Merryn Allingham - The Girl From Cobb Street

‘But surely …’

‘It’s the way it is, Daisy.’ His voice rose in annoyance. ‘And you better get used to it. There are all kinds of distinctions to life here and it’s important you learn them. The military and the ICS—the civil service—are on a par, top of the social tree, but planters and businessmen are not quite the thing. If you hear anyone called a box-wallah, that’s who they’re talking about. Tea and indigo planters have more status than the sugar and jute wallahs. They’re trade and aren’t allowed to join the Club either. They have their own place.’

Daisy knew all about distinctions. She had been on the wrong end of them all her short life and had had little option but to accept that was the way things were. But it didn’t mean she was ever going to think them right. And certainly not a distinction that barred a man like Anish from mixing socially with those he worked beside day after day. But she knew, too, that she was helpless in the face of conventions she imagined had held rigid for centuries, so she said no more.

The Club was housed in a spacious, white building with a long, deep veranda running its full length. A sloping red roof provided shade and as much coolness as was possible. Cane tables and chairs were scattered along the veranda’s expanse and several groups of people were chatting there, heads bathed in the light that spilled from open windows and doors. Drink was flowing freely and repeated calls of ‘ Koi-Hai !’ interrupted the buzz of chatter, as one or other of the Club servants was called to attend. The scratchy sound of an old record filtered through the air and Daisy felt her husband’s arm guiding her towards the sound. As they mounted the wooden steps, she felt the drinkers’ eyes swivel in their direction, their stares variously curious and indifferent. A tall woman rose from a nearby table and came towards them. She appeared to be wearing a floral dressing gown, its skirts flowing around her ankles. At second glance, Daisy could see it was an opulent evening gown, and she immediately felt underdressed.

‘Gerald, my dear, how good to see you here. And with your new bride. Such a pretty girl you’ve found!’

‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs Forester.’ He certainly looked glad, Daisy thought. Glad and relieved. ‘Daisy, this is Mrs Forester. Colonel Forester is my commanding officer.’

‘Call me Edith, my dear. It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You must let me take you in hand and introduce you to as many wives as we can manage. Gerald, get your wife a chota peg .’ She saw Daisy’s anxious expression. ‘On second thoughts, a gimlet might be better—gin and lime my dear, most refreshing.’

Daisy felt a confusing mix of emotions as they passed into the Club meeting room. It seemed she was approved by this august matron and that had to be good, but she was not at all sure she wished to be taken in hand by her. It was Gerald who should be by her side. But where was he? Making straight for the bar, she saw, along with every other man in the room. And it was an enormous edifice, its huge polished surface filling at least a quarter of the available space.

In general the clubhouse was not inviting. Its walls were wood panelled and decorated with the heads of various dead animals, interspersed here and there with sepia-tinged photographs of past company. In the middle of the central wall was a full-length portrait of the new King and Queen, looking almost as nervous as Daisy felt. At one end of the room a huddle of women were bunched tightly together, and it was towards this ocean of floral silks and flashing jewellery that she allowed herself to be gently pushed. Edith was propelling her with one hand while with the other she waved to friends on either side, as the women divided obediently at her approach. Like Moses and the Red Sea, Daisy thought.

For the first few minutes, the excited babble of female voices would have blocked out Edith’s introductions, even if Daisy’s nerves had not. ‘This is Rosemary Laughton, Daisy,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Her husband is the Adjutant.’

‘Rose, this is Lieutenant Mortimer’s new bride.’ She had a rank now, Daisy thought, she was the wife of a Lieutenant. Sister Macdonald’s stringent words came back to her: the women have no role of their own, they are simply accessories to their husbands’ lives. She noticed that Rosemary had almost bowed to Edith Forester as the Colonel’s wife and she supposed that, in turn, she should be bowing to Mrs Laughton, for it appeared that Gerald was a very junior officer.

Rosemary drew slowly on her cigarette and looked at her through the rising smoke. ‘Well, you’re a surprise, my dear.’ She seemed to absorb Daisy in a single glance. ‘We had no idea that Gerald had you tucked away somewhere—quite the contrary, in fact. It must have been love.’

Before she had time to puzzle the meaning of this, Rosemary was asking, ‘And how are you settling in?’ Her voice expressed a distinct lack of interest but Daisy tried diplomacy. ‘It’s very strange, of course, but I’m sure I shall enjoy living here.’

‘You’ll enjoy the regiment, my dear.’ Her smile was superior. ‘The cavalry are the cream of the Indian Army and they are the best of all soldiers. It’s India that’s the pits.’

The woman’s rudeness startled Daisy and pushed her to a small challenge. ‘Is that true of Simla too?’

Rosemary looked taken aback. ‘Not Simla, no. Certainly not Simla. Life is wonderful there and you’ll enjoy yourself enormously. We leave next week, and I imagine Gerald will have made arrangements for you to travel with us. You’ll need to nag your servants into action, though, or you’ll find yourself packing for them.’

Confronting this frightening memsahib had made Daisy’s heart beat too fast but now she saw the woman was simply ridiculous. How difficult was it to pack a suitcase? Of course, Rosemary Laughton couldn’t know that the girl facing her had in all probability packed more suitcases than any Indian retainer. And she must never know.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ve only the one servant and I imagine Gerald will wish to keep him here.’ Leaving Rajiv behind was one delight of Simla she hadn’t considered before.

‘Only one servant! What is Gerald thinking of! What about the mali , and the jemader and a cook?’

‘It’s a very small bungalow.’ She was once more driven into defending Gerald’s housekeeping. It was becoming a habit. And what on earth was a mali and a jemader ? ‘Rajiv does all the cleaning and the cooking.’

Rosemary snorted. ‘I shall speak to Gerald. It’s quite ludicrous.’

The conversation had reached a dead end and Daisy was unsure how to restart it. Did these women talk about nothing other than their servants? Rescue appeared in the shape of Edith who returned to her side at that moment and whisked her away from the terrifying Rosemary.

‘It will be good for you to meet some young women of your own age,’ Edith enthused, her long skirts swishing in tune with a powerful stride. ‘Amelia Simmonds married only last year and you’re sure to have a lot to talk about.’

They arrived in front of a thin, young woman who had been lingering uncertainly on the edge of the group. Even in the dim light of the clubhouse, the vivid fuchsia of her tea gown was startlingly at odds with the pale, pinched face above.

‘Daisy is Lieutenant Mortimer’s wife, Amelia,’ was all Edith offered, before marching away to join an exclamatory group of women gathered beneath the head of a particularly morose gazelle. Daisy was left to smile hopefully at the new introduction.