I have reached the conclusion that I do not like landings. I am not enamoured of take-offs either, nor of mid-flight turbulence, but landings I find especially troublesome.
Our descent into Bombay was the worst of our several landings that day, with the plane tilting most ferociously and hitting the ground like a walrus landing on the deck of a boat. Sam blamed this on crosswinds blowing in off the Arabian Sea, but he is not a pilot and I could not see how he arrived at this conclusion so comprehensively. I voiced no doubts though, because I have found that it is generally easier to nod and accept the captain’s comments as gospel truth than to express any scepticism or reservations on the matter.
And I was hardly in a position to quibble. Sam had kept me out of jail, at least for the present, and, I felt, afforded us a fighting chance of finding Gulmohamed and getting to the truth.
The plane came to a halt close to a row of wooden huts. The engines soon fell silent and it took my ears several minutes to adjust to their absence.
The military officer from Cuttack bade his adieus to Sam. Some Englishmen, especially military types, can be peculiar about consorting with Indians, so not wishing to cause any embarrassment, I got up and looked out of the porthole.
A fuel lorry and a staff car were approaching, the latter I assumed for the major. Otherwise, and to my great relief, there appeared to be little interest in our plane, and I stressed as much to Sam
‘What were you expecting?’ he asked. ‘A brass band? Still,’ he ruminated, ‘a car and a driver might have been nice. Who knows how far we are from the centre of town. Which reminds me. How much cash do you have on you?’
The question came as a shock.
‘I have nothing,’ I said.
Sam puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s unfortunate. I’ve only got about thirty rupees in my wallet.’
‘At least you still have a wallet,’ I said. ‘Mine is likely lining the pocket of some constable from Budge Budge.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘How long are we going to survive in Bombay with thirty rupees between us?’
‘You didn’t bring your chequebook?’
He looked at me as though the question were ridiculous.
‘You may recall, Suren, that when I left the flat last night to come and provide you with more to wear than Miss Grant’s dressing gown, I didn’t think to myself “I’m going to be in Bombay in a few hours. I better take my chequebook”.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We can worry about that later. For now, let’s just get to town.’
Bombay is a curious city. Unlike Delhi or London, or even Calcutta, where the centre of town is located, as one would expect, in the centre, with suburbs radiating out in all directions, Bombay is built on a series of islands, an inverted triangle, with the ‘centre’ of the metropolis placed firmly at the southern tip. The airfield, it transpired, was situated in a locale known as Juhu, about fifteen miles to the north. We both agreed that requesting a lift from the military would be a foolhardy course of action. Sooner or later, the Imperial Police or Dawson’s colleagues in Section H would deduce that Sam and I were no longer in Calcutta, and join the dots of our escape. At that point, a lift in a military vehicle to the doors of our respective hotels would prove a significant liability. Therefore we had to either find a taxi or walk.
In the end we haggled a taxi-wallah down to an acceptable fare and got in. Out of sheer exhaustion we had not given much thought to devising a strategy to track down Gulmohamed. Indeed it was only as the car lurched forward that we considered the matter.
‘Gulmohamed’s train won’t arrive till the small hours,’ said Sam. ‘That gives us time to come up with something. I suggest you go to your boarding house and get some rest. It’s probably best if you lie low. We can meet five hours from now, tonight at 8 p.m.’
‘Where?’ I asked. ‘It could raise suspicions if I came to your hotel. And even more so, the other way round.’
‘We could meet at the station,’ he said ‘but there might be a lot of police or military activity there, and who knows how long we’ll have before our friends back home realise you’ve flown the coop.’
‘Another place then,’ I said.
Sam smiled. ‘Why not at that arch they’re building? The one that’s always in the papers and getting retired colonels all hot and bothered about the colossal waste of money. What are they calling it? The India Arch or something.’
‘The Gateway of India.’
‘That’s it. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘We can meet there.’
The taxi-wallah halted outside a black door in a crumbling wall. Above it, a pristine sign read Guest House Far Bengal.
I turned to Sam. It was hard to believe that only fifteen hours ago I had been dressed as a coolie and crossing the Hooghly in the dead of night. Now I was a thousand miles away in central Bombay. If it hadn’t been for him, I might be rotting in a prison cell, awaiting trial for Mukherjee’s murder. I was by no means out of the woods, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t grateful.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ I said.
He looked genuinely confused. ‘For what?’
‘For… everything.’
He is not one for great displays of emotion, or for that matter, any emotion; a fact his expression made clear.
‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and get some rest.’