Merryn Allingham - The Girl From Cobb Street

‘My husband has just been made Captain,’ Amelia said proudly.

There wasn’t much you could say to that, Daisy thought, and retreated to the old, trite question, ‘And how are you enjoying India?’

‘I love it.’ Amelia gushed enthusiasm. ‘So will you, particularly when we get up to the hills. Such fun! So you’re Gerald’s wife … I’m so pleased to meet you … I’d thought that Gerald …’ Her voice tailed off and then she repeated a little desperately, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. It can get a bit dull here to be honest, a bit claustrophobic. Same old clubhouse, same old activities. Of course, it’s far too hot to do anything much at this time of the year.’

‘I can imagine. I’ve found even reading to be a chore. But that’s probably because I’ve had nothing very interesting to read. Is there a library in the cantonment?’

Amelia looked blank. ‘Books,’ Daisy prompted.

‘Oh yes, there are books. There’s an annexe somewhere around the back of the clubhouse, I believe. I’ve never been there myself. There are plenty of magazines hanging around the Club itself, oh and catalogues from the Army and Navy.’ She paused looking doubtfully at her new acquaintance. ‘You’re not a blue stocking, are you?’

‘I enjoy reading,’ Daisy said simply.

She had never thought herself in any way clever. Gerald was clever, he had been to public school so he must be. Grayson Harte was clever. He’d talked to her of Indian history, Indian culture, and he knew all kinds of languages. That was clever in a way she was not. But neither was she as shockingly ignorant as these women appeared to be. Eden House had given her a decent grounding and Helena Maddox had continued her education, even though she’d been a servant in the house. And it had gone well beyond books. Miss Maddox had taught her to walk and talk in a genteel fashion; to appear as much of a lady, she thought proudly, as any of the women in this room.

‘So what do the wives do all day?’

‘Do?’ Amelia shook her head slightly as though this was an extraordinary question. ‘Oversee the house, I suppose, organise the servants. Give cook the menu for the day, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have coffee together.’

‘That’s not likely to take up much time.’ Daisy was regretful. She had genuinely wished for a clue as to how to fill her days, but Amelia was now staring at her as though she were a species she had never before encountered.

‘I’m not used to being idle,’ Daisy tried to explain.

Amelia considered the matter. ‘I believe some women have become nurses or teachers, but only for a short while—to fill a gap maybe.’ She moved closer and put her lips to Daisy’s ear. ‘If you want to be accepted, you had better stick to the house, that’s my advice. The senior wives would hate the idea of you working.’

‘The senior wives?’

Amelia looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. ‘The Colonel’s wife in particular,’ she whispered, ‘but also the wives of all the senior officers. They run the show, you’ll soon find out. And as wives of junior officers, you learn to let them. They wouldn’t approve of you working.’

Daisy bristled inwardly but kept her voice even. ‘What else might they not approve?’

‘I’m making them sound horrid when they’re not. They’re very nice—really, they are. They’re just keen on all the women fitting in and, as long as you do, there’s no problem. You’ll find the regiment is very close-knit, like a family. Everyone has an opinion so you have to be careful not to upset people. With the way you dress, for instance, or the friends you make.’

‘And who shouldn’t I have as a friend?’ Daisy asked. But even as she posed the question, she knew the answer.

‘Indians for one thing. And Anglo-Indians too. Some of them are nearly white so you have to be careful.’ The whisper deepened. ‘They’re not people we mix with, not now at least. It used to be different once, I think. But now too many lower class British have married women from the bazaar, that kind of thing, and we don’t recognise them.’

So that was Anglo-Indians as well as Indians and who else did Gerald say—sugar and jute planters? There was no end to the categories that were unwelcome. And she would be just as unwelcome if they knew the details of her history: a girl without parents, a girl sent into service when she was little more than a child, a girl who had burst with pride when she became a shop assistant selling perfume in a department store.

A loud gong cut their conversation dead, the sound outpacing the now raucous voices. Daisy drifted with the crowd towards an adjoining room where two long refectory tables stood parallel to one another, each bearing twenty place name cards and twenty sets of strictly ordered cutlery.

She found herself seated in yet another cane chair beside a man with a very large moustache. The cutlery bothered her but by dint of watching her fellow diners, she managed to acquit herself without incident. The first course was soup but a soup she had never before tasted. She glanced sideways to gauge her neighbour’s reaction. The soup seemed to catch in his side-whiskers and Daisy had to stop herself from watching in fascination as bubbles of the dark liquid slid slowly down his moustache.

‘As always, good mulligatawny,’ he said at last, when he’d emptied most of his bowl, ‘but God-awful bread, don’t you think, m’dear?’

The bread was the least of Daisy’s worries. The hot, spicy liquid was burning her throat and she had to force herself to finish what was in front of her.

‘Made with yeast from Bombay, you know. Comes in the post every month—no wonder it tastes like dung.’

She laboured painfully through the soup and then it was on to tough, curried chicken and another helping of hot spice. She filled and refilled her glass with water but nothing seemed to souse the flames.

‘Have you stayed on, then?’ was her companion’s next gambit.

‘Stayed on?’ That was a puzzle. ‘No, I’ve just arrived.’

‘Can’t have done, m’dear. Wrong time of the year.’

She was minded to contradict him but then recalled the various pieces of advice that had come her way. The man might be an eccentric but she must try to suit his humour. ‘Why is that?’ she asked, as though she genuinely wished to know.

‘It’s April. You couldn’t have arrived with the fishing fleet.’

‘I didn’t. I arrived with The Viceroy of India. ’ And what on earth was the fishing fleet?

‘Bless your heart, the fishing fleet isn’t the name of a ship! It’s the girls. Girls just like you, husband hunting. They come out from home in the autumn and the young men go wild for them. Lots of ’em stay. Plenty of husbands to spare, you know. But come spring, those that haven’t made it, go back. Returned empties, we call them.’

‘I’ve not come to fish and I’m not a returned empty,’ Daisy said with dignity. ‘I came to India to marry. My husband is Gerald Mortimer.’

The man banged his spoon loudly on the table and laughed. ‘Sorry about the mix up. Young Mortimer’s gal then? Good! Difficult business but glad to see him hitched.’

She was unsure what he meant by a difficult business but he seemed well-meaning. And now that the dessert had arrived, it was taking all her attention. She eyed it hungrily. Two delicious woven toffee baskets, each filled with fresh mangoes and cream. It was the only part of the meal she’d managed without her eyes watering, and she had to stop her glance wandering enviously towards her neighbour’s plate. From several places along the table, she saw Gerald smiling. He was looking at her as though she had passed a test, though what that might have been, she had no idea.