The Far Pavilions Read online

  Mr Tilbery and the infantry Captain had been particularly frosty, but only George Garforth had registered an active protest.

  George had turned as white as a sheet, and after attempting to drown his disappointment in drink had offered to fight the successful suitor, though, luckily for all concerned, he had been taken ignominiously ill before his challenge could be accepted. Belinda had retired early, and George having been carried to his cabin, Ash had gone up to the deserted deck, where he had spent the night lying in a deck chair under the stars, dizzy with champagne and happiness.

  It had been a wonderful night, and watching the dear, familiar constellations of his childhood wheel overhead, it seemed to Ash that whatever else he might forget, he would remember this night forever – and that he would never be so happy again. His first love-affair had ended in disaster, and it had taken him a full six months to realize that Lily Briggs, far from being a golden goddess who had miraculously fallen in love with him, was nothing more than an amoral slut who had amused herself by seducing a schoolboy. Yet because she had been the first woman he had ever slept with, he knew that he would never quite forget her. Her successors had been no more than brief, sordid adventures in sex, and soon he would not even be able to remember their names, and could only be sorry that he had ever known any of them. To have done so seemed in some way a betrayal of Belinda; but at least she need never know about them, and there were so many other things that he could tell her about: the whole fantastic story of his childhood, and all the secrets and sorrows and enchantments of those years.

  He would have told her all this before had it been possible, but with half-a-dozen jealous rivals competing for her attention there had been no chance of doing so, and there had been many occasions when he had felt like murdering Gus Blaine or that pompous old fool Mr Tilbery – or, for that matter, the entire roster of Belinda's beaux. Yet with so many to choose from, she had, incredibly, chosen him. He was the luckiest man in the world, and tomorrow no, today, for it was well after midnight – he would be back in his own land at last. Soon now he would cross the Ravi River again and see the mountains, and Zarin…

  Zarin –

  Ash found himself wondering a little uneasily if Zarin would have changed very much during the past years, and if he would even be able to recognize him on sight. There had been nothing of the old Zarin in those stilted, flowery letters that had come so infrequently and told him so little. He knew that Zarin was now a Daffadar and the father of three children, but that was all. The rest had merely been a brief chronicle of regimental events and he no longer knew how Zarin thought or felt. Would they be able to take up the old relationship where they had left it seven years ago?

  It had never occurred to him before that they might not, but now, quite suddenly, a doubt crept in, for he remembered that their positions would be reversed. He was returning as a British officer and Zarin Khan, that ‘elder brother’ whom he had admired and envied and striven to emulate, would be under his command. How much difference was that going to make? None, if he could help it; but circumstances might make a great deal – such things as regimental custom and etiquette. And then there would be his fellow officers, and even Belinda… no, not Belinda: she loved him, and so she would feel as he felt. But it might be difficult at first for both Zarin and himself.

  He wished now that it had been possible for them to meet on neutral ground instead of in the strictly military atmosphere of Mardan, where they would be under the critical eye of a dozen men who knew something of his story and would watch to see how he comported himself. However, it was too late to worry about that, and he would just have to behave circumspectly and try to remember not to rush his fences (always, according to both Koda Dad and Uncle Matthew, his besetting sin). In the meantime there was the long journey north, and the dismal prospect of parting with Ala Yar and Mahdoo, this last being the one black cloud on his bright horizon.

  Recalling it now he was conscious of a sharp pang of guilt, because there was no blinking the fact that his preoccupation with Belinda had made him neglect them of late, and beyond an occasional stroll with one or other in the early morning before the passengers were astir, and a few words each day when Ala Yar came to his cabin to lay out clean linen or put studs in his shirt, he had seen very little of them. And it was too late to make amends now, for tomorrow today they would say goodbye to him. The three of them would be going their separate ways, and he knew that for his part he would miss both of them more than he could say. They were a link between the old days of his childhood and the new days and the new life that would begin when the sun rose, which would be very soon now, for already the stars were losing their brightness and to the East the sky was faintly green with the first, far-off glimmer of the dawn.

  Bombay was still below the horizon, but the dawn wind carried the scent of the city far out to sea, and Ash could smell the mingled odours of dust and sewage, of crowded bazaars and rotting vegetation and a faint scent of flowers – frangipani, marigold, jasmine and orange blossom. The smell of home.

  9

  Daffadar Zarin Khan of the Guides had asked for three weeks' leave ‘on urgent private affairs’, and travelled to Bombay at his own expense to meet the S.S. Canterbury Castle, bringing with him a bearer for Ash: one Gul Baz, a Pathan, who had been specially selected for the post by Awal Shah.

  The years had left few marks on Zarin, and at a casual glance there was little difference between the man who stood watching the ship approach and the young sowar who had waved farewell to a disconsolate boy nearly seven years ago. He was taller now and broader, and his moustache was more luxuriant. There were also lines about his mouth and eyes that had not been there before, and in place of the sand-coloured uniform and puttees he had been wearing when Ash had last seen him, he wore the holiday dress of a Pathan: voluminous trousers, a flowered waistcoat and a flowing white shirt.

  The sun blazed down on the grimy dock with its jostling jabbering crowd of coolies, port officials, hotel touts and friends and relatives who had gathered to meet the ship, and as the tugs manoeuvred her alongside and the gang-planks ran out, Zarin's eyes scanned the lines of faces that peered down from the deck rails, and it occurred to him for the first time that although Ashok should have small difficulty in recognizing him, he himself might find it less easy to identify a boy who would now be a man. But almost in the same moment his gaze checked and he drew a quick breath of relief. Yes, that must surely be Ashok. There could be no mistaking him.

  He was not as tall as Zarin had expected him to be, being just under six foot; but a fair enough height, and with the lean good looks of a northerner or a Pathan. His dress proclaimed him a Sahib, yet his complexion, which had always been swarthy, was now as dark as an Asiatic's from the suns of the long lazy days on shipboard, and his hair as black. Put him in the proper clothing and he could still pass as a Pathan or a hillman, decided Zarin with a wry grin – always provided the years had not changed him in too many other ways.

  This was something that only time would show, for though he had written with great frequency and his letters, except for the earlier ones, had been in Urdu script (Colonel Anderson having tutored him in this) they had had to be translated to Zarin by a munshi, and had lost much in the process. But at least they proved that the boy had not forgotten his friends. It remained to be seen if it were possible for them to adjust to a new relationship. He could see that Ashok was not expecting anyone to meet him, for unlike the majority of his fellow passengers he was not scanning the faces of the crowd in search of familiar features, but gazing above them towards the rooftops and the lush green gardens of the beautiful, flamboyant city. Even from that distance Zarin could see his expression; and reading it, was satisfied. It was indeed Ashok and not a stranger who had returned home.

  ‘There is Pelham-Sahib,’ said Zarin, pointing him out to Gul Baz. He raised a hand to signal to his friend, and then dropped it without doing so. For a woman had come to stand beside Ashok, a very young woman who too
k his arm and clung to it as though by right, laughing up into his face and demanding his attention. Ashok turned immediately and his expression changed; and noting it, Zarin's brows twitched together in a frown. A memsahib… a young memsahib. This was one complication he had not bargained for.

  From the first, it had been the memsahibs who had created distrust and raised social barriers between white men and brown in the territories of the Raj. In the old days – the brave days of ‘John Company’ that had seen the birth of the Bengal Army – there had been few memsahibs in India, because the climate had not been considered suitable for them, while the length and discomfort of voyages by sailing ship had discouraged many of them and kept them away. Deprived of their society the Sahibs had married or taken mistresses from the local population, and had in consequence come to know and understand the country and its people – and to speak its languages with great fluency. There had been friendship and brotherhood between white men and brown in those days, and a great measure of mutual respect. But when the harnessing of steam had made sea voyages quicker and more comfortable, the memsahibs had flocked to India – bringing with them a full complement of snobbery, insularity and intolerance.

  Indians who had hitherto been treated as equals became ‘natives’ and the term itself lost its dictionary definition and became an opprobrious word, signifying members of an inferior – and coloured – race. The memsahibs preferred not to have any social contact with ‘natives’, though they were not above accepting the lavish hospitality of Indian princes, and prided themselves on being patient with their numerous household servants. But they rarely invited Indians into their homes, or exerted themselves to make friends among them; and few showed any interest in the history and culture of the land which the majority looked upon as heathen and barbaric. Their menfolk no longer married Indian brides or kept Indian mistresses, and the memsahibs reserved their greatest scorn for the numerous half-castes that their own countrymen had fathered in happier times, referring to them contemptuously as ‘Eurasians’ or ‘Blacky-whites’, and ostracizing anyone whom they suspected of having what came to be termed ‘a touch of the tar-brush’. There were of course many exceptions, but they were swamped by the bigoted majority, and as social contact between the races dwindled, sympathy and understanding waned, and a large part of the camaraderie of the old days was lost, to be replaced by distrust, suspicion and resentment.

  Zarin Khan, standing in the hot sunlight on the dock at Bombay and watching his one-time friend solicitously helping a yellow-haired girl down the gang-way, felt his heart sink. He did not know what the years in Belait might have done to Ashok, but he had not expected any complications of this kind, and he could only hope that it might prove to be no more than a passing affair that would burn itself out in a matter of weeks. But he did not like the complacent and proprietary expression on the face of the short stout memsahib, undoubtedly the girl's mother, whom he now recognized as the wife of Harlowe Sahib, second-in-command of a regiment at present stationed at Peshawar. It boded no good, and Peshawar being less than four hours' ride from Mardan, the girl would be able to keep Ashok dancing attendance upon her at a time when his attention should be concentrated upon more important matters. Zarin frowned and was suddenly unsure of his welcome.

  Major Harlowe had been unable to meet his family in Bombay, for the Frontier regiments were preparing for autumn manoeuvres and he had too much work on his hands to permit him to take leave at this time. But he had sent his bearer and his wife's ayah to see to their comfort on the long journey north, and felt sure that they would find an acquaintance or two on the train and not be too dull.

  ‘Of course we shall not be dull,’ cried Belinda, looking about her with sparkling eyes. ‘Ash will be with us. Besides, there will be so much to see. Jungles and tigers and elephants and – oh, do look at that adorable baby; it's only wearing a bangle. Just imagine taking one's baby out in England dressed in nothing but a bangle! Why has Mr Tilbery got all those garlands round his neck? How comical he looks, all smothered in flowers and tinsel. Mrs Chiverton has got some on too: I wish – Ash, there's a native over there who keeps staring at us. The tall one in a white turban with gold ends. I believe he knows you.’

  Ash turned to look, and stood suddenly still. Zarin…

  The years rolled back and for a brief moment he was a boy again, listening to Zarin telling him why he must go to England and assuring him that he would one day return: ‘the years will pass quickly, Ashok.’ They had not passed quickly; but they had passed. He had come home again, and here, waiting for him as he had promised, was Zarin. He tried to call to him but there was a lump in his throat and he could only smile foolishly.

  ‘What's the matter, Ash?’ inquired Belinda, tugging at his coat-sleeve. ‘Why are you looking like that? Who is that man?’

  Ash found his voice: ‘Zarin. It's Zarin –’

  He brushed her hand from his arm and broke into a run, leaving Belinda to stare after him, startled and more than a little shocked by the sight of her betrothed publicly embracing a strange native with a fervour that she would have considered excessive even if they had been Frenchmen. Why, they were actually hugging each other. Belinda turned away abruptly, scarlet-cheeked with embarrassment, and met the malicious gaze of Amy Chiverton who had also been a witness to the encounter.

  ‘Mama always said that there was something fishy about Mr Pelham-Martyn,’ remarked Mis Chiverton spitefully. ‘Do you suppose that man is his half-brother, or a cousin or something? They are certainly very alike. Oh, I forgot you were engaged to him. How dreadful of me. I'm so sorry. But of course I was joking. I expect it's only one of his old servants come to meet him. Ours have come too. I expect yours are here as well.’

  But surely one did not embrace one's old servants? thought Belinda; and anyway, the man was far from old. She turned to look at them again and saw with a sharp pang of unease that in one respect Amy Chiverton had been right. The two men were not unlike, and if Ashton were to grow a moustache they could almost pass as brothers…

  ‘Really, Belinda dear,’ scolded Mrs Harlowe, hurrying back from saying her goodbyes to a Colonel and Mrs Philpot who had occupied the next door cabin. ‘How many times have I told you that you must not stand about in the sun without a parasol? You will ruin your complexion. Where is Ashton?’

  ‘He – he had to see someone about his luggage,’ lied Belinda, catching her mother's arm and pulling her away in the direction of the customs shed. ‘He will only be a moment. Let us get into the shade.’

  It was suddenly unbearable to her that Mama should see Ashton and that native hugging each other, for although Mama would never dream of saying -or even thinking – the sort of things that Amy Chiverton had just said, she would certainly be disapproving, and just at that moment Belinda felt that she could not bear to listen to anything else on the subject. Ashton would probably have some perfectly reasonable explanation, but he should never have abandoned her like that. He had no right to run off and leave her alone and unattended among a crowd of jostling coolies, just as though she was someone of no importance at all. If this was the way he intended to treat her –

  Belinda's blue eyes filled with angry tears, and all at once the bustling, colourful scene about her lost its charm and she was aware only of the heat and noise and discomfort, and the fact that the bodice of her flowered muslin dress was already drenched with sweat and clinging unattractively to her shoulder blades. Ash had behaved abominably and India was horrid.

  For the moment, at least, Ash had forgotten all about her. And forgotten too, as he laughed and exclaimed and embraced his friend, that he was now a Sahib and an officer.

  ‘Zarin – Zarin. Why didn't anyone tell me that you would be here?’

  ‘They did not know. I asked for leave and came away, not telling anyone where I meant to go.’

  ‘Not even Awal Shah? How is he? Did you recognize me at once, or weren't you sure? Have I changed very much? You have not, Zarin. You haven't changed a
t all. Well, a little perhaps. But not enough to matter. Tell me about your father – is he well? Shall I see him in Mardan?’

  ‘I do not think so. He is well, but his village lies two koss* beyond the Border and he seldom leaves it for he is getting old.’

  ‘Then we must take leave and visit him. Oh Zarin, it is so good to see you. It is so good to be back.’

  ‘I too am glad. There have been times when I feared that you might grow away from us and be reluctant to return, but I see now that you are still the same Ashok with whom I flew kites and stole melons in the days when we lived in the Hawa Mahal. I should have known that you would not change. Have the years in Belait seemed very long?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ash shortly. ‘But they are over, thank God. Tell me about yourself and the Regiment.’

  The talk turned to the Guides and the rumours of a winter campaign against certain of the Frontier tribes who had been raiding villages and stealing women and cattle, and presently Zarin presented Gul Baz and was introduced in his turn to Ala Yar and Mahdoo. One or two of the departing passengers paused curiously, surprised by the sight of young Pelham-Martyn laughing and chattering with such joyous animation to a group of ‘natives’, for he had been anything but talkative on board and had, in fact, been voted a dull dog; though his success with the little Harlowe girl suggested that there must be more to him than met the eye. There was certainly no trace of reserve in his manners at the present moment, and those of his fellow passengers whose attention had been briefly attracted to the strangely assorted group raised their eyebrows in astonished disapproval and hurried on again, feeling vaguely affronted.