India Dark (26 page)

I was too disappointed for sleep. Mr Ruse hadn't turned up at our final performance. I didn't even know if he had found my letters under his door. Everything seemed hopeless. Once we left Madras, there wouldn't be another chance of escape until we reached America. I knew I couldn't wait that long.

46

SHARED SECRETS

Poesy Swift

Tilly and I stood leaning on the balustrade, watching as all the costumes and sets were unloaded and carried inside by coolies. Flora, Daisy and the younger boys ran squealing up and down the verandahs of the Moore Park Pavilion. Mr Milligan shouted instructions, directing the crates with the flats in them in one direction, and the costumes in another.

‘He's not on our side, you know,' said Tilly, nodding her head towards Mr Milligan. ‘He's only out for himself.'

‘You can't know that, Tilly,' I said. ‘He stuck up for Iris in Penang. And I'm sure he didn't like it when Mr Arthur locked Ruby in her cabin.'

‘But he did nothing. Him and Eddie and Lo and Jim McNulty and that cow, Miss Thrupp. They take the Butcher's money and do his bidding. They never even stay in the same hotel as us any more. At least they used to be nearby. Now, there's no one between us and the Butcher.'

Tilly's face was like a stone sculpture. There would be no forgiveness for anyone from her.

We couldn't open our season because the workmen hadn't finished kitting out the Pavilion to transform it from a sports arena into a theatre. Instead, that evening, we watched a fakir perform on the long verandah of our hotel. He wore a white turban and a white
dhoti
but his chest was bare. His skin was so dark it almost merged with the shadows, as if his clothes were simply floating on air. He set up on a straw mat while the audience lounged about in cane chairs to watch.

It was the first time I'd seen the mango trick. Charlie stood close by, leaning against a verandah post, watching intently while the fakir placed a handful of red-brown earth in a tin and pressed a mango seed inside. Then, with his boy helper, he used four bamboo sticks and a piece of coarse muslin to make a little tent. The muslin was translucent but he lifted it at the front so we could see the tin with the mango stone inside. Then he drew another piece of cloth from his basket and tossed it over the top. Next, he put a small chat, or water pot, at the back of the tent to water the mango seed before he went on with his act.

No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't understand how he worked his magic. He asked a gentleman to put a card in an envelope, a card he couldn't possibly have seen, and yet he knew exactly what was inside without opening the envelope. He lit candles by simply snapping his fingers. Then he came and begged for rupees. I don't know where Charlie found the money, but when the fakir came close to him, he slipped the man a few pice and then edged closer to watch.

Before the fakir began another trick, he lifted the folds of the tent to show that the mango had begun to grow. We could all see a little green shoot poking out of the tin. Someone shouted that it was a hoax and the fakir tipped the seed from the tin so we could all see it was truly sprouting. Then he covered it and watered it again and went on performing other tricks. When he had finished, he lifted the folds of the tent again. I couldn't believe my eyes. The little sprout had turned into a proper shrub, a tiny tree with a single golden mango hanging from its branches! Everyone clapped and gasped, except Charlie, who frowned and tipped his head to one side. Then the fakir covered the tree again and watered it once more, but when he whipped the cloth off, the tree had disappeared. Only the little tin can lay empty on its side, spilling red-brown earth onto the verandah.

When the magic was at an end I looked for Charlie, but he had disappeared as surely as the mango tree.

That night, my room at the Castle Hotel was steamy with heat. The other girls had collapsed into heavy, sweaty dreams, but still I couldn't sleep. Tomorrow we would be back at work, rehearsing in the mornings, taking enforced naps in the afternoon and putting on eight shows a week, if you included the matinees.

My head swirled with worries. When I shut my eyes I could see the fakir's mango tree sprouting, and then suddenly, out of his little tent sprang Lizzie, as golden as if her skin were made of mangoes. I woke in tears. I hadn't spoken to Lizzie since we'd left Bombay. Despite everything, I missed her terribly, but I could never forgive her. And I would never, ever forgive Mr Arthur.

I climbed out of bed and sat on the windowsill. Then I saw him. Charlie. He was hurrying down the steps of the hotel and into the street.

The next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, I caught his wrist.

‘I need to talk to you,' I whispered. ‘About something important.'

Charlie raised one eyebrow and smiled, the sort of smile he used when he was performing magic tricks. Before he could reply, Lionel sauntered over to join us. Neither Charlie nor I spoke another word. It wasn't safe with Lionel in earshot.

Mr Arthur worked us hard that morning, running through the schedule for the week and making all the girls block their movements on the new stage. At the end of rehearsals, Charlie picked up his topee, I fastened my hat in place and we strolled across the wide green lawn outside the Pavilion to a line of waiting vehicles. Charlie was cunning. He picked a tiny tri-rickshaw that only the two of us could fit inside, while the others rode in gharries and carriages.

Before we reached the hotel, Charlie tapped the driver and we climbed out at the Elphinstone Soda Fountain.

‘C'mon,' he said. ‘Time for a private talk, you and me, without all those long ears about.'

Inside the shop, jars of marshmallows, sweets and jellies were lined up on the long bar. Charlie ordered us each a soda and paid for them from his mysterious stash of coins. We sat on high bar stools and I stirred icecream into my soda and sipped the cool sweetness of it through a straw. It was exactly like the ‘spiders' that you could buy in Swan Street at home. But my mind grew cloudy when I thought of Melbourne. If Tilly's plan worked, we would be in Melbourne in a matter of weeks. I couldn't imagine being back in our tumbledown house in Willow Lane.

Charlie watched me from over the top of his soda. ‘So, you and Ruby and Tilly are up to mischief. Ever since Kolar, you've been planning something, haven't you?'

‘You're the one with the secrets. Where did you go last night?'

Charlie stirred his soda so that it frothed up to the lip of the glass and said, ‘You tell first.'

‘If I do tell, you mustn't breathe a word to Lionel,' I said. ‘Because if you tell him, he'll ruin everything.'

‘I have my secrets from Lionel too,' he said.

I scooped some froth out of my glass and sucked it off my finger. This was going to be harder than I'd imagined.

‘You know, Mr Arthur has gone too far. We can't trust him any more. He's hurt too many girls.'

Charlie grew still. ‘He's not laid a finger on you, has he, Poesy?'

‘No! But that's not the point,' I said hotly. ‘He's become worse and worse. He thrashed Tilly with his cane in Bombay and he knocked her head against an almirah in Bangalore.'

‘So what do you plan to do about it?'

‘Tilly and Ruby and I have found some men who can help us stop Mr Arthur from treating us badly. We met them in Bangalore and Kolar. They're members of a society that protects children. And they have members in Madras too. Tilly says if we find SPCC men here in the audience, they'll help us get away from Mr Arthur.'

‘What if some don't want to get away from him?' asked Charlie. ‘Lionel won't turn on him and neither will Eliza.'

At the mention of Lizzie, I felt my heart beat faster. ‘But he's been horrid! If we stop him, it could rescue Lizzie from a terrible fate.'

‘Lizzie won't want to be rescued by you or anyone else. Mr P reckons he's going to marry her, soon as he gets a divorce.'

‘You can't know that!'

‘I know Lionel wouldn't play chaperone if he thought Mr P wasn't going to do the right thing. He's too fond of her.'

‘So you knew all along about Lizzie and Mr Arthur!' I said.

‘Didn't everyone?' he shrugged. ‘I mean, you don't want to talk about it but you know it's going on. Though sometimes even Lionel likes to pretend it isn't.'

I had to swallow hard to stop myself crying. I was so ashamed that it had taken me so long to face the truth. It was awful to think of myself as being just like Lionel, pretending that everything was all right when it wasn't.

‘Lionel has to wake up to himself. And you have to help me save him too. We're going on strike – all of the troupe – as soon as we can. Tilly says we need to act before we leave India.'

‘Strike!' He laughed, as if I'd said something funny. ‘That's a turn-up for the books. I thought I was the one with plans. But what I'm planning won't help any of you lot get away from Mr P.'

He looked down into his soda.

‘What are you up to, Charlie Byrne? Why do you keep slipping out at night?'

Charlie drew a deep breath. ‘You mustn't share this with anyone. Not Tilly or Ruby or anyone.'

I nodded and waited for him to go on.

‘I'm not coming away with you all when you leave India.'

I was so stunned that my mouth fell open. Before I had time to gather my wits, to fully fathom what he meant, Charlie stood up.

‘Wait here,' he said, leaving me with his terrible revelation, before darting through the doorway and into the crowded street.

I saw him take a fistful of coins from his pocket and press them into the hand of a dark-skinned Indian boy. The Indian boy took something out from under his coat and handed it to Charlie. Their eyes met and they laughed at the same time as if they were old mates.

I slipped off the stool and marched out into the street. Charlie and his friend glanced up as if I'd caught them doing something very naughty indeed. The Indian boy was dressed in a dark-blue cotton school uniform and his glossy black hair was parted neatly on one side.

‘This is Poesy,' said Charlie. ‘Poesy, this is Prem.'

‘What did you sell him?' I asked Prem. Immediately the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Charlie scowled at me.

‘It's very fine meeting you, Miss Poesy,' said Prem, ignoring my question. He turned to Charlie and lowered his voice. ‘And I shall see you tonight, yes?'

Charlie nodded. He said goodbye to Prem then grabbed me by the arm before I had a chance to say anything more.

‘He didn't “sell” me anything. I asked him to buy me some things I need for my magic tricks, so he was doing me a favour. Prem's uncle is a pharmacist.'

We went back to our sodas but Charlie had grown sullen. He sat sucking on his straw so furiously that the paper collapsed and went flat.

‘How can you even think of staying here, Charlie?' I said, feeling tears well in my eyes. ‘How would you get by? Is that boy something to do with this?'

‘While all you lot have been arguing with Old Man Percy and worrying about your petticoats, I've been finding out about India. I've been learning real magic.'

‘You mean those funny old fakirs?'

‘No,' said Charlie scathingly, ‘though some of them are jolly good magicians. Poesy, they have stories here, like the stories we read about Homer and the Odyssey except it's not all ancient and dead. It's as if the people still have magic in them too. That's why there are so many holy men here. They reckon gods come down and walk around in the skins of ordinary people. This country is full of magic.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Charlie. There's only one God and that's our God. The Christian God.'

Charlie slumped forward and put his head in his hands. ‘You don't understand. There are things I need to learn. There are sorcerers here that make our stage magicians look absolutely tame and ordinary. If I could find one to take me as an apprentice . . .'

‘It won't be allowed. You're a white boy.'

‘What about all those people down at the Theosophical Society? What about that Mrs Besant of yours? She thinks the Indians are onto something.'

‘She's not my Mrs Besant. Just because my grandmother took me to see her in Melbourne doesn't make her mine. Besides, she wouldn't approve of a thirteen-year-old boy running around India by himself.'

‘She might. She's adopting a boy who she says is going to be a new world leader and he's only thirteen. She found him on the banks of the Adyar River and knew he was special, some sort of great spirit. That's the sort of thing that happens here! Besides, even if a fakir won't apprentice me, I can still learn from watching. There are lots of boxwallahs down around Elephant Gate, behind Fort George, that might want a boy like me to work for them.'

‘Did that Prem talk you into this?'

‘No,' said Charlie. ‘Prem is going to be a lawyer, like his father. He's studying at the Christian College.'

‘Then how do you know him?'

‘He loves magic too. It's his hobby. It used to be mine, but now I don't want it to be a hobby. I want it to be my life.'

I stared into his face, so alight with earnest excitement, and my heart ached. He must have seen my lips trembling. Very gently, he rested his fingertips against my mouth, as if to silence me.

‘You keep my secret and I shall keep yours.'

47

THE GATHERING STORM

Tilly Sweetrick

Bandmann Comedy Company posters were everywhere in Madras. They were real performers from London, doing the sort of vaudeville that I knew I was simply made for. They were playing in a
real
theatre that seated at least 800 people. If the Butcher hadn't worked us so hard and kept us so poor, I would have been in the audience at Victoria Hall every night. But the Butcher was our slavedriver: each night we performed a different musical, two shows on Saturday and even a show on Sunday. The Butcher and Mr Shrouts hadn't even found us a proper theatre in Madras. The Moore Park Pavilion was more of a boxing arena than anything else.