out of the narrow alleys, gathering around stalls which appeared to sell everything that any one person could want: rice and chillies, spices and saris, leather work sandals and bangles of fragile glass in rainbow colours. There were stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and stalls with mountains of sticky sweets wrapped in silver paper. In the thin strips of space between, several old men sat cross-legged, stitching clothes or boiling things in huge cooking pots. ‘They are called dekshis,’ Anish told her. ‘And the food is very good.’ Everywhere, heat, movement, people, colour.
He came to a halt at a shop slightly larger than the rest, and with a banner overhead that read Johari Bazar. ‘You will enjoy yourself here. The owner’s name is Sanjay and he will look after you well. He’ll find you a trunk of materials for a few rupees, see if he doesn’t.’
She felt a stir of panic and blurted out, ‘I’ve been very stupid, Anish, and brought only a little money with me.’ She did not want him knowing that all she had was a few grubby notes from her time on board ship, since Gerald had not thought to leave her anything.
‘You won’t need money. Gerald is sure to have an account and you must order what you want and the sum will be added to whatever is owed. This afternoon Sanjay will deliver your materials to the bungalow. It is all very civilised.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’
She thought she discerned that edge again but then wondered if she was imagining it. She wanted to reassure him that it was not the Indian way of doing things that made her hesitate but the fact that she had never in her life ordered anything on account. From where she came, you paid cash for whatever you wanted, and if you didn’t have the cash, your wants went unsatisfied.
At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.
Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.
‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’
‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’
‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’
‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.
‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’
She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’
‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’
‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.
‘Perhaps they should, but this is an alien culture, and it can lead people to foster—well, let’s say, an extra Englishness. And that’s not all bad.’
Daisy took up the cudgels, though she had only the haziest notion what prompted her. ‘On the contrary, it sounds a very bad idea to me.’
‘That’s because you don’t know India. European women have to have guts to live here. They need that extra to stick it out and the mems are first class on fortitude. They have to be. To keep their children safe, they’re forced to send them home to England at an early age. There are thousands of child graves scattered across this country, you’ll find. But when parents and children meet years on, they hardly know each other. It’s a rotten choice, don’t you think? Return home with your offspring or slug it out by your husband’s side.’
Daisy acknowledged the truth of this but she was still smarting. ‘And what happens if you disagree and don’t follow their rules?’
‘You must, my dear, you must fit in. When you married, this is the life you chose. Attitudes may be changing. A few mems have taken up nursing or teaching, usually as voluntary work, but most are still stuck in the old ways. So be charming but vapid, that’s the ticket. Remember, women who are difficult or cause a scandal, damage their husbands’ prospects, and you wouldn’t want to do that, I’m sure.’
She wouldn’t, Daisy thought, but her new future was looking less than promising in all kinds of ways and by the time Sister Macdonald had pumped her hand in a hearty goodbye, she’d lost much of her enthusiasm for buying materials. But Sanjay was not going to allow a likely customer to escape so easily and she found herself spending the next thirty minutes in a daze, wandering back and forth with him among the rows of crowded trestles. The building was long and narrow, stretching far back, and with every counter they came upon, her memory of the nurse’s conversation faded a little, while her delight in the shop grew. So did painful indecision: cottons, fine lawns, embroidered materials and the most exquisite of silks all called to her. But the frugality she’d been forced to practise all her life prevented her losing her wits altogether, and she bought only cottons she thought would make into several frocks for the day and a length of silk for any formal occasion to which she was bidden. In the end she found she could not resist the splendid array of trimmings that Sanjay showed her, and squirrelled away several ribbons and a card of silver braid.
Flushed with success, she asked the shopkeeper for his pattern book. She would make a start this very day, once the sun’s warmth had begun to wane. Sanjay shook his head and instead showed her a picture from a magazine. She was repeating her request, thinking he’d not understood her, when a voice from the front of the shop called her name.
‘Miss Driscoll?’
She was taken aback to see Grayson Harte standing a few feet away. When they’d spoken on the ship, he’d told her little of his plans and she hadn’t realised that he, too, was headed for Jasirapur. If she’d thought about his destination at all, it would have been to imagine him many miles away by now. His tall, slim figure looked absurdly cool in linen slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, as though the punishing heat of the bazaar had decided not to take up his time but instead slide gently from his shoulders.
‘Mr Harte, how nice to see you. But I’m no longer Miss Driscoll. I’ve become Mrs Mortimer since we last met.’ If only in name, she thought,
