Man's love of man's life is a thing apart

'Tis woman's whole existence. The next day we reached Bombay.

The Approaching Storm

There was bustle the next morning. I was accustomed now to these arrivals in port. People seemed to change  their personalities and it was almost as though those who had been close friends for weeks now slipped back into the role of strangers. One realized that what had appeared to be a deep friendship was only a pleasant but passing acquaintance.

Poor Alice! She was aware of this, but she was a brave and sensible woman. She would never admit that she had allowed herself to entertain warm feelings towards a man whom she might never see again.

And there we were on that crowded quay.

One of the officials from the dock approached us and asked if we were Miss Delany and Miss Philwright. If so, there was a carriage waiting to take us to our destination. A few paces behind him was a most dignified Indian in a white puggaree and a long blue shirt over baggy white trousers. He ignored the official and bowed low.

"You Missie Delany?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied eagerly.

"I come for you and Missie Nannie."

"Oh yes ... yes ..."

''Follow please."

We followed our impressive leader as he shouted orders to two coolies who appeared to be part of his entourage.

"Coolie bring bags . .  . Missie follow," we were told.

And we felt that we were well and truly being treated like honoured arrivals.

A carriage was waiting. It was drawn by two grey horses, standing patiently in the care of another coolie.

Tom Keeping left us there, having more or less handed us over. I noticed that he held Alice's hand firmly and seemed reluctant to let it go. I watched her smile at him unflinchingly. I liked Alice more and more as I began to know her better.

We were helped into the carriage by our gracious protector; our hand luggage was passed to us and we understood that our main baggage would be delivered in due course. Such was the outstanding presence of our man that we were confident everything would be in order.

The memory of that drive stays with me still. I suppose it was because it was my first glimpse of India.

The heat beat down on us. There were people everywhere —noisy, colourful. It was quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. Small boys seemed to be darting all over the streets. I thought we would run some of them down, but our driver skilfully avoided them, although on one occasion he shouted something that sounded like a string of curses and the miscreant turned and gave him a look of intense dismay which I was not sure was due to his narrow escape or to the awfulness of the curses.

How colourful were those streets—the buildings white and dazzling and very grand; and in the side streets, of which we had a fleeting glimpse, the contrast of dark little hovels and people squatting on the pavements ... poor old men who seemed nothing but rags and bones, little children naked save for a loincloth, searching in the gutters ... for food, I imagined. I was to learn later that, however much I was impressed by the grandeur, there would almost always be the accompanying shadow of appalling poverty.

I wanted to stop and give all I had to the mother with the child in her arms and another pulling at her tattered skirts. Our driver drove furiously on, oblivious of the effect this had on us. I supposed he had seen it all so many times that he accepted it as normal.

There were stalls filled with produce, which I did not always recognize, and people in various styles of costume. I learned afterwards that they belonged to different castes and tribes: the Parsees with their umbrellas, the Brahmins, the Tamils, the Pathans and others. Darting everywhere were the coolies, presumably seeking to beg or earn a little money for some form of labour. I saw women, white-veiled, wrapped up in plain, shapeless robes, and here and there those of lower castes with their beautiful long, black hair hanging down their backs, moving with infinite grace. I thought how much more attractive they were than the purdah women, whose charms, I supposed, were kept for their masters alone.

We said little, as we were both intent on the scene about us and eager to miss nothing. We drove on for some miles and passed several beautiful houses, at length pulling up before one of these.

It was a most impressive residence—dazzlingly white, surrounded by a veranda on which were two white tables and chairs. Over the tables were green-and-white sunshades.

There were steps leading to the veranda.

As we approached, white-clad servants came running out of the house. They surrounded the carriage, chattering excitedly.

Our magnificent driver descended, threw the reins to one of the servants and waved his hand, silencing the chattering servants. He then began to issue orders in a tongue we did not understand. He was immediately obeyed, which did not surprise me at all.

We mounted the steps, he marching ahead of us.

Alice whispered to me, "One feels there should be trumpets ... not for us, but for him."

I nodded.

We were led from the veranda into the house.

The contrast in temperature was amazing. It was almost cool. The room was large and darkish, the windows being built into recesses. I realized that this was to keep out the heat of the sun. On the wall of the room was a large fan, which I learned after was called a punkah. This was manipulated by a boy in the regulation long white shirt and baggy trousers. I imagined he had been idling, for at our approach he was on his feet, vigorously working the punkah.

The lordly one threw a scathing glance in his direction and I guessed there would be a reprimand at a more suitable moment.

"Missie Nannie go to room ... in nursery," said our gentleman. "Missie Delany come to Memsahib Lady Countess."

Alice looked surprised, but one of the servants immediately snatched the bag she was carrying and hurried off. Alice followed him. I was left.

"You Missie Delany. You come," I was told.

I was taken up a flight of stairs. Through one of the windows I caught sight of a courtyard. There was a pool on which lotus blossoms floated, and chairs and a table were out there, with a green and white sunshade.

We paused before a door. My guide scratched on it.

"Come in," said a voice I recognized.

"Missie come," said the guide, smiling with the satisfaction  of a hero who has triumphantly completed an almost insuperable task. "I bring Missie," he added.

And there was Lavinia standing before me.

"Drusilla!" she cried.

I ran to her and we embraced. I heard the grunt of self-congratulation as the door closed on us.

"You've been so long."

"It is a long journey."

"I'm so glad you've come. Let me look at you. Still the same old Drusilla."

"What did you expect?"

"Just what I see ... and I'm glad of it. I thought you might have developed into some terrible old bluestocking. You were a little like that."

"I never expected you would do such a thing! Now let me look at you."

She took a few steps back, shook out her magnificent hair, which had been loosely tied back with a ribbon, turned her eyes upwards in a saintly manner and posed for me.

She was plumper, but as beautiful as ever. I had forgotten how striking she was. She was clad in a long, loose, lavender-coloured teagown and it suited her ... in fact, everything always suited Lavinia.

I felt that she had staged our meeting and was acting it as though it were a scene in a play and she was the heroine.

"You haven't changed a bit," I said.

"Well, I hope not. I work on it."

"India suits you."

She smirked. "I'm not sure. We're going home in two years' time. Dougal can't wait. He hates it here. He wants to go home and study some dry old thing. Dougal just doesn't know how to enjoy himself."

"People don't always find enjoyment in the same things."

She raised her eyes to the ceiling—an old habit of hers, I remembered. "Trust Drusilla," she said. "You've been here five minutes and the conversation has already taken a psychological turn."

"That's just a plain, simple fact."

"What's simple to clever you is profound to a numbskull like me. The point is, Dougal can't wait to get home."

"Where is he now?"

"In Delhi. They are always going somewhere. It's the old Company making its demands. I'm sick of the Company. Fabian is there, too."

"In Delhi?"

"It's the headquarters."

"Why aren't you there?"

"Well, we were in Bombay and we're to stay here for a while. I think in time we may be going to Delhi."

"I see."

"Well, tell me about home."

"It's just as it was except that my father died."

"I heard that from Mama, and you were supposed to marry the good Colin Brady and keep up the parsonic tradition. I heard all about it from Mama. You were not very sensible, which meant that you did not do what she had planned for you."

"I see you are well informed in Framling parish matters."

"Mama is a great letter writer. Both Fabian and I get periodic missives from home. One thing .... she cannot see from there whether her orders are carried out or not ... which is a mercy."

"She has always arranged everything. It is her mission in life."

"She arranged my marriage." She looked a little sulky.