Noises in the Night

ary Lennox couldn’t sleep. A large ceiling fan spun slowly round and round, but it was too warm to get comfortable. Outside, in the dark Indian night, the sound of insects chirping and whirring was drowned out by people shouting. The servants are being very noisy tonight, Mary thought. Why doesn’t Daddy tell them to be quiet? Sitting up in bed, she pushed her chin-length hair back behind her ears and picked up her rag doll.

‘Jemima, can you sleep?’ she whispered. Jemima stared back at her.

Mary liked to pretend that Jemima could understand everything she said because talking to Jemima and telling her stories helped Mary feel less lonely and bored. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and the servants – apart from her ayah, her Indian nanny – kept their distance. She wasn’t allowed to play outside much because the sun was very strong. Her father was too busy with his work to play games with her as much as she’d like and her mother … Mary chewed her lower lip. She knew her mother didn’t like her. At times, Mary even suspected that she hated her.

Well, I hate her too, Mary thought, scowling.

There was a scream from somewhere in the villa and then the sound of a crash and a door slamming. A wisp of fear curled in Mary’s tummy as she glanced at her bedroom door. What was going on?

She’d heard her father talking to his friends about how there was a lot of fighting in India at the moment. Mary didn’t really understand, but it sounded like the Indian people didn’t want the English to be in India any more and wanted them to leave. Daddy and his friends had talked about fighting in the streets. But surely those streets were a long way away, in distant cities. The Indian servants who worked for the Lennox family did whatever they were told so Mary couldn’t imagine them fighting. No, she was safe here. Nothing bad would happen to her.

Trying not to listen to the muffled bangs and crashes and shouts from outside her room, she stroked Jemima’s woollen hair. ‘Are you scared, Jemima?’ she whispered. ‘Well, don’t be. It’s just grown-ups being grown-ups. Shall I tell you a story to make you feel better?’

Lighting a lantern, she got out of bed and took Jemima to a den she had made out of cushions and throws in the middle of her room. She began to recite one of her favourite stories, using shadow puppets to act it out as she spoke. It was a story her ayah had told her about a boy called Rama and a girl called Sita who loved each other, but then one day a demon kidnapped Sita and took her away. Ayah’s stories were always filled with gods and demons, magic and excitement.

By the time Mary was nearing the end, the noises outside had quietened down, and her eyelids were starting to feel heavy. ‘Rama was just about to catch up with Sita and the demon, but then the demon threw down fire and imprisoned him in flames,’ she said, yawning. ‘Luckily, the fire god, Agni, was watching and he parted the flames and carried Rama up into the clouds. After that, the two of them set off, looking – ever looking – for Rama’s love,’ she finished.

Blowing out the lantern, she sank back on the cushions with Jemima in her arms. Her eyelashes fluttered and a few seconds later she was asleep.

A damp green lawn … flowerbeds filled with pink, lilac and blue flowers … trees with branches bursting with blossom … Mary ran down a path past statues … A grown-up was holding her hand. She was laughing, trying not to fall over, and she felt happy, wonderfully and completely happy …

Slowly, Mary began to wake up. For a moment, she tried to hold on to the familiar dream, but it faded just like it always did. The dream garden looked so different to any garden she had ever known, but it seemed so real to her when she was there and she always felt truly happy in it. With a sigh, she rubbed her eyes. The first thing she noticed was that the shutters were still open and it was very bright outside. Sunlight was flooding in through the window. Mary’s tummy rumbled. Where was her ayah? Why hadn’t she brought her breakfast?

Feeling hungry and cross, she sat up in her den. ‘Ayah!’ she called loudly. To her surprise, the door didn’t open to reveal her ayah’s kindly face. Feeling even crosser, Mary raised her voice. ‘Ayah! I’m calling you! It’s late and I’m not even dressed!’ Her voice reached shouting pitch. ‘AYAH!’

Mary waited. Still no one came. What was going on? The house was very quiet. That was peculiar, she realised. Usually, she could hear the servants bustling around. Unease flickered through her as she remembered the strange noises in the night.

‘Should … should we go and look around and see if we can find anyone, Jemima?’ She tried to sound brave but her voice trembled slightly. ‘Yes, I think that’s a very good idea,’ she went on. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. We’ll go and find Daddy and he shall get Ayah for us.’

Opening the door of her bedroom, she paused. The corridor outside her room was in chaos. Pictures had been pulled from the walls and were now lying on the floor without their gold frames. Heart beating fast, she started to hurry through the villa. Every room was the same – curtains had been torn down, ornaments lay smashed on the floor, much of the furniture had disappeared and, in the kitchen, the cupboards were open and the shelves bare. Everything of any value had vanished and, worst of all, there was no one there at all.

‘Father? Daddy? Ayah?’ Mary’s voice rose anxiously. She pushed the doors to the veranda open. The sun shone down brightly, but the garden was as deserted as the house. Mary clutched Jemima.

‘Where have they all gone?’ she whispered.