bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘That’s a departure – for Jains. They’ve always believed that suffering is brought upon oneself. I didn’t realize they cared how the other half lived. What’s the idea?’
‘To raise funds to provide some amenities in the worst slums.’
Miss Armstrong rubbed absent-mindedly at a water ring on the table. She looked up at John’s strong, calm face.
‘Humph,’ grunted John. ‘Times they are a-changing!’ His wide, thin mouth broke into a grin. ‘Jains are usually more interested in protecting animals than humans – charity is simply giving to monks and beggars.’
‘I know,’ replied his companion. ‘That’s why I want to help them.’
She removed her elbows from the table, so that the waiter could put down the tea tray. When he had gone, she seized the teapot in a small, strong hand and poured out the tea.
John took the proffered cup and himself added sugar and milk, while Miss Armstrong sipped eagerly at the black brew in her own cup. She sighed. ‘That’s better. Mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all. Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?’
Miss Armstrong dug a packet of Capstan out of her shirt pocket. After he had given her a light, she began to look a little less flushed and her skin took on its more normal appearance.
‘Cream velvet powdered with freckles,’ reflected John in some surprise. ‘She can’t be much over thirty.’
He told himself hastily to stop thinking like a naive youth, and he dragged his mind back to the prosaic subject of the proposed map. ‘I know Shahpur quite well,’ he told her. ‘I was actually born here, and I think I could draw a map of most of it. I’m sure that a proper one doesn’t exist, particularly since the influx of refugees – they’ve built all kinds of shanties – I’ve watched them go up.’ He laughed a little grimly. ‘I bet the postmen are the only ones who really know Shahpur.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It would save a lot of time, if you had a map – and, believe me, I could fill in a great deal of detail – mosques, temples, ruins, fountains – what few gardens there are …’
‘Would you really draw one?’ Miss Armstrong asked eagerly. Her face was alight, the mouth a trifle open to show the tip of a tongue as narrow as a cat’s. ‘Could I tell Lallubhai – he’s the Chairman – about your offer?’
‘Certainly,’ replied John, and wondered what possessed him to undertake such a monumental piece of work. ‘Do you want a wall-sized map – or sections?’
She looked doubtful and then quickly glanced at her watch. ‘I’m not sure. Look, I’ve got to be in the operating room by eleven.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Could we meet somewhere to talk about it?’
John was immediately appalled at this complication. There was not a single European restaurant in the city. He could not very well ask her to his room. A vision of Ranjit’s horrified face floated before him – an English Memsahib in his room would probably ruin her reputation. He had no idea where she lived or with whom. What a fool he was to get involved.
He fumbled with his pipe, matches and stick, at the same time trying to open the swing door of the cubicle for her. She waited patiently while he sorted himself out and thought of an answer to her question.
‘Perhaps you should first talk to your Chairman, Mr Lallubhai,’ he temporized, as he finally managed to push the door open with his elbow. ‘If a student or artist would volunteer, I’d be glad of a little help. Any map I draw is not going to be technically perfect, but it’ll save your Committee a lot of work.’ He paused outside the cubicle, and then asked, ‘I wonder if Mr Lallubhai has thought of asking the City Engineer for a look at his maps. He’ll have some showing drains, waterpipes …’
Miss Armstrong’s little white teeth flashed in a quick smile. ‘I’m sure none of the Committee has thought of it. I’ll suggest it. I’ll write to you – your address is in Dr Ferozeshah’s file.’
As they moved through the crowded restaurant, customers paused in their conversation to watch them pass. At the bottom of the narrow entrance steps, they were besieged by beggars. Miss Armstrong ignored them. She looked up at John, and said, ‘You’re a brick to offer to help – it’s a big job – are you sure you want to do it?’
She looked anxiously at him, and he could not say to her that he wished he had not volunteered, and said instead, ‘I shall enjoy it – it will be a change for me. Now, can I get you a tonga?’
She was dismissed and, in spite of his affirmative reply, felt unaccountably a little hurt.
‘No, thank you,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll walk. Goodbye – and thank you.’
She turned stiffly on her heavy, flat-heeled shoes, and in a moment was lost in the jostling crowd.
John waved at a passing tonga, and the driver drew into the pavement.
‘University Road,’ said John, ‘How much?’
‘Eight annas, Sahib,’ said the driver outrageously.
‘Four annas and not a pice more.’
‘Sahib,’ the voice was full of reproach.
‘Four annas.’
‘Six annas,’ said the driver, ‘and not a pice less,’ and he lifted his whip to start his horse, to indicate that he would rather go without a fare than reduce his price further.
‘All right,’ said John, and clambered in through the door at the back of the carriage. A little boy, who had been sitting by the driver, scrambled down, ran round the tonga and locked the door after John.
John smiled at the boy and gave him an anna. But behind the smile he felt cross. In two days two new people had entered his life, if one counted that Miss Armstrong had previously been only a pair of hands passing papers to Dr Ferozeshah. They both seemed to be people who would disrupt the peace of his life; Dr Tilak appeared likely to seek his advice quite often and Diana had momentarily disturbed his usual composure.
Since his dismissal by his fiancée, he had tried to avoid women, swearing that he would never let himself be hurt again. Almost every time he walked, he was reminded of the repugnance in his fiancée’s eyes, when she saw how crippled he was; and then he would damn all women.
He told himself not to be ridiculous. Nevertheless, by the time he was deposited at his compound gate, he had worked himself into a thoroughly bad temper. When Ranjit saw him, he scampered out to his own veranda, from which he did not stir until he had listened to the typewriter pounding steadily for more than half an hour.
Later, when he crept into the room to ask the Sahib what he would like for dinner, he was surprised to find him leaning his head disconsolately against the typewriter, looking as miserable as he had when first he returned to Shahpur.
‘Sahib?’ queried Ranjit, his wizened face full of concern. ‘Are you well?’
The Sahib did not raise his head from its hard resting place, but he smiled
