The Second-last Woman in England (29 page)

It had been two or more years since she had last visited Cecil at his office. She had visited the old Moorgate office many times during those first years of marriage, when the children were very young. They had gone to Cecil’s club for lunch or taken sandwiches into the park. But it had been years since they had eaten sandwiches in the park together.

She took the lift to the tenth floor where the carpet was a bilious pea-green and the walls lined with self-important portraits of stuffy elderly Victorians sporting absurd whiskers. There were four secretaries stationed here, four versions of the one model: fifty-ish, grey hair pulled into a severe bun, glasses hanging from cords around their necks, stiff white blouses and pastel woollen cardigans.

‘Miss James. How lovely. Are you well?’

‘I am Miss Stuart,’ came the rather frosty reply. ‘Miss James is over there.’

‘I do beg your pardon. Miss James. How lovely. Are you well?’

‘Quite well, Mrs Wallis, thank you for inquiring.’

Miss James was perhaps a little older than her three colleagues, her bun perhaps a little more severe, the pencils in her jar arranged just a little more precisely—graded, no doubt, by height and colour.

‘Mr Wallis has an Indian gentleman with him just at the moment,’ Miss James explained, ‘a rather important meeting, though I’m sure it won’t go on too much longer. Would you care to take a seat?’

From this Mrs Wallis was to infer that she ranked somewhere beneath unknown Indian gentlemen in the office pecking order.

‘Yes, very well.’ Harriet sat down on the over-stuffed red leather chair indicated by Miss James and slowly crossed her legs. She drew on her cigarette and exhaled noiselessly. Miss James smothered a slight cough.

Minutes passed. Miss James completed a page of typing and pulled the page from the typewriter with a rip, then placed it on top of a pile of similar pages. She knocked them together into one neat pile and placed them in a tray marked ‘Out’ with a satisfied look. Having completed this task she pushed her chair back and stood up.

‘I’m just taking this in to Mr Wallis now,’ she explained, indicating the documents. ‘I shall inform him you are here.’

She emerged a moment or two later, closing the door behind her, made her way back to her desk, sat down, rearranged her skirt and finally turned towards Harriet.

‘I have informed Mr Wallis of your presence, Mrs Wallis—’

‘I’m most grateful.’

Miss James produced a tight smile. ‘And he apologises for keeping you waiting and asks that you wait another ten minutes while he concludes his meeting and makes an important telephone call.’

Before Harriet could make a suitable reply, the office door opened and the Indian gentleman came out. He was a distinguished-looking man, very tall and very dark, white tunic and trousers, a snow-white turban with a delicate wispy feather at the crown. And patent leather shoes—Italian, by the look of them—a rolled black umbrella and a smart little briefcase. He paused at Miss James’s desk and bowed deeply.

‘Thanking you, dear lady, for your most generous hospitality,’ he said in a deep musical voice.

Miss James flushed and simpered.

‘Oh, my pleasure, Mr Gupta. Any time, I’m sure.’

Mr Gupta inclined his head, then nodded briefly at the other secretaries, noticed Harriet and nodded at her too, for good measure, then strode from the room.

Perhaps Mr Gupta was employed at the Bombay office. His dark colouring suggested he came from the south of India, Madras or Mysore or Bangalore perhaps, and Harriet was reminded of the maharaja who had ruled a state neighbouring Father’s district. He had the same bearing, the same extreme politeness. But this man was darker, much darker, more like the coolies you saw piled three deep on the roof of the trains that travelled from Delhi to Bombay. She had travelled on that train herself once.

Harriet abruptly stood up and Miss James looked at her.

‘I have decided to wait outside. Please tell my husband I shall wait in the park opposite.’

‘Of course,’ said Miss James and she looked as though she would have liked to add something further but Harriet had picked up her handbag and left the office.

The park was busier now. The young couple had gone, replaced by groups of tourists studying guides and maps. The pigeons were still there and the only vacant bench was spotted with their droppings. Harriet found a clean patch on the bench and sat down. Her cigarette had expired and she tossed it on the ground and reached for another. She could see Mr Gupta standing on the pavement waving his umbrella at a passing cab. The cab pulled up and the Indian stood and waited as though expecting the door to be opened for him. After an exchange with the driver Mr Gupta opened the door himself and climbed in. The cab drove off.

Freddie. And now this Indian man, this Mr Gupta.

It was important not to think about that train journey.

Two small children ran into the park, a girl and a boy, perhaps nine and five, the girl older, leading her little brother importantly by the hand, the boy following demurely, trusting her to lead him safely through the park.

She remembered the train journey.

The locals had ridden on the roof of the train all the way from Jhelum to Bombay and eight-year-old Freddie had been amazed.

‘But they won’t fall off, will they, Mr Stephens?’ he had asked over and over, and Mr Stephens, who had been in India a month, had shaken his head and said, ‘No, Freddie, of course they won’t. These chaps are used to it.’

The train journey to Bombay went via Delhi and took two days, so Father had reserved sleeping compartments for them all. He had been unable to accompany them to the train station and Mother was too unwell to move from the veranda. So they had all stood outside the house and made a rather sombre and restrained farewell. Mother had said, You’ll look after Freddie, dear, won’t you? He is in your care.

Mohammed had driven them in a bullock cart to the station, found them their compartment, stowed the luggage and then waited patiently for the train to depart.

‘Goodbye, Mohammed,’ Freddie had called excitedly again and again from the window and as the train had pulled away from the station Mohammed had finally raised a hand in farewell and stood there, unmoving, a slowly disappearing figure, still as a statue on the platform. Harriet had raised her hand once and let it fall onto her lap. Someone one had known forever, who had always been there, was now disappearing into the distance.

They had never seen him again.

The luggage had become lost almost immediately and Mr Stephens had remonstrated with the train guard and the porters, and finally the luggage had been returned to them, some hours into their journey.

‘Absolutely
bloody
outrageous,’ he had exclaimed, and Harriet had stared at him in shock.

‘Not in front of Freddie,’ she had told him and he had blushed.

‘Well, but
really
. These chaps are nothing but nasty little thieves. Pretending to help a fellow, wearing a uniform to try and fool one they’re all above board and tickety-boo, then one hands over some local currency and hey presto! One’s luggage miraculously reappears. It’s a damned scam … Oh, I’m sorry …’

They were leaving India, going Home to England, though neither she nor Freddie had ever been to England before. They were supposed to be travelling with Mother, but with Mother too ill to travel Mr Stephens would be escorting them to Bombay instead, and putting them on the ship to England. And Mr Stephens, who had been in India for a month, had been angry about the luggage.

Harriet hadn’t minded about the luggage. Things went missing all the time. One expected it. This was India, after all, as everyone always said—as though India was a magical land where solid objects simply vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. Mr Stephens seemed not to be aware of this.

She and Freddie had sat in the open doorway of the train carriage, their legs dangling and the wind blowing in their faces, and Mr Stephens had said, ‘Come away from there, it’s not safe.’ But of
course
it was safe, everyone did it, and the trains travelled so slowly one could practically jump out and run alongside it. And some people did just that. It was terrifically hot and the carriage was unbearable, so really they were forced to sit by the door. Mr Stephens had softened a bit after that and had come and joined them in the doorway, and he had told Freddie about the voyage out. He had come out from Liverpool, he explained, then Marseilles, then Port Said, then through the Suez Canal. It had taken four weeks. Freddie had been very interested because of course they were about to make the same voyage themselves, only in reverse, and he had asked Mr Stephens all sorts of questions about the ship, the cabins, what the crew wore, what food was served, and he’d got very excited when Mr Stephens had said there was a swimming pool on the deck.

‘And what will England be like?’ Freddie had asked, and Mr Stephens had got all peculiar and seemed not to hear the question so that Freddie had had to ask it again. Eventually he had answered, ‘Well, Freddie. It’s green fields and beautiful villages and lovely old trees and wonderful old cities. It’s quite the most marvellous place in the world, my boy,’ and Freddie had said, ‘But there are trees and fields and villages and cities
here
,’ and Mr Stephens had replied that that was hardly the same thing. Freddie had asked why was it not the same thing? and Mr Stephens had looked annoyed and had stood up and said he would see about tiffin.

Mohammed had packed them all off with tiffin trays for the journey and Mr Stephens now broke these open. They had eaten in companionable silence and when the train had pulled into some tiny halt in the middle of nowhere, small children had crowded around the doorway begging for food. Mr Stephens had shooed them away and, encouraged by this, they had run enthusiastically alongside the train as it pulled out of the station.

At last night had come and the mosquitoes had swarmed around them. Freddie had fallen asleep against Mr Stephens’s shoulder and Mr Stephens had stood up saying, Up we go, lifting Freddie up in his arms and carrying him to the sleeping compartment. There were nets over the bunks, but the mosquitoes were relentless, and Mr Stephens could be heard in the next compartment swatting and cursing and twisting around and opening and closing the window.

In the morning the train had stopped for hours at an important junction and they had got out and stretched their legs, walking up and down the platform as railway staff swarmed around and all over the engine, refuelling and decoupling cars and coupling other cars. They had eaten their breakfast tiffin sitting on the platform, and suddenly the whistle had blown and they had had only seconds to scramble back on board before the train left.

Freddie and Mr Stephens were the best of friends by this stage and at one point when Freddie had needed to visit the lavatory Mr Stephens had offered to take him. Freddie had returned red faced and silent and Mr Stephens had explained in an aside that he had had a little accident. That was typical of Freddie, who tended to get over-excited; Mother was always saying it.

They had stopped at another big station and as it was lunchtime they had disembarked and had a rather splendid luncheon at the station restaurant before the train moved off again.

‘Really!’ Mr Stephens had exclaimed as the train had eventually set off once more, ‘It’s a wonder these trains ever reach their destination.’ But as their ship wasn’t scheduled to sail until the ten o’clock tide that evening Harriet couldn’t see that it mattered if they spent an hour at lunch. And anyway, it meant they could stretch their legs some more.

Freddie had said little since his accident and had picked at his food and Mr Stephens had jollied him along and played the fool a bit to help him over his embarrassment.

The train had trundled on and on across endless plains, jerking to a halt every now and again to let people on and off, stopping sometimes when there wasn’t even a station, and eventually she and Freddie had slept. Mr Stephens had said he would stay awake ‘to keep watch’. When Harriet had jerked awake an hour later she saw that he had dozed off too. As the afternoon had rushed towards the tropical night and the sun had plunged into the western horizon ahead of them, they had approached Bombay.

Mr Stephens had woken and they had had tea.

‘Not far now,’ he had observed.

Bombay, it turned out, was an island, connected to the mainland on its northernmost tip by a causeway. Mr Stephens, who had spent a day here a month before, was an expert on Bombay.

‘You know, Freddie, if they knocked down the causeway, Bombay would float off into the Arabian Sea,’ he had explained solemnly as the train rattled across the narrow strip of land.

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ replied Freddie, who was old enough to understand the nature of some things but not yet old enough to appreciate Mr Stephens’s feeble attempt at humour.

The city was at the far end of the island and the train had ground its way painfully southwards, the island gradually narrowing to a point until they were able to see the sea from both sides of the train. On the east, Mr Stephens had explained, was Bombay Harbour, and on the west, Back Bay, and beyond that the Arabian Sea. The train had finally trundled into the grandly named Victoria Railway Terminus at a little after five o’clock in the afternoon.