Merryn Allingham - The Girl From Cobb Street

At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.

Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.

‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’

‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’

‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’

‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.

‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’

She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’

‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’

‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.

‘Perhaps they should, but this is an alien culture, and it can lead people to foster—well, let’s say, an extra Englishness. And that’s not all bad.’

Daisy took up the cudgels, though she had only the haziest notion what prompted her. ‘On the contrary, it sounds a very bad idea to me.’

‘That’s because you don’t know India. European women have to have guts to live here. They need that extra to stick it out and the mems are first class on fortitude. They have to be. To keep their children safe, they’re forced to send them home to England at an early age. There are thousands of child graves scattered across this country, you’ll find. But when parents and children meet years on, they hardly know each other. It’s a rotten choice, don’t you think? Return home with your offspring or slug it out by your husband’s side.’

Daisy acknowledged the truth of this but she was still smarting. ‘And what happens if you disagree and don’t follow their rules?’

‘You must, my dear, you must fit in. When you married, this is the life you chose. Attitudes may be changing. A few mems have taken up nursing or teaching, usually as voluntary work, but most are still stuck in the old ways. So be charming but vapid, that’s the ticket. Remember, women who are difficult or cause a scandal, damage their husbands’ prospects, and you wouldn’t want to do that, I’m sure.’

She wouldn’t, Daisy thought, but her new future was looking less than promising in all kinds of ways and by the time Sister Macdonald had pumped her hand in a hearty goodbye, she’d lost much of her enthusiasm for buying materials. But Sanjay was not going to allow a likely customer to escape so easily and she found herself spending the next thirty minutes in a daze, wandering back and forth with him among the rows of crowded trestles. The building was long and narrow, stretching far back, and with every counter they came upon, her memory of the nurse’s conversation faded a little, while her delight in the shop grew. So did painful indecision: cottons, fine lawns, embroidered materials and the most exquisite of silks all called to her. But the frugality she’d been forced to practise all her life prevented her losing her wits altogether, and she bought only cottons she thought would make into several frocks for the day and a length of silk for any formal occasion to which she was bidden. In the end she found she could not resist the splendid array of trimmings that Sanjay showed her, and squirrelled away several ribbons and a card of silver braid.

Flushed with success, she asked the shopkeeper for his pattern book. She would make a start this very day, once the sun’s warmth had begun to wane. Sanjay shook his head and instead showed her a picture from a magazine. She was repeating her request, thinking he’d not understood her, when a voice from the front of the shop called her name.

‘Miss Driscoll?’

She was taken aback to see Grayson Harte standing a few feet away. When they’d spoken on the ship, he’d told her little of his plans and she hadn’t realised that he, too, was headed for Jasirapur. If she’d thought about his destination at all, it would have been to imagine him many miles away by now. His tall, slim figure looked absurdly cool in linen slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, as though the punishing heat of the bazaar had decided not to take up his time but instead slide gently from his shoulders.

‘Mr Harte, how nice to see you. But I’m no longer Miss Driscoll. I’ve become Mrs Mortimer since we last met.’ If only in name, she thought, and blushed slightly.

‘Of course, forgive me. You were to be married immediately we docked, now I remember.’

‘Mr Harte …’

‘Grayson,’ he corrected.

‘I wonder if you could help me, Grayson? I can’t make this gentleman understand that I need paper patterns for the materials I’ve bought.’

He stepped forward and spoke in what Daisy imagined was fluent Hindi. ‘You don’t need a pattern apparently,’ he translated. ‘You choose a picture that you like, a dress you see illustrated in a magazine, for instance—like the one Sanjay was showing you—and the durzi will make it for you.’

Her mouth fell open at this news. ‘It is pretty amazing, isn’t it,’ he went on. ‘I knew you could get a suit made in that fashion, but I wondered whether ladies’ clothes might be a bit more tricky. Not so, though.’

She turned to the stallholder to say goodbye and Grayson translated for her. ‘He thanks you for your custom and he’ll deliver your purchases later today. What’s your address by the way? He probably has it, but better to check.’

She gave it and he looked surprised. ‘You’re not in the cantonment then? I would have thought you’d be living alongside the other military families. But perhaps your bungalow has its own attractions?’

She wouldn’t have described the cheerless house as having any attractions, but felt compelled to defend Gerald’s choice, though why if there were accommodation within the cantonment he’d not taken it, she was at a loss to think. ‘I believe Gerald—my husband—chose it for its tranquillity,’ she managed to say.

‘It will certainly have that,’ Grayson agreed. ‘It must be the last building on that side of Jasirapur.’ But he had a frown on his face as he spoke.

‘How is your job going?’ she asked abruptly, hoping she might deflect him from finding fault in Gerald.

‘I have the feeling that it will suit me very well, but thank you for asking—Daisy? I hope I may call you that.’