THE MAN IN the next bed, Gauhar Ali, told Bissen that the dead were taken to two places.
‘My fellow Muslims are buried somewhere,’ he said in Punjabi, ‘although I don’t know where.’
‘And the rest?’ asked Bissen.
‘To a place they call Patcham – that is where the cremations are carried out.’
Bissen nodded. ‘Where were you fighting when you got injured?’ he asked Gauhar.
‘In France somewhere,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know exactly where because I do not understand English very well.’
‘I was at Neuve Chapelle,’ Bissen told him.
The Muslim nodded. ‘I know – one of my brothers told me. He was at the same battle. Your English is very good, isn’t it?’
Bissen nodded. ‘I learned it back in Amritsar.’
‘I saw you talking to the young nurse. She is very pretty.’
Bissen shrugged. ‘Is she?’
‘Be careful, bhai – the Engrezi will not want you messing with their women,’ warned Gauhar.
‘But I am doing no such thing. We just talk about things, nothing more.’
‘As you wish, bhai . . .’
Bissen could see in the man’s face that he didn’t believe him but he let it lie. There was no point in arguing – there was nothing to argue about. Bissen couldn’t even walk, let alone chase after some white woman. At least that’s what he told himself. Had he been able to get out of bed it might have been a different story. There was something about Lillian – a warmth and tenderness – that he desired. And each time he looked into her eyes, something in his heart moved. He told himself that it was simply because he was bed-ridden and had too much time on his hands, but that was a lie. There was much more to it. Bissen knew that it was dangerous too: the white men would not allow such a thing. In any case, who was to say that Lillian herself felt the same way? Why would a beautiful white girl be interested in a crippled Indian soldier?
Lillian arrived in the ward after lunch and Bissen waited patiently for her to reach him. When she did, he glanced across at Gauhar Ali, who was smiling mischievously. Bissen turned away.
‘Hello!’ said Lillian in her bright, melodic voice. ‘How are you feeling today?’
Bissen shrugged. ‘Pain was bad last night,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t much sleep.’
Lillian placed one of her hands on his. ‘Perhaps we should increase your dosage,’ she said. ‘Let me get the wound cleaned out and we’ll see.’
Bissen remembered the article he’d read about rowing. ‘What is the meaning of rowing?’ he asked her.
‘Rowing?’ she repeated.
‘Yes.’
She smiled.
‘I read in newspaper and not understand,’ explained Bissen.
‘I’m not surprised,’ replied Lillian. ‘On the one hand, if you pronounce it rowing, it means to have an argument or disagreement. But if you pronounce it rowing, it means propelling a boat down a river or across a lake.’
‘Propelling?’
‘Moving. They use oars – long wooden paddles – to push through the water and move the boat.’
‘I see. So that story about boat rowing, not argument.’
Lillian shrugged. ‘I didn’t see the story,’ she told him. ‘But I’d guess that you’re right.’
Bissen smiled.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘You speak very fast,’ said Bissen. ‘Like my sister.’
‘You have a sister?’
Bissen nodded. ‘One sister, two brother, back in Punjab. You?’
Lillian shook her head as she turned him onto his left side. ‘I am an only child,’ she told him. ‘And my parents passed away when I was young. My uncle brought me up.’
‘I sorry,’ replied Bissen.
‘No need for that. You weren’t to know. It must be lovely to come from such a large family.’
Bissen laughed.
‘What is it this time?’ she asked.
‘Most Indian have big family,’ he told her. ‘My father have six brother and five sister; all my uncle live next to us in our village.’
‘Good heavens! I bet Christmas at your house is lovely.’
‘No,’ said Bissen. ‘I know of Christmas but we Sikh. Not celebrate the Christmas.’
Lillian stopped what she was doing and smiled. ‘I love Christmas,’ she told him. ‘And you’ve never had one? Of course you haven’t – how silly of me!’
‘No. Not silly . . .’
‘Well, that’ll change soon enough. I don’t think you’ll be leaving until next year at the earliest, which means you’ll see England at its best over the festive season.’
‘I very much like that,’ said Bissen.
‘Me too,’ said Lillian. ‘Now, let me get this done and then I have a treat for you.’
Bissen’s face lit up. ‘A treat?’
‘Yes . . . Doctor Chopra and the other medics want you to get some fresh air. I’m taking you outside.’
‘But I cannot walk,’ Bissen reminded her.
‘If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain . . .’ joked Lillian.
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘All will be revealed.’
Ten minutes later she returned with a wooden chair on wheels and two Indian hospital guards. She had placed two cushions on the seat.
‘Your transport has arrived!’ she said.
‘Oh.’ Bissen didn’t know what else to say.
He had seen many of the other men in such chairs but had never sat in one himself and he felt excited. It had been a long time since he’d been in the open air and the thought of it made him giddy.
‘Can you please help Mr Singh into the wheelchair?’ Lillian asked the guards.
‘It is your lucky day today,’ one of them said to Bissen in Punjabi.
‘Bhai, with my injury, every day is a lucky day,’ replied Bissen as they helped him out of bed.
Progress was slow and painful; the extra painkillers that Lillian had given him made Bissen feel weak. But eventually, with the help of the guards, he was sitting comfortably in the chair, although there remained a dull ache in what was left of his right buttock. Once she was sure he was ready, Lillian thanked the guards and began to wheel Bissen out of the ward. As they passed the other patients, Bissen said a few greetings. Most were returned in kind but one or two of the men scowled at him. Bissen guessed they were too caught up in their own worries to care about him. It was only natural, he told himself; he knew they meant no harm. Once he was out of the ward, he soon forgot them.
‘The light will feel bright,’ Lillian warned him. ‘Just let your eyes get used to it for a while . . .’
She wheeled him past yet more guards, then through the ornate lobby and out into the gardens. She was right – the light was blinding, but any discomfort soon passed and Bissen looked out on a lovely, sunny late summer’s day.
‘Where would you like to go?’ Lillian asked.
‘I do not mind,’ replied Bissen. ‘It is so very good of you to do this for me.’
‘You’re welcome. You looked so pale indoors. The fresh air has already brought colour to your cheeks.’
Bissen inhaled deeply. ‘It is wonderful,’ he said.
‘Let’s go round the outside of the pavilion,’ suggested Lillian. ‘That way you can see where you’ve been staying. And you can see how beautiful it is too.’
Bissen nodded. ‘I would like that.’
‘And then I’ll take you out into the public gardens and maybe even find you a view of the sea.’
‘Yes, please.’
For the next hour or so Lillian wheeled Bissen around until her arms began to ache. When finally she needed to rest, she stopped next to a large rose bush and plucked one of the flowers for him. Bissen immediately held it to his nostrils. It had delicately scented pink petals.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ asked Lillian.
‘It is,’ said Bissen. ‘I have loved roses since I was a child.’
‘Me too,’ replied Lillian. ‘Just think: we are about the same age, we grew up at different ends of the earth, yet both of us grew to love roses.’
Bissen nodded at her, then smiled, handing her the flower.
‘For me?’ she asked, her face beaming.
‘I like this you do for me,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s all part of the service, sir. The doctor feels you need more fresh air.’
Bissen wondered whether to say what was on his mind. He didn’t want to offend the nurse or upset her in any way. Maybe he was just being silly but he had to ask.
‘Will you be bringing me again?’
Lillian looked into his pale-grey eyes and nodded. ‘I’d love to,’ she replied.
‘Me too.’ He grinned from ear to ear.
Lillian blushed and looked away. She wondered again what her friends would say. There was something so sweet, so wonderful about Bissen. And he was truly handsome, just like she’d always imagined a foreigner. She recalled her Uncle Bertie telling her of the Sikhs he’d met while in India. Proud, fierce and utterly loyal; true warriors, and so charming, her uncle had said, they’d give the French a run for their money.
‘You’d fall at their feet, Lillian,’ he’d joked.
And he had been right. Here she was, her heart all a-flutter. She decided to go and see her uncle, and tell him, perhaps, of her Sikh soldier.