you’ll enjoy yourself enormously. We leave next week, and I imagine Gerald will have made arrangements for you to travel with us. You’ll need to nag your servants into action, though, or you’ll find yourself packing for them.’
Confronting this frightening memsahib had made Daisy’s heart beat too fast but now she saw the woman was simply ridiculous. How difficult was it to pack a suitcase? Of course, Rosemary Laughton couldn’t know that the girl facing her had in all probability packed more suitcases than any Indian retainer. And she must never know.
‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ve only the one servant and I imagine Gerald will wish to keep him here.’ Leaving Rajiv behind was one delight of Simla she hadn’t considered before.
‘Only one servant! What is Gerald thinking of! What about the mali, and the jemader and a cook?’
‘It’s a very small bungalow.’ She was once more driven into defending Gerald’s housekeeping. It was becoming a habit. And what on earth was a mali and a jemader? ‘Rajiv does all the cleaning and the cooking.’
Rosemary snorted. ‘I shall speak to Gerald. It’s quite ludicrous.’
The conversation had reached a dead end and Daisy was unsure how to restart it. Did these women talk about nothing other than their servants? Rescue appeared in the shape of Edith who returned to her side at that moment and whisked her away from the terrifying Rosemary.
‘It will be good for you to meet some young women of your own age,’ Edith enthused, her long skirts swishing in tune with a powerful stride. ‘Amelia Simmonds married only last year and you’re sure to have a lot to talk about.’
They arrived in front of a thin, young woman who had been lingering uncertainly on the edge of the group. Even in the dim light of the clubhouse, the vivid fuchsia of her tea gown was startlingly at odds with the pale, pinched face above.
‘Daisy is Lieutenant Mortimer’s wife, Amelia,’ was all Edith offered, before marching away to join an exclamatory group of women gathered beneath the head of a particularly morose gazelle. Daisy was left to smile hopefully at the new introduction.
‘My husband has just been made Captain,’ Amelia said proudly.
There wasn’t much you could say to that, Daisy thought, and retreated to the old, trite question, ‘And how are you enjoying India?’
‘I love it.’ Amelia gushed enthusiasm. ‘So will you, particularly when we get up to the hills. Such fun! So you’re Gerald’s wife … I’m so pleased to meet you … I’d thought that Gerald …’ Her voice tailed off and then she repeated a little desperately, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. It can get a bit dull here to be honest, a bit claustrophobic. Same old clubhouse, same old activities. Of course, it’s far too hot to do anything much at this time of the year.’
‘I can imagine. I’ve found even reading to be a chore. But that’s probably because I’ve had nothing very interesting to read. Is there a library in the cantonment?’
Amelia looked blank. ‘Books,’ Daisy prompted.
‘Oh yes, there are books. There’s an annexe somewhere around the back of the clubhouse, I believe. I’ve never been there myself. There are plenty of magazines hanging around the Club itself, oh and catalogues from the Army and Navy.’ She paused looking doubtfully at her new acquaintance. ‘You’re not a blue stocking, are you?’
‘I enjoy reading,’ Daisy said simply.
She had never thought herself in any way clever. Gerald was clever, he had been to public school so he must be. Grayson Harte was clever. He’d talked to her of Indian history, Indian culture, and he knew all kinds of languages. That was clever in a way she was not. But neither was she as shockingly ignorant as these women appeared to be. Eden House had given her a decent grounding and Helena Maddox had continued her education, even though she’d been a servant in the house. And it had gone well beyond books. Miss Maddox had taught her to walk and talk in a genteel fashion; to appear as much of a lady, she thought proudly, as any of the women in this room.
‘So what do the wives do all day?’
‘Do?’ Amelia shook her head slightly as though this was an extraordinary question. ‘Oversee the house, I suppose, organise the servants. Give cook the menu for the day, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have coffee together.’
‘That’s not likely to take up much time.’ Daisy was regretful. She had genuinely wished for a clue as to how to fill her days, but Amelia was now staring at her as though she were a species she had never before encountered.
‘I’m not used to being idle,’ Daisy tried to explain.
Amelia considered the matter. ‘I believe some women have become nurses or teachers, but only for a short while—to fill a gap maybe.’ She moved closer and put her lips to Daisy’s ear. ‘If you want to be accepted, you had better stick to the house, that’s my advice. The senior wives would hate the idea of you working.’
‘The senior wives?’
Amelia looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. ‘The Colonel’s wife in particular,’ she whispered, ‘but also the wives of all the senior officers. They run the show, you’ll soon find out. And as wives of junior officers, you learn to let them. They wouldn’t approve of you working.’
Daisy bristled inwardly but kept her voice even. ‘What else might they not approve?’
‘I’m making them sound horrid when they’re not. They’re very nice—really, they are. They’re just keen on all the women fitting in and, as long as you do, there’s no problem. You’ll find the regiment is very close-knit, like a family. Everyone has an opinion so you have to be careful not to upset people. With the way you dress, for instance, or the friends you make.’
‘And who shouldn’t I have as a friend?’ Daisy asked. But even as she posed the question, she knew the answer.
‘Indians for one thing. And Anglo-Indians too. Some of them are nearly white so you have to be careful.’ The whisper deepened. ‘They’re not people we mix with, not now at least. It used to be different once, I think. But now too many lower class British have married women from the bazaar, that kind of thing, and we don’t recognise them.’
So that was Anglo-Indians as well as Indians and who else did Gerald say—sugar and jute planters? There was no end to the categories that were unwelcome. And she would be just as unwelcome if they knew the details of her history: a girl without parents, a girl sent into service when she was little more than a child, a girl who had burst with pride when she became a shop assistant selling perfume in a department store.
A loud gong cut their conversation dead, the sound outpacing the now raucous voices. Daisy drifted with the crowd towards an adjoining room where two long refectory tables stood parallel to one another, each bearing twenty place name cards and twenty sets of strictly ordered cutlery.
She found herself seated in yet another cane chair beside a man with a very large moustache. The cutlery bothered her but by dint of watching her fellow diners, she managed to acquit herself without incident. The first course was soup but a soup she had never before tasted. She glanced sideways to gauge her neighbour’s reaction. The soup seemed to catch in his side-whiskers and Daisy had to stop herself from watching in fascination as bubbles of the dark liquid slid slowly
