V

On the eve of December 21st which, as the Sisters knew, was St Thomas’s Day, a full moon looked down over Calcutta.

It was well after midnight and the morning mist was beginning to form on the river, spreading softly over the banks and the wide flatness of the Maidan, filling the star-shaped moat of the Fort, swirling up the lower tiers of the stands on the racecourse, laying a white carpet round the domed marble of the Victoria Memorial and the spired gothic of the Cathedral.

In the bedroom of his flat in Park Street, Mr Leventine lay alone in his large carved mahogany bed over which his mosquito net hung from a vast frame; in fact, everything in the flat was vast. The room was lined with massive Victorian wardrobes with full-length mirrors, others were in his dressing-room where his dressing-table was divided by another looking glass; his silver brushes and bottles with silver tops shone. The wardrobes were full of well-pressed suits, their exteriors were polished and the floors of imitation stone were burnished to a red gloss.

His bathroom held a huge porcelain bath set in mahogany and in his elaborate basin the humble plug was replaced by a column operated by knobs and levers, all silver plated. The lavatory might have been designed for the hams of a race of giants; the pan had a pattern of pink tulips and green leaves. In all this splendour Mr Leventine could not sleep. Why not? He had an invaluable capacity, taught him by his mother, of ‘switching off’ and falling at once to sleep. As in his childhood, he still reached up to an imaginary electric light switch, to flick it off. He had done the same tonight, but it had not worked.

The evening before, after Bunny had gone, Mr Leventine, glass in hand, had stood looking at the mantelpiece. Bunny’s friendliness had filled him with such cheer that suddenly he had been moved to rearrange the cups – goblets to the left, the quaich and rosebowl on the right, in the middle an empty space and, ‘It will be gold,’ Mr Leventine had whispered.

‘It will be gold.’ Seldom had he felt as confident, as full of cheer; that night he had slept like a child, but tonight he was uneasy. Why? asked Mr Leventine.

The moon shone down on the Quillan stables; on the lawns and across the track it threw long shadows of trees, shadows too on the verandahs that ran around the stalls but the light picked out the blanketed forms of the syces where they lay, each with a lantern turned low beside his charpoy. The coming champion or hope of India was not asleep; Dark Invader was on his knees on the tan-bark of his bedding, straining with a total loss of dignity to reach an odd straw which had escaped his neighbour’s stall, elongating his lips till he looked like his distant South American relative, the tapir. Finally, resigned to failure, he sighed deeply, rose to his feet, drooped his lower lip and slept.

The bedrooms of Scattergold Hall were empty. December 20th was Dahlia’s father’s birthday and, by Quillan tradition, John drove her, the children, the latest baby and Gog and Magog to Burdwan where Mr McGinty worked, as many Eurasians did, on the railway.

John’s car was an old four-seater Chrysler. ‘1922 model,’ John purposely told Mr Leventine. Its wooden spoked wheels needed water poured on them in hot weather; its broad back seat held children, dogs, bags of oats or bales of hay, kittens, luggage, parcels, and it ran accompanied by a steady thump from the engine like an elderly tramp steamer. The children loved it and all the year, Dahlia, as John knew, looked forward to this day. Burdwan was one of the biggest junctions, and its Institute or Eurasian Club was crowded so that there she saw many of her once-upon-a-time people as well as her father and mother – uncles and aunts, great-uncles, great-aunts, troops and troops of cousins and friends – because in the evening they always went to the Institute, the railway workers’ club, and Dahlia could show off her John and their children, who equally shrank from it but, as if drawn by an unspoken love, went through it with a grace that no-one would have believed of them. John joked, laughed, danced, even sang, while the bandars submitted to Dahlia’s idea of lacy frilled dresses and sashes, white shorts and shirts and bow ties, ‘like little gentlemen’. There was always a dinner, elaborate as only Dahlia’s mother could make it, and the Quillans always stayed the night.

With Eurasian voices still shrilling in his ears John slept fitfully in his parents-in-law’s big bed – touchingly, they always insisted on moving out of it for John and Dahlia. She lay softly against him, blissfully asleep, and softly against her lay their newest baby. Prolific as her name-flower, Dahlia had just produced their eighth child; ‘another little calamity’, Babu Ram Sen had said, which meant another daughter and, in Ram Sen’s thinking, another dowry to be found, but John was not thinking of dowries – ‘There won’t be any, anyway’ – he was worried about the present. He should not really have left the stables this year, so much was at stake, but it was Dahlia’s day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five, and John comforted himself with the thought that Ted was there. John had given careful orders, ‘and I shall be back soon after nine,’ he had told Ted. ‘The baby wakes us at dawn.’ ‘Never, never should the baby be allowed to sleep in its mother’s bed,’ said the books, but Dahlia never read books and all her babies slept with her, ‘which is why they don’t give any trouble,’ said Dahlia.

‘The trouble comes later on,’ said John wryly but now, careful not to disturb her, he reached across Dahlia and, with a deftness that no-one would have believed of that once fastidious and cynical young cavalry officer, covered and tucked in the sleeping baby with its shawl. The baby blew a contented bubble from its lips and, ‘Ted’s there. It must be all right,’ and John too went to sleep.

 

Ted was not asleep. He was sitting on his small verandah and, though his jersey was thin and he had no coat, he did not feel the cold, nor the mosquitoes biting. He was past feeling anything.

It had been a bad day which was odd because the bad day should have been yesterday, the anniversary of his and Ella’s wedding. Ted seldom spoke on that day and always tried to keep it properly as he had done when Ella was alive. Here in Calcutta, in the midst of all the excitement, he had taken out their wedding photograph from the small tin trunk that held all his possessions and put the silver-framed picture beside his bed, a vase of sweet peas in front of it. The Bandar-log had been much interested. ‘But why is she wearing a lace curtain on her head?’ asked one of the boys. It was an innocent question – none of them had seen an English wedding – but then the eldest girl had looked more closely and, ‘You told us Mrs Ella was pretty,’ she said accusingly. ‘She was, to me.’ ‘Well, I think she’s ugly.’ Ted had snatched the photograph away and given the little girl a slap. It was the first time he had slapped a child and it was too hard. She burst into tears, tears hurt and surprised and with one accord the bandars deserted Ted. They had not been near him since and had gone to Burdwan without saying goodbye.

To be truthful, yesterday, apart from the ritual of the photograph and flowers, Ted had not thought much about Ella until the evening. Yesterday he had eaten his solitary dinner quite cheerfully – tonight he had sent it away. Usually after dinner he played snakes and ladders, or draughts, or cards with the children, at which they were adept, but yesterday there had been no children; he had not wanted to go to bed and, after a time, a strange restlessness, uncommon after a day’s work, had driven him to walk in the garden. He had meant to think about Ella but, about eleven o’clock the old Chrysler turned in at the gates and he saw it was Mr Quillan – not only he, but Mrs Quillan, which was uncommon. He could not remember Mrs Quillan going out at night, but Bunny had given a pre-Christmas dinner and insisted that Dahlia should come. ‘Don’t be stuffy, John. I like Dahlia and I want her.’ Dahlia had been enchanted. ‘Out two nights running! My God!’ and John had let her buy a new dress and evening cloak at Mrs Woods’s shop on Park Street.

John always drove himself and when he had put the car away, he and Dahlia had walked back through the garden to the house. They had passed close by Ted who had stepped back behind a screen of bougainvillaea; beside him was another plant that drenched the air with such sweetness he felt giddy. Dahlia paused; it was seldom that she was out so late. ‘What is that perfume?’ ‘Queen of the Night,’ said John, ‘rat ki rani,’ and Dahlia had echoed, ‘Queen of the Night’.

Ted could see her clearly; her bare arms and neck – the light where the moon caught her hair – Dahlia was always especially radiant after the birth of a child. The new dress, a confection of taffeta and lace in her favourite apricot, had a silken rustle as she moved; the cloak had slipped down as she turned to John. The two of them clung close, then John put his hand under her chin and bent his head to kiss her. Ted had heard the kiss. He could not bear to watch. His eyes had been burning and he had hastily gone inside.

Next afternoon the Quillan family left for Burdwan.

‘I hate to go,’ John told Ted, ‘but I know you will take charge. Captain Mack will come and support you for the evening parade, His Highness too,’ – if Bunny remembers, thought John – ‘and you will have Ching and the Jemadar. Here are the morning orders.’ He went through the list with Ted: which riding boy was to ride what horse: Ching’s rides: how they should ride: matched with whom, and for how long: even what Ted was to do with Dark Invader, ‘and I should be glad if you will take Firefly yourself. That horse is a problem. We shall leave Burdwan about six, so I should be back by nine.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If anything is the least wrong, tell the babu to ring Captain Mack.’

‘Yes, sir, but I’m sure there won’t be.’

‘And Ted, last thing, will you do the stable night round?’

The night round had been the last straw. It meant Ted had to sit up late and the hours seemed endless. Scattergold Hall, usually overflowing with life, was silent, empty. The servants had taken the opportunity of an evening off and gone to their quarters. The gates were shut. Ted had taken John’s electric torch – even though there was moonlight he needed to look deep into each stall – and faithfully he went from one to the next, all around the square, stepping softly, careful not to disturb the sleeping grooms and horses. When he came to Dark Invader, the Invader was too lazy even to raise his head or give his customary whinny and, with Sadiq’s charpoy across the stall’s front, Ted could not reach to pat and fondle him. ‘Real old canoodler he is,’ Ted had often said. Now, ‘“Used to be” is nearer the mark,’ Ted said bitterly and, what he had not felt for a long time, jealousy came back and, added to it, hurt. Ted passed on to the next horse but the smart of the hurt went on and, when he went back to his solitary room, he sat at his table, his head in his hands.

Somewhere a drum was being beaten and voices were chanting in a nasal whine, utterly alien. There was a smell of dust and of pungent cooking, of hookah smoke and a waft of unbearable sweetness from that flower, Queen of the Night. He could hear Dahlia’s soft voice saying its name after John – Dahlia’s voice, not Ella’s – and such desolation and longing fell on Ted that he shuddered. It was then that he remembered Mr Leventine’s whisky.

Mr Leventine had come when the parade was over and the owners and their friends had gone. ‘I ’spect to them cocktail dos,’ Ted had told him.

Mr Leventine had been put out not to find John there. ‘I don’t have to tell him my every movement,’ John would have said. ‘He may have bought Dark Invader, but he hasn’t bought me.’ John would have been disarmed though, because a Father Christmas Mr Leventine had brought wonderful presents. The Minerva was loaded.

Sadiq was presented with a gold watch, Ali with one in silver. ‘A nice distinction,’ John said afterwards. There were toys for the children, large dolls and teddy bears, clockwork trains, boxes of soldiers and air-guns. ‘For Gawd’s sake, don’t give them those, sir,’ begged Ted.

‘Not?’ Mr Leventine was sad. He liked air-guns. ‘Not?’

‘No, sir.’ Ted was firm.

Large boxes of chocolates were handed out for everyone. For Dahlia there was a bouquet of orchids and a case of champagne: for John a case of whisky, ‘the very best Scotch,’ Ted said reverently. ‘What a pity the family’s out, sir. Never mind. It will be all the more surprise.’ He helped Mr Leventine, the chauffeur and the car attendant to arrange the gifts in the sitting-room, the toys and chocolate boxes piled around the cases, Dahlia’s orchids on top, set off by an enormous card printed in gold with a photograph of Dark Invader. Ted had one too and, with it, an English racing saddle. Nothing could have pleased Ted more; every jockey of prestige had his own saddle, but Ted’s was one John had bought for him in Dhurrumtollah Street. This was by a leading English maker. ‘As if you hadn’t done enough for me, sir! Too generous you are by half!’ and Mr Leventine was filled with an extraordinary glow. No-one had called him generous before – ‘How could they?’ Bunny would have said – and, ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ Mr Leventine told Ted and, to his astonishment, found that it was true.

 

The glow had faded; in fact, as he lay sleepless, Mr Leventine was remembering all the money he had needlessly spent and chided himself for it. His usual astuteness seemed to have deserted him. He was more accustomed to say, ‘Done with you,’ ‘It’s a bargain,’ or ‘Raise you five,’ than ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ and, ‘Casimir Alaric Bruce,’ Mr Leventine addressed himself – his mother used to call him by all his names when she was severely displeased – ‘You are becoming soft and silly. Be yourself.’

Still he tossed and turned and then a chill small wind seemed to come into his bedroom. ‘A warning?’ asked Mr Leventine.

Suddenly he sat up, pressed down the imaginary switch, got out of bed, lifted the net and, in his black satin pyjamas, with a twined monogram, C.A.B.L., embroidered in orange on the pocket, padded into the library and hastily put Dark Invader’s trophies back in their original order on the mantelpiece.

 

A case of whisky.

Ted remembered what Michael Traherne had said when he had seen Ted and Dark Invader on board the City of London and gone down to Ted’s cabin to say goodbye. ‘Life on board ship can be very boring, and very tempting,’ Michael had said. ‘But, Ted, if there’s the least sign of trouble,’ and Ted knew Michael meant ‘his trouble’, ‘you will be put ashore at Malta, Naples, Port Said, Colombo or wherever, and left to make your own way home. More than that, another lad – and we can’t guarantee what sort of lad – will have to take over Darkie.’

Ted had not protested, sworn off, done any of the things most of the men would have done but had stood straighter and looked at Michael with his blue eyes hard. ‘I haven’t touched a drop, sir, since the day you put me on the Invader. Nor will I,’ but he was not on board ship now, and he had lost Dark Invader. Ted forgot their new partnership, even more intimate than the companionship of horse and lad; a companionship of work. He forgot how the crowds now could not think of them apart. He only knew that his Invader had not whinnied to him, that Sadiq was between them. ‘Should have been glad he was so healthily asleep,’ he told himself, ‘and that Mr Saddick looks after him so well.’ It did not stop the jealousy, nor the ache of loneliness and suddenly Ted was angry. Mr Quillan shouldn’t have put all this on him. It was too much responsibility. He was too old for the crowds shouting ‘Darkie, Darkie,’ while Mr Quillan poured instructions into his ear. Mr Leventine was suddenly too overwhelming, expected too much. Sadiq was a usurper and everyone had gone off leaving him, Ted, in this empty house and that child had been rude about Ella – Ella who now seemed further away than ever – and all the time the drum went on and on. ‘That damned drum!’ Ted shouted it aloud but there was no-one to hear him; in fact, his own voice came back to him in an echo from the garden’s high wall – ‘Drum… drum’.

Ted got up, went into the sitting-room, opened John’s case, carefully lifting the orchids aside, and took out a bottle of whisky. ‘Just for a nip… just one. Mr Quillan wouldn’t grudge me that.’

 

Some time later, he had no idea how much later, a thought struck Ted. ‘Haven’t done the stable night round. Mus’ do that. Promished.’ He stumbled up and again took the torch but, from sitting on the cold verandah his hands were numb and he could hardly hold it. His teeth chattered and he shook with cold. ‘Better have another drink to warm me,’ but the bottle was empty. Ted cursed and almost tumbled down the steps. The moonlight was brilliant on the lawn and track, but the shadows were dark as fallen trees on pools, which Ted thought they really were and, trying to avoid them, he seemed to be going zigzag; nor could he keep the quiet stealth. Twice he dropped the torch, swore loudly, and heads began to lift on the charpoys. When he came to Dark Invader his anger overcame him and he shook Sadiq. ‘Out of my way, you heathen. Lemme see my hoss.’

At first Sadiq could not take it in. In his shirt, barefooted, his brown-yellow eyes blurred with sleep, he looked a different man without his turban and, ‘Who are you?’ bellowed Ted. ‘How did you get in here?’ and, ‘Thief!’ he shouted. ‘Thief!’ Clumsily he shook the top rail of the stall, trying to get it down and Sadiq sprang to life. His muscular arm seized Ted. ‘Sahib! Ted Sahib… Sahib! No!’

For a moment Ted sobered. Then, ‘Mind your own bloody business.’

Holding him, Sadiq tried to summon his English. ‘Sahib, this no good. No… no, Sahib. I no like. Quillan Sahib no like. No good him.’ He motioned at Dark Invader who had woken up and was watching puzzled. ‘Night round been done… bed now, Sahib. You ride tomorrow – please, Ted Sahib.’

‘Oh, go to hell!’ Ted shook off Sadiq and turned back, but not to his verandah – to the house where he took out another bottle. He could not open it and, back on his verandah, smashed the neck against a verandah post; nor could he pour the whisky out into his glass but managed to put the bottle on the table where it stood running whisky while Ted fell into his chair. The drum was beating in his head now; the flower scent was overpowering. Ted was sick, then collapsed across the table.

It was Sadiq, touching Ted as if with a pair of tongs, the end of his turban wound over his mouth and nose to keep out the stench of vomit and, to a Muslim, the abominable smell of alcohol, who put Ted to bed.

 

Three o’clock. Half past three. Four o’clock. The Sisters Ursule and Jane, Gulab, Solomon and the cart had not come in. Since midnight Mother Morag had been up; twice she had sent Dil Bahadur down the road to see – he had been as far as Chowringhee – no sign, and for the last hour she had been walking up and down, up and down. Sister Barbara and Sister Emmanuel whose turn it was to help unload, puzzled at not being called, had risen themselves and were with her; presently Sister Ignatius, who seemed to know by instinct when anything was wrong, had appeared. ‘What can have happened?’

‘Something.’ Mother Morag dared say no more.

‘An accident?’

‘The police would have come.’

‘Solomon?’ asked Sister Ignatius.

‘It can’t be Solomon,’ said Sister Barbara, ‘he’s so reliable.’

‘No-one can be reliable for ever.’

At last they heard the sound of wheels – the gates had long been open – and, with the wheels, a hubbub: murmurs, talking, shouted orders, the babel of a crowd. When, with the Sisters, she hurried to the courtyard, Mother Morag had need of all her calm. Both Sisters, Jane and Ursule, were walking, their faces pallid with sweat, their coifs fallen back, cloaks and habits bedraggled. With them was a band of coolies, those men who, in India, always seem to spring from the ground when there is something to be done, a few annas to be earned, as did small boys – there were a dozen or more small boys – all of them were helping to hold up the shafts of the cart, and the shafts were holding up Solomon, whom Gulab held by the bridle, trying to support his head. Carefully the men eased the cart into the courtyard, unbuckled the harness and lowered the shafts.

‘Mother, he fell just past Dhurrumtollah,’ Sister Jane tried to keep her voice even, but it came in distressed gasps. ‘We thought he had just slipped – the police helped to get him up and Gulab walked beside him. Then again, outside Firpo’s, when we came out with the canisters – it seemed he couldn’t move. We thought we shouldn’t try to collect any more.’ Sister Jane’s voice was stilled by a sob and Sister Ursule went on. ‘We were nearly at the end in any case – but, Mon Dieu! to get him home!’

‘It was so cruel, but we thought it best to get help.’ Sister Jane was really crying now. ‘Oh Mother!’

Solomon was standing curiously rigid, his tail at an extraordinary high angle: his lips were drawn back showing the yellowed teeth and flecks of froth came between them. ‘Aie! Aie!’ the pitying voices sounded as the men pressed round. Dil Bahadur had to take his cane to hold them back. When she made her way through, Mother Morag saw with horror that the old horse was twitching with curious spasms, sweat broke out on his shoulders and neck and as she went swiftly to him she saw he could not bend it as Gulab tried to unbuckle the bridle. To the Sisters’ astonishment she went round in front of the old horse and gave him a sharp tap on the forehead. ‘Mother! To punish him now!’ but Mother Morag had seen what she had guessed she must see, an immediate flash across the eyeball. She tapped again, it came again and, ‘Unmistakable,’ said Mother Morag. ‘Sister Barbara, ring Captain Mack and tell him to come at once.’

 

‘Yes. Tetanus,’ said Captain Mack. ‘Poor old boy. I had thought it would be old age.’

The sight of tetanus is not pretty and sharply Mother Morag sent the, by now, thoroughly roused Community inside.

‘Sister Jane, Sister Ursule must both have a wash and some good strong tea. Sister Emmanuel, will you see to that? Plenty of sugar. For Gulab too.’

‘And I think you should go in yourself, Reverend Mother,’ said Captain Mack.

‘I’ll stay.’ Mother Morag had one hand on Solomon’s neck.

‘Stand away from him.’

There was a short sharp noise in the courtyard, a ring of iron on stone and the sound of something soft and heavy falling. Gulab burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs. Dil Bahadur led him away through the now silent coolies and boys. ‘Sister will bring him some tea,’ Mother Morag told Dil Bahadur.

It was she who helped Captain Mack cover the still heap with a tarpaulin the Captain fetched from his car. ‘I’ll arrange the rest,’ he told her.

‘Thank you.’ She knew, with him, she had no need to say more than that and, as his car drove away, she called the Sisters. ‘I think it would be good if we all helped to unload the cart.’

‘Unload! After this?’ The Sisters were shocked.

‘Of course. We’re not going to let Solomon’s last effort go to waste, but Sister Ursule and Sister Jane must go to bed.’

‘Please no, Mother. We couldn’t sleep just yet.’

The coolies who had lingered for the drama came to help with the unloading and, with so many people, the work was quickly done and it was then that Sister Mary Fanny said timidly, ‘Would it be very silly, Mother, if we went into the chapel and said a prayer?’

‘For Solomon?’ Mother Morag smiled down at her Sister. ‘I don’t think it would be at all silly. Come – and, child, fetch Gulab and Dil Bahadur.’

‘A Hindu in our chapel! And I don’t know what denomination Dil Bahadur is… ’ Sister Ignatius was of the old narrow school. ‘Thank God for bigotry,’ she often said. ‘It keeps our faith pure,’ but, ‘I think it would help Gulab,’ said Mother Morag and, indeed, Sister Mary Fanny found the old man sobbing, face downward in the straw of Solomon’s bedding. Dil Bahadur could not come because the crowd had not dispersed but, ‘They say they pray too,’ said Dil Bahadur.

‘Hindu prayers!’ sniffed Sister Ignatius.

‘Prayers,’ Mother Morag corrected her. ‘Sister, those men who are so poor would not take an anna for what they did for us and Solomon tonight – and don’t you think we shall need all the prayers we can get?’

It was while they were in the chapel that they heard the iron wheels of a heavy cart backing into the courtyard, then the grinding of a winch and the sound of wheels departing. There was a fresh burst of weeping from some of the Sisters, from Gulab too. Mother Morag gave the ‘knock’. ‘Bed everyone,’ she said, ‘and this morning, meditation will be after Mass, so you will have half an hour’s extra sleep.’

 

As there was now no more to be seen in the courtyard, the crowd dispersed. Dil Bahadur took Gulab into his gatehouse and shut the door. The Sisters had left the chapel but Mother Morag stayed on.

In all her sadness, shock and pain, as Superior she had to ask herself the question, ‘How, how are we going to replace Solomon?’ The Convent’s small money savings had disappeared in the high price of rice. There was nothing to spare. ‘I shall have to apply to the General Fund,’ murmured Mother Morag, something the Sisters of Poverty tried their utmost not to do. ‘It has so many calls on it.’ Each house tried to live by donations and by its own ‘collecting’, but how could they collect without a Solomon? They could hire a tikka gharry, but that would be expensive and the poor half-starved waifs of animals who drew them could never stand up to the night round. ‘We need a strong well-trained horse with good blood in him, but the cost of that would be perhaps several hundred rupees.’ Mother Morag shut her eyes.

She felt a rustle beside her. It was Sister Ursule. ‘Mother, please allow me. I could not sleep.’ Then Sister Ignatius came; Sister Mary Fanny stole in; Sister Timothea, though it was her night off; Sister Emmanuel, Barbara, Jane, Claudine – the whole Community – and, as if moved by a single thought, they began a novena, the prayer of the Church for a special – and, perhaps, desperate – intention and, ‘God doesn’t think like men and when one belongs to Him, one must not worry.’ Mother Morag was ashamed of herself.

The Sisters were not the only ones who prayed. When, at dawn, Mother Morag came out into the courtyard, she saw that the dark stain where Solomon had lain was touched with whitewash and there were marigolds strewn over it. It had become a holy place. As she watched, a woman in the poorest of saris came, bringing more flowers and an offering of a small saucer of rice.

‘Mother, that surely can’t be right – in a Convent?’

‘I don’t know if it’s right, but I do know it is love and respect,’ and Mother Morag told Dil Bahadur to keep the gates open.

 

The bandar-log were the first to visit Ted – they had decided to forgive him. When the old Chrysler arrived at Scattergold Hall, they were tumbled out pell-mell and John drove straight away. The stables were empty of horses so, thinking Ted was with them down on the racecourse, the children went in to breakfast but, like true bandars, they were always the first to pick up an alarm – in this case the underground gossip of the stable and kitchens – and soon they were at the annex. On the verandah table was the early morning tray of tea, toast and bananas, put down by an appalled Ahmed; beside it was the broken-necked bottle of whisky, still three-quarters full, another empty bottle rolled on the ground. They went in to look at Ted, stealing silently up to his bed, half-fascinated, half-repelled. He was lying on his back and snoring; his clothes were on the floor where Sadiq had thrown them. With their small prehensile fingers, the children tried to open Ted’s eyes, but he only rolled his head and grunted and a small boy began to cry with fear. Back on the verandah, they wiped their fingers in the whisky spilt on the table, tasted, spat it out and, for once defeated, fled in a troop to tell Dahlia.

‘Ted! My God, what have you been doing?’ Dahlia took him by the shoulders and shook him, trying to make him sit up, but he sank back as if he were made of rag. ‘Ted! John will be veree angry. Wake up, Ted. Please to wake.’ There was no response.

She gathered up the clothes. ‘Take these to the dhobi, the washerman, at once.’ Ahmed took them at arm’s length. Hastily Dahlia searched drawers and put out clean ones. ‘My God, what will John say?’ but John did not come back with the horses, nor did the Jemadar or Sadiq, only Ching and, when Dahlia ran out to him, Ching, unlike his usual courteous self, turned his face away and did not answer. A strange quiet, too, lay over the stables, the men silently going about the morning’s rubbing down, the feeds and grooming.

John did not come in for breakfast and Dahlia grew more worried. This could be nothing to do with Ted and even when she heard the car, John did not come into the house. He went straight to the annex. She heard his hard, angry steps.

Ted was awake now, sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to get the walls of his room in focus, but his eyes were fogged. In his head the drum was beating louder than ever, it hurt and his mouth felt foul and dry; he knew that he stank ‘in and out’. Then he, too, heard John’s steps and gave a small animal whimper.

‘So!’

John was in the doorway, his face dark with rage, his voice grim. ‘So!’ The word cut through the air and Ted was suddenly aware how he must look in one of the old-fashioned nightshirts Ella had made him long ago, his lean sinewy legs white and unsightly, his eyes bleared and his hair on end. He was aware, too, of sunlight, so bright outside the door that it made him blink. Then, suddenly, and brutally, more aware, he asked, ‘Sir, wha’s the time?’

‘Well after ten o’clock.’

‘Ten!’ Ted shot upright. ‘Then, sir – I’m too late… ’

‘Too late!’ and John laughed, not a pleasant laugh. ‘You may like to know that in your absence – or because of your absence’ – the words cut again – ‘down on the course Ching changed jockeys with a character you have met already, Streaky Bacon.’

‘Streaky! Streaky – here in Calcutta?’ Ted was dazed.

‘In Calcutta. English jockeys do come out – unfortunately.’ John’s voice was biting. ‘The horse threw him and bolted, God knows where. Dark Invader has disappeared. Congratulations.’

John went out. If there had been a door he would have slammed it.

 

‘Nobody knows,’ Mother Morag said often, ‘who will be asked to do what next!’ which tangled sentence was true; but she should have added, ‘Of course, they must have resource and courage.’

At half past seven that morning, a Mr James Dunn paid his bill at the boarding-house in Lower Circular Road where he always stayed on his unwilling visits to Calcutta, a city he detested. It was the same boarding house that had welcomed Ted. James Dunn was a plump middle-aged Scotsman of small importance, being the engineer in charge of the jute presses in the jute mills of McKenzie, McNaught and McKenzie at Narayangunj, that town of jute mills, two hundred miles from Calcutta. James Dunn could have gone back there by an overnight train and short steamer journey but, in India, one river leads to another and Narayangunj was on the Luckia, a tributary of the Bhramaputra which flows into the Bay of Bengal, as does the Hooghly, so that James could travel home by river, a slow meandering that he loved. It took eight days and now he was on his way to the river, where a paddle-steamer waited at Chand Pal Ghat on the Strand. To have had a taxi come to the boarding house would have cost unnecessary money and he set out to catch one at the bottom of the road where it met the racecourse.

Though James Dunn was an undistinguished person, behind him came his bearer, Sohan Lall, carrying his topee – it was too early to wear one – and his coat, and behind Sohan Lall two of the boarding-house coolies carried James’s suitcase and canvas hold-all and a small sausage-like bedding roll, Sohan Lall’s luggage. James himself carried Calcutta’s two daily newspapers, the Statesman and the Englishman.

For Calcutta, it was a fresh sweet morning; sunlight had begun to filter through the mist that still lay on the racecourse and the Maidan. He liked mist; it reminded him faintly of his native Arbroath and Dundee, though there it was a proper smur, damp and cold. True, the crows were making their usual raucous hawking, a man was hosing unmentionable débris into the gutter, but a dove was calling from a casuarina tree and, over garden walls, James could smell the scent of English flowers. He had breakfasted well, he would soon be safe on the steamer where he could spend Christmas – now only four days off – away from the pseudo-gaiety of an Indian city or town, and James began to whistle ‘Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonny Doon’.

There were no taxis at the bottom of the road but, ‘There’ll be plenty in Chowringhee,’ and the little retinue crossed the road to the turf that edged the racecourse and turned right. It was then that they heard the sound of galloping hooves – hooves not on the racecourse, but on the harder ground on which they stood. The sound came steadily nearer; then, out of the mist, mane and tail flying, they saw a great dark horse.

Even to James Dunn’s ignorant eye it was palpably a racehorse, a runaway that had thrown its rider – stirrups and reins were flapping – and it must have jumped the rails. ‘God Almighty! It’s heading towards Chowringhee! The traffic! Trams!’ James Dunn cried it aloud.

Already the rhythmic ta-ta-tump on the hard baked earth was loud, getting louder. The horse was bearing down on them where they stood near an intersecting road. The coolies dropped the luggage and fled. ‘Aie!’ cried Sohan Lall and jumped out of reach and, ‘Ay,’ said James, the same sound but a different meaning, and he stepped forward, arms extended.

A thoroughbred horse travelling true and determined, ears pricked, at some fifteen miles an hour, is an awkward thing to tackle, even for an expert, and ninety-nine men out of a hundred would, like Sohan Lall, have jumped for safety, but James stood his ground, a folded newspaper in each hand held at arm’s length and, ‘Whoa!’ he bellowed. ‘Whoa!’

There was the sound of hooves slipping on the tarmac. For a moment James thought the horse would come down, but it dropped its head, planted its feet and slid to a stop. He had a view at close quarters of large furry ears edged with little beads of moisture from the mist, wide nostrils, delicately made, and lustrous eyes. ‘Stand!’ commanded James but, before he could stretch out a hand to catch at the reins, the horse swerved and went past him to the stretch of turf, stopped, looked with its ears pricked forward, then, instead of dashing on to the perils of Chowringhee, turned and walked back. ‘Yes, walked,’ James Dunn told Sohan Lall; then, as if by intent, crossed the road; for once there were no cars, only a tikka gharry and a rickshaw which it avoided, and began to trot, not fast but purposefully, not far, only a few hundred yards up Lower Circular Road, when it stopped suddenly, turned neatly on its hocks with a grind of steel on stone and cantered in through an open gateway; James, running after it as fast as his plumpness allowed, heard the clatter of its hooves on cobbles.

‘Somebody must have guided it,’ Sister Mary Fanny said. ‘Must have been an angel,’ but James Dunn, as he caught up, saw no-one and never knew he, in a way, was the angel. When he reached the gateway there was nothing but the warm sweet smell of horse sweat – ‘Strange that theirs smells so nice, human’s so dreadful,’ he said to himself. Only the smell and a white scratch on the pavement. There was a gatehouse but no gateman; peering in James could see an old-fashioned cobbled courtyard and an outbuilding in which was a stall and a conical pile of straw; a stable certainly but, even to him, not the sort to house a racehorse. He had thought racehorses lived in state in trainers’ stables; this was a simple single stall, but the horse had seemed to know exactly where it was going; indeed he could hear the sound of munching – food must have been made ready.

There was a bellpull beside the gateway – James Dunn did not notice the little statue set in the niche below, nor the cross above it; he was debating whether to pull the bell or not. He looked at his watch; there was the steamer to catch and if he pulled the bell he must wait until somebody came and there must be explanations. The horse was safe – he could still hear the munching – and so, still breathing a little hard, a little warm about the collar, he walked back to join Sohan Lall and his luggage by the road.

‘Shabash!’ said Sohan Lall, which means Bravo! ‘But Sahib,’ he added in Hindustani, ‘You might have been killed.’

‘Rot!’ but, as James Dunn hailed his taxi, he was not whistling ‘Ye Banks and Braes’ but ‘Cock o’ the North’.

 

Father Joseph, in his purple vestments, had just turned from the altar to give the Sisters his blessing and said the final words, ‘Ite missa est’ – the Mass is ended – and the Sisters had risen in their ranks to give the answer; those old people who had wanted to come had risen too, others in wheelchairs or even beds that had been wheeled to the tribune or balcony above, bowed their heads. ‘Deo Gratias’ – God be thanked – and, ‘It was as we said those words,’ said Sister Mary Fanny, ‘that we heard it – a loud slither at the gates.’

Father Joseph had said a special prayer not, to her disappointment, for the repose of Solomon – ‘I’m sure he had a soul’ – but that the Sisters would be helped in the predicament his death had left. Now, with his small acolyte, a dusky protégé of the nuns, walking in front of him, Father Joseph had started to leave when he stopped, the boy too, while a controlled ripple seemed to run along the rows of nuns as through the chapel windows came the unmistakable sound of horse’s hooves on stone. The sound stopped; the priest left and the disciplined Sisters knelt for the Thanksgiving, Mother Morag with them, but she quickly gave the knock, rose and led them out, each Sister trying still to be reverent and not to jostle. They poured into the courtyard and now there was a real ripple – a gasp.

In Solomon’s stall was a horse; as it heard them it turned round as if to greet them and they saw its size and splendour. The most beautiful horse they had ever seen.

It was only for a moment – Solomon’s feed was not yet quite demolished and then the only sound in the courtyard was a steady munching as the Sisters stood silent in the early sunlight; though some had tears running down their cheeks, their faces were illumined. At last Sister Mary Fanny whispered, ‘It’s a miracle. It is a miracle, Mother, isn’t it?’

‘Not yet.’ The question had jolted Mother Morag into action, and her voice rang clear and firm. ‘Wake Dil Bahadur. Tell him to close the gates and keep them closed,’ said Mother Morag.

 

In John Quillan’s small office at the stables, Ching faced him and Mr Leventine across the table. John had not asked him to sit down. Babu Ram Sen was at his desk in the corner and, ‘Sen,’ ordered John, ‘take down everything Mr Ah Lee says. I want a typed report.’ Mr Ah Lee! not Ching! Ching had seen John Quillan angry but never like this; he was dark with fury and as hard as if he were made of ice or stone. As for Mr Leventine, he looked like a bewildered baby. ‘But it can’t be,’ he kept saying. ‘A horse can’t vanish.’ The word was piteous. ‘You’re sure you have asked everyone? In the stables… ’

Silence still hung over the stables as if the men were stunned; only the Jemadar walked up and down giving his brief orders; only the horses were normal, each in its stall, except Dark Invader.

‘You have asked everyone?’

‘Yes.’ John was terse.

‘The police?’

‘Yes,’ even terser.

‘I shall see the Inspector myself.’

‘Do.’ John’s patience was getting short.

The baby face grew shrewd. ‘This must be a plot. Someone has something against me.’

‘Before we jump to conclusions, suppose you listen to what Ching says.’ Ah Lee was Ching again, to his relief. ‘Tell Mr Leventine exactly what happened – from the beginning,’ said John.

Ching stood stiffly, trying not to betray his dismay – and his shame: it is part of Chinese manners to appear cheerful in disaster – and, ‘I extremely sorry, sir,’ he told Mr Leventine, ‘I make so unhappy mistake… ’ he tried to laugh – a sound like ‘Hee hee hee’ – ‘but I think not all my fault.’

‘Of course it was your fault.’ John’s temper snapped and Ching’s small black Chinese eyes looked this way and that, trying to escape and, ‘Look at us, man,’ thundered John.

Ching looked and there was such distress behind the façade that John had to be gentle. ‘Try and tell us. Begin at the beginning.’

‘When Ted – Mr Ted – Mr Mullins – didn’t… ’

‘Didn’t appear – and obviously couldn’t.’ John helped because Ching’s voice had faded away from embarrassment. ‘Yes?’

‘Jemadar Sahib and I, we not know what to do except horses must go out.’ John nodded in approval. ‘Then Sadiq tell us your list of orders, sir, orders for morning, was on table by bed – Ted’s – Mr Mullins’s bed. Sadiq, he no want to fetch them, so… ’

‘Who fetched them?’

‘I, Ching,’ and Ching shut his eyes as if to shut out the memory of Ted’s room. ‘Jemadar Sahib not read English, so I read… hoping that was right, sir?’ It was a question and, ‘That was right,’ said John. ‘And we decide I take Mr Ted’s place, first riding boy take mine, etcetera, etcetera… ’ Ching was proud of that word. ‘Jemadar do timing. Was that right, sir?’

‘That was right,’ said John again.

‘I take Dark Invader. Not easy crossing road – so many peoples, but I take Ali with Sadiq, one each side. Then I do what you said: one, two circuits, like Mr Ted. Then… ’ and Ching gulped.

‘Then?’

‘When we came back there was English jockeys, five, six, standing watching. When Darkie come in they all look at him. Me, I feel proud it is I, Ching, am riding him, and one of them say, “Look. That the horse we got to beat for Viceroy Cup on Boxing Day. Never headed this season,” he say. I very proud,’ said Ching. ‘I go back to Jemadar and tell him.

‘Then two jockeys, they come over and I knew one, sir. Him the famous Tom Bacon. I seen his photo… now he going round pretending he no had a ride. “Want any work ridden?” he say. “No?” He laugh. “Very well, I push on,” he say, and, I,’ Ching swallowed, ‘I not understand he pretending… and he come up to me… I… pleased. English jockeys not speak much to us. He ask, “You in charge here?”

‘I say, “This morning, yes.” Then I ask, “Is Mr Bacon?” and say, “I seen your photo.”

‘The other jockey, he laugh. He say, “That’s fame for you, Streaky!” Then Mr Bacon look at Darkie and he say, “Fine horse,” and other man – I think he not like Mr Bacon very much – he say, “Come off it, Streaky. It’s Dark Invader. You’ve ridden him.”

‘Mr Bacon he say, “Yes, I remember. Come to think of it I ride him his first race. Lingfield it was. We won as expected.”

‘“You rode him again.”

‘“Did I?” And Mr Bacon say, “I don’t remember.”

‘“You do! Doncaster,”’ and, ‘Is that right name?’ asked Ching. John nodded. ‘Other jockey, he go on, “Sort of rode him, you mean. By all account he dumped you and ran home,” and Mr Bacon, “Really? I forgotten,” and, “You know, Willie,” – Willie other man’s name – “You must allow for a jerk or two,” – I think he mean a fall,’ said Ching – ‘“in two year old race” and Mr Willie, he say, “Didn’t look like a youngster’s job. I behind you all the way. It look as if that horse he hate your guts.”

‘Then Mr Bacon he get angry.’ Ching’s voice grew dramatic. ‘He say, “I no having that sort of talk. Never been a horse that didn’t take to me.” Then… ’

‘Then?’ asked John.

‘He laugh up at me, so nice like and say, “Want any work ridden?” like to the others, and I told you I no understand he pretending, so I say… ’ Ching choked.

‘Say?’ John prompted him.

‘I say “Would be an honour, sir.” He say, “Very well, I just take him round for you,” so I dismount, sir. He say, “Why you ride so long? That old-fashioned.”’ Ching gave a reproachful look at John. ‘What can I say but “Is orders.” He laugh, say, “Like ruddy mounted policeman,” and he shorten leathers, five holes. Then he take reins and I… I put him up. Mr Willie say, “Streaky, look out,” but Mr Bacon no listening. He tell me, “Thank you, chum.” “Chum”, like we was friend, so… ’

‘You let him go,’ said John.

‘Yes. Hee hee… ’ Ching gave another nervous laugh.

‘Go on,’ John was remorseless.

‘I think Darkie – he taken by surprise. Because Sadiq and me, we holding him, he trust.’ Ching swallowed again.

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Willie shout again, “Look out!” because, soon as the Streaky was in saddle, Darkie, he put back his ears; his eyes was like I never seen them. Streaky gather up the reins and Darkie – he go puggle – mad… ’ Ching shuddered. ‘Other English jockeys they was watching, laughing like it was a joke but Darkie almost standing on his head, then rearing… They laugh and shout, “Where your magic, Streaky? That horse don’t take to you!” and Mr Bacon no like and as Darkie come up again, he so angry he give Darkie hard cut with his whip, wicked cut,’ said Ching. ‘Cross quarters and down below. Wicked cut – and Darkie make a neigh, high, like I never heard… he threw the Streaky backwards. Then just bolt. Quick I take Flashlight from the syce and go after – Jemadar send riding boy other way. I see nothing – only traffic roaring down Chowringhee… side road empty… I look, I ask… at last come back. Streaky Bacon, I think he stunned. They take him back to stands. I think he not forgive.’

‘Nor will we,’ said John.