Living was cheap, so the dining rooms were a little grander than they would have been at home, because people could afford to entertain much more lavishly than in Britain.
They looked out the windows as they drew into the immaculate new railway station with its pale, gilt-topped columns supporting the iron frame of a sparkling glass roof, and the curtain of discomfort in each other’s presence descended again. In a way, their thoughts were very similar. Each was joining his wife and would spend a month with her. Both of them were making the journey out of a sense of duty, and both of them would rather have been back in Lahore with their men.
The women were both at the station but standing far apart, waiting at opposite ends of the platform, both dressed in what was almost a uniform for ladies ‒ white cotton skirts and jackets over pale silk blouses, with pith helmets tied under their chins with bows of white muslin. Beyond them, waiting for their customers, stood rows of hansom cabs, such as one would have found at any London terminus.
Emma and Maud were apart because they had never really got to know each other. Maud’s husband, though of equal rank with Andrew, was still a ranker officer, which placed him considerably lower on the social scale than Andrew. Emma was naturally somewhat suspicious after what Andrew had said on their wedding night, but Maud was a fairly common name. She could number at least four among her own circle, and Emma was not prepared to make a judgment. Not yet, anyway.
After the birth of her child, Emma had remained in the dower house until the regiment had moved overseas, and then Lady Maclaren had invited her to come and stay at Culbrech House.
‘I am sure that you will find it a deal less lonely, my dear,’ she had said. ‘And it will not be for long. You will, of course, be joining Andrew shortly.’
Emma was waiting the required three months before sailing, in case she should find herself again pregnant.
‘Moreover,’ Lady Maclaren had continued. ‘I am getting old, and there are duties with which I would very much appreciate your help. You know the sort of thing I mean.’
Emma knew well what she meant. So she had become the Lady Bountiful, visiting the workers who toiled for long hours for the betterment of the estate. She always carried with her a basket of good things to eat whenever she visited any of the cottages. She gave graciously, as she had been trained to do, and her gifts were accepted with courtesy and thanks from a people who had been trained to respect the quality.
When Willie had been commissioned, she had accepted it, though she did not approve. Rankers did not fit into the social life of the regiment. After all, officers’ wives were officers’ wives, and rankers might marry anybody. She did not learn the story of how Maud Bruce came to be living in the Highlands. Those who knew the story considered it better that Emma did not know, and those who did not know the story didn’t really care.
The first time they had met socially, she had been formally introduced to Mrs Bruce by Sir Henry at a luncheon he was giving for officers and their wives and sweethearts at Culbrech House.
‘I do hope,’ she had said, ‘that you are managing to settle down into your new life.’ She was referring to Willie’s recent advancement to commissioned rank, and was somewhat surprised to discover that his wife seemed to be perfectly at ease and quite accustomed to all the social graces.
Willie, on the other hand, had been a little awkward at first, but his own native confidence had soon carried him through that somewhat difficult transition of being accepted as a guest, and an equal, in a house where previously he had been on a social level with the servants.
It was later, after lunch, that she had the opportunity to talk to Mrs Bruce. She felt that it was her duty to put her at her ease and to be friendly.
‘You really must let me call you by your first name,’ she said. ‘Mine is Emma.’
‘That is kind,’ was the reply. ‘I am Maud.’
Maud! Emma looked long and hard at her. ‘You know my husband?’
‘Oh, yes, we met in India.’
After that, she had treated Maud correctly, but with a touch of condescension, and without any warmth, and always with the nagging thought that this was the Maud. She had come out to India some months prior to Maud and had spent some time with Andrew at Lahore before the regiment’s first spell of duty on the frontier. Her child she had left in the care of her old nanny at her father’s home in Dorset. Raised in that strict school which taught that duty superseded love, desire, or emotion, she had, as soon as she could, followed her husband east. She did this because it was right that she should be with her husband and bear him more children.
The train stopped and the passengers started to alight. Willie and Andrew separated as soon as they had got on to the platform. Andrew saw Emma standing near the barrier and headed towards her. She greeted him by perfunctorily brushing her lips against his cheek.
‘Did you have a nice journey, dear?’ she asked.
‘It was all right, I suppose,’ said Andrew. ‘A bit dull.’
‘Well, I have a carriage waiting. The bearers will bring your luggage. Come along now and I’ll show you the house.’
Maud had arrived in India literally days ago and had travelled direct from Bombay to Simla where she had taken rooms in a hotel while awaiting the arrival of Willie. She had viewed her return to the subcontinent with some trepidation.
She had stood on the deck of the steamer which had carried her from Britain, watching the long grey line gradually filling the horizon as it appeared out of the Arabian Sea until it turned into the teeming island city of Bombay where they had docked. She did not want to go ashore. India brought back too many memories of terror and fear. Strangely, though, it was the company of British soldiers drilling on the quay-side that had given her courage to disembark. A hundred men in a city of over a million.
She had taken the train from Bombay to Delhi. The journey took three days, but she was comfortable enough in a private sleeping compartment with a large fan turning gently over her head. The line took her up the coast as far as Ahmadabad. To the east, she could see the Western Ghats ‒ an impressive enough range of mountains, unless you had seen the Himalayas. To the west, there were numberless small fishing villages with crude wooden boats drawn up on the shore or standing a little way out to sea, their lateen sails patched and ragged as the men who worked at their nets. There were many such places, always with long lines of fish hung out to dry. These coast dwellers were the more fortunate of India’s poor; their survival did not depend on the monsoons. The worst that could happen to them was that the sea which gave them their life would rise in anger, flood their villages, and give them a quick and merciful death.
From Ahmadabad, the train cut inland across the principality of Rajputana, where the countryside became more familiar. The long stretc
hes of arid waste were interspersed with settlements wherever water could be got. Finally, as they approached Delhi, the land became more and more cultivated and greener as they neared the fertile plains around the Ganges. Here was an India which reminded her of the country around Cawnpore, and all the bitterness that that city meant to her.
After only one night in a hotel in Delhi, she took the train for Ambala and then on up the new line to Simla. And there her uneasiness increased at the thought that, within a few days, she would be reunited with Willie.
Since the night that she had told him that she was to have another child, they had lived together, but apart. A great barrier had descended between them. She had tried; over and over again, she had tried. One night she had gone to his room, for they now slept in separate rooms, and tapped on the door. ‘Willie?’
‘Aye, I’m here.’
‘Please, can I come in?’
‘For what?’
‘I want to be with you, Willie.’ She was standing in her nightgown in the chilly corridor in Cluny Cottage. ‘Please, Willie, let me in,’ she pleaded.
She heard a movement within the room and for a moment believed that she had succeeded, and then she heard him slam the bolt home.
‘Awa’ tae bed, woman,’ he said from within.
She never tried again. The gulf between them was made worse in her eyes by the fact that Willie was always so attentive and charming towards her when others were present. And now she was hoping that after this long separation, time would have healed the wound and that they would be able to start anew.
They spotted each other on the platform. She walked towards him wondering how she could greet him. Did she run? Did she throw herself into his arms? Did she wait for him to come to her and then merely offer her hand in greeting?
She did none of these things. She just stood there. Willie stopped a couple of paces from her.
‘Hello, Maud,’ he said.
‘Hello, Willie.’
‘Have you got a place for us?’