Wind in the East Read online

  It would not be so very long before they were off once more.

  The track led uphill to a flat area. He had not seen them in the night but the whole field was fenced in metal netting a dozen feet high and there were six towers placed at intervals around the perimeter. He could see three men in the lookout post at the top of the nearest, placed just along from the gate.

  The vessel on which they had arrived was gone, crushed rocks showed where it had lain. But another metal monster lay at the far side of the field. Where the first had been nothing more than a utilitarian riveted steel block, more appropriate for transporting non-living cargo, this new vessel had smooth lines like a bird. There were short stubby wings along its length and tube-like projections at what appeared to be the rear.

  It did not have the width or breadth of the first ship, but its length must have been similar.

  The front of the line of passengers had already reached the door in its side. Not the huge opening that had marked the first ship but something more appropriate to man, though still large enough for five to enter walking abreast.

  The line came to a stop and then moved in fits and starts as people were allowed inside the ship one or two at a time. Marten could not guess the passage of time and the sun was not visible through the constant grey cloud that hung over this place.

  Riette snuggled against him clinging tighter. She must be cold. He wished he had taken a blanket from the dormitory for her.

  * * *

  For Riette the afternoon passed in a haze of cold. She clung to Marten for the little warmth he could provide. Her hands and feet were numb. She prayed that Australia would be warm. She did not mind where they went, as long as she could feel her limbs again.

  She wished they had not been at the end of the line. She wondered if perhaps Marten was embarrassed by her. Did he not care for her after all? Then his arm shifted and pulled her even tighter to him so she could feel his heart beating in his breast and the flexing of his muscles beneath his skin.

  She knew in her heart he loved her, but there had been so many betrayals.

  They queued for so long that the daylight had begun to fade but finally there was just one more group in front of them: a family of five dragging their bags across the muddy ground. The smooth body of the metal bird glistened. It was not raining but the air was filled with wind-driven moisture that covered everything.

  Light spilled from the open doorway and the yellow light promised warmth. Not much longer now. At the door, holding a board and pen, was a thin man with skin so pale he has like a ghost. He checked off names and had one person from each group make their mark. Any baggage they could not carry was taken away. Though the process took a very long time, it was strangely comforting: the difference between a gang and the crushers.

  The people ahead of them were let through. Riette had the sudden feeling the door would be slammed in their face, that they were too late. The pressure from Marten’s arm carried her forward and they stood in the entrance.

  The man looked down his list. “Names?”

  Marten cleared his throat. “Marten and Riette Ouderkirk.”

  The man flipped through the papers clipped to his board. Marten had promised he would teach her to read and write. The man found the place. He passed the pencil to Marten and turned the board pointing at a space on it.

  “Make your mark here.”

  “I can sign my name.”

  “As you please,” he said. He sounded like a man who never smiled but Riette was sympathetic; he had been here in the cold with everyone else.

  The man glanced at Riette then looked away. Then looked back. Marten was writing his name as the man snatched the board away and yanked the pencil from Marten’s fingers.

  “She can’t go.” He waved a hand and pointed at Riette. “She’s a black. She’ll have to go on the other ship when it gets in.”

  Riette felt her mind go as numb as her body. There was no thought in her at all. She watched with the same unreality as when her mother had let the men touch her, maul her, penetrate her.

  Marten’s face twisted into anger and fear. He pushed the small man who fell back hard against the metal bird. The man flailed for balance then collapsed. Marten grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door, towards the light. A big man forced his way between them. Marten’s grip tore at her flesh. An arm wrapped round her neck, crushing her windpipe, and yanked her back.

  Marten would not let go. His fingers gouged into her flesh, the nails drawing blood. He shouted her name again and again. She saw his mouth opening and closing but the sounds barely registered. Then, all of a sudden, he released her. She saw him go down, the butt of a rifle stained with his blood jerking back up.

  Arms pulled her away from the doorway, away from the light, through the darkening evening. She watched Marten’s body being pulled into the vessel, the light shut off by the closing door. The heavens broke open releasing a deluge of rain. But she felt nothing.

  Then she was in a room, long and low. There were many men, drinking, laughing and cursing. Touching her, feeling her. Her kanga, her only honest possession, the only remnant of Marten, was ripped away.

  I am not my mother.

  Chapter 2

  Pondicherry, South-East India, 1909

  i

  Maliha pulled the scarf back over her head in a reflexive movement, not even noticing she did it. The habits of wearing a sari had returned to her as if she had not spent nearly eight years dressed in Western clothes, and the last couple of those constricted by a corset. It was not a feeling she thought she would ever miss, but while wearing a sari came back to her easily, the amount of skin she was revealing was not something she adjusted to so easily.

  She sighed. The sun was high and strong, and all work on the building site had stopped. It would not restart until the heat of midday had passed. She chafed at the delays in the reconstruction of her parents’ house—her house. And of the ashram she was having built as a part of it. She had not revealed the truth about the ashram to anyone. There would be trouble when she did.

  Pondicherry was so backward. The French had not made any attempt to bring the local population up to at least a grasp of civilised behaviour. They were happy just to own this tiny part of coastal India and rub it in the nose of the British. If the British had wanted it they could have just taken it at any time in the last one hundred years. They had burned it to the ground once.

  But that was a long way off. It was more of the British-ness that had rubbed off on her in her years at school that made her so impatient at the slow progress of the work. The workers lounged in the shade of the trees, drinking the lemonade and chai that she paid for. She was not unaware of the sly looks in her direction, though she was careful not to make it obvious that she was looking at them.

  The house was just a skeleton of timbers reaching up two floors, built on the burnt ruins of the one before. When she had returned home the previous spring the land had not been cleared. Only the remains of her parents’ bodies and the staff that had died with them had been taken away. She had left again as soon as the legalities had been dealt with, returned to Barbara Makepeace-Flynn at the Fortress in Ceylon.

  Then things had occurred, events that had been difficult to deal with. It seemed that the more she pushed thoughts of Valentine away, the more he became stuck in her mind. He is so irritating, she thought, even when he’s not here. But she would never see him again, and that was unquestionably for the best.

  When she had returned home, her mother’s parents gave little more than a frosty welcome to their granddaughter. They had objected when her mother married a Scottish engineer even though there had been no demand for dowry. But the one thing Barbara had taught her was the importance of family, even if they were barely tolerable.

  So she had paid for the ground to be cleared, to be cleansed and blessed, then found a French architect who was sufficiently civilised to work with a “native woman”. Her French had come back to her swiftly, and he soon
learned she, young as she might be, was not to be underestimated. But she remembered the way that Barbara dealt with tradesmen and tried to be like her. She did not find manipulation to be a pleasing activity, blunt honesty was more her style than subterfuge, but there was less heartache than simply riding roughshod over people’s wills.

  Amita touched her arm and Maliha shook herself from her reverie. She had promised the site foreman that he and his men would be rewarded for swift completion and perhaps that was working.

  She turned away from the partially built home and climbed into her steam carriage. It was a new French model she had bought from a trading company in the heart of the city. Designed to be driven by its owner rather than a servant, the driving position was integral with the passenger interior. This model was also open to the elements but had a cloth cover that could be deployed in the event of rain.

  To make the vehicle even easier to pilot, it burned very fine coal-dust which flowed like a liquid to the furnace. The wheels were driven by electric motors powered from batteries, themselves recharged by the generators driven by the steam boiler. This arrangement ensured the vehicle was always ready and did not require time to build up pressure.

  She picked up the helmet, woven from flax since it would be inappropriate to wear one of leather, pulled it on her head and then pulled on the goggles. Maliha took her seat and tucked her sari under her so it would not catch on the controls. Amita sat behind beneath the integral parasol.

  Maliha engaged the electric drive and the vehicle moved off smoothly, with a slight lightening in weight as it also possessed a low power Faraday device. She steered down the baked and rutted mud of the road. As she turned out on to the main street, paved in stone and thus much smoother, she recalled flying in Valentine’s air-plane. Something that was so much more pleasant than talking to him.

  There he was again. If only he would stay out of her mind. She really needed something to occupy her. Perhaps a murder to be solved. She shook her head. No, that was another thing that she must put aside along with Valentine. It was not an appropriate thing for a Brahmin girl of good family and at a marriageable age to be involved with.

  The road swept up over a bridge that stretched across one of the many rivers and inlets that composed Pondicherry. Along the banks were the huts and houses of those who made their living on or from the water. There were those who fished just in the rivers, tidal though they were, and those further toward the coast with boats that harvested the seas for food.

  When she had been at Roedean she had been able to see the English Channel, and the reminder of the true ocean had made her heart ache for home each and every day.

  She crossed the island and took the next bridge. There were no other mechanical vehicles on the road, in fact few people were out at all, which made the journey even more enjoyable.

  However all enjoyment had to end and soon she was moving through the more opulent surroundings of the Indian upper classes. She shut down the flow of coal to the furnace, and noted the water was in need of replenishment. It pleased her to operate the machine as efficiently as she could. The furnace would stop supplying steam to drive the generator, but the batteries had sufficient power to bring them into the long sweeping drive of her grandparents’ home.

  She brought the vehicle to a stop at the side of the house. The other advantage of disengaging the furnace and boiler early was that the electric motors on their own were far less likely to upset the horses. The main part of the house was built of white stone on two tall floors with wide windows that stood open. A shaded verandah went all the way around the building.

  She took off her helmet and allowed Amita to help her down from the vehicle. There were a few moments of fussing while Amita sorted out Maliha’s hair. The maid was tall and did not make an attractive girl but she was very adept at sewing, make-up and hair. She also had the advantage that she made a very effective bodyguard.

  When Amita finally decided that Maliha was ready they headed back to the front of the house and went up the steps. The door was opened to them as they approached by one of her grandparents’ many staff.

  Maliha, with Amita in tow, was shown through to one of the airy reception rooms at the rear of the house. A punkhawallah stood to one side pulling rhythmically on the rope that moved the waving fan in the ceiling. Maliha disliked such ostentation; a mechanical punkha machine would be more efficient and cheaper but her grandparents, just like many of the Westerners, preferred to use real people.

  Her grandparents had visitors. Another man and woman, the deference of the woman suggested she was the man’s wife. Maliha slowed down from her preferred purposeful, and unladylike, walk. She may have been away from India for many years but she had not forgotten. She knew exactly what this was.

  This was a bride viewing, and she was the victim.

  She touched her grandmother’s feet and received her blessing, then her grandfather’s. She pressed her palms together in greeting to the others.

  “She has good manners,” said the woman.

  “Though she was away for many years, she has not forgotten,” said her grandmother.

  The man, the quality of his clothes marked him as being in trade, though still rich, looked at her and then let his gaze slide away. “She was at a school?”

  Maliha felt the anger rising within her. To be treated as an object in the room was bad enough but the man’s contempt for learning was infuriating. But she held her tongue and sipped from the cup of tea, made in the English style, even with milk. She kept her eyes down just as a proper woman should do.

  “It was by request of the father.”

  The father. Now he was gone they could make their displeasure at their daughter’s choice of husband obvious. Marriage to an influential British engineer was seen as a good thing in the class in which they moved. But personal prejudice was another thing altogether.

  She stared out the window and studied the trees, trying to block their conversation from her ears. They were saying nothing of importance. She would not be marrying anyone that she did not want, and at this moment there was no one she had the slightest inclination to marry.

  She thought of Valentine, and slammed the teacup into the saucer in sudden annoyance.

  Conversation stopped abruptly. Her grandmother was frowning.

  She wanted to shout at them and that desire alone confused her. She never shouted to make her point. Instead she placed the cup and saucer down carefully and rose to her feet. She pressed her hands together and bowed her head. “I am so sorry. I am afraid I am overcome. If you will forgive me?”

  And before they had a chance to respond she turned and walked out of the room at full speed. Amita followed.

  Maliha headed upstairs to the small suite of rooms that had been set aside for her when she had arrived in Pondicherry. She flung open the door and went to the window. She heard Amita push the door closed behind her.

  Maliha slammed her fist against the wall. It relieved nothing. She slammed it again and again and again until it hurt, and still the frustration did not escape.

  She wanted to scream. And she wanted desperately not to cry with her suppressed anger.

  But she did not scream. And tears slipped down her cheeks.

  ii

  It was not the longest wedding in the history of Pondicherry, but at four days it was one of considerable ostentation. They were now into day two and Maliha had suffered three changes of sari already today.

  But still, not as bad as the bride, Renuka. So far Maliha had succeeded in staying clear of weddings and other social events. After the disastrous bride-viewing even her grandmother seemed to have given up on trying to control her, at least for now. But Maliha had no dislike of her cousin Renuka; they had played together occasionally when they were children and Aunt Savitha had been allowed to visit with members of her family. Sometimes her aunt would be accompanied by her husband, Uncle Pratap. Her perfect memory recalled Uncle Pratap only too well, how quick he was to punish his daughters
for the slightest misdemeanour, and even Maliha when he saw a chance.

  During the first day Maliha had only had to turn up for the present giving and, apart from introductions, had not been required to talk to anyone. Though there were plenty of glances in her direction.

  She had thought returning to India would save her from all the stares. To be in a place where her skin colour did not draw comment, in fact having such a light tone was a measure of her high status. But she had been naïve. While she took after her mother’s skin and hair, her facial features contained an unmistakable echo of her father.

  Too Indian for the British; too British for the Indians.

  The line echoed through her mind as she sat amid the giggling female relatives and close friends, although Aunt Savitha was absent. And succumbed to having her hair thoroughly oiled and henna patterns drawn on her skin.

  After the initial shock at Amita’s height, the girl’s artistic skills, as she drew across Maliha’s hands and arms, attracted attention. It made Maliha the centre of attention that she did not want to be.

  “Your father was British?” The girl who asked the first direct question was no more than twelve, one of Renuka’s younger sisters, Parvati.

  “A Scot,” said Maliha. The girl frowned in confusion. “Yes, he was British.”

  “How did they meet? We only have Frenchmen here.”

  “He was an atmospheric engineer. They were brought in by Grandfather.”

  “But we have no atmospheric.”

  “No, it did not happen.”

  “Have you ridden an atmospheric?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about a flyer?”

  “Yes, I have, many times.”

  Another older girl, Maliha had not been introduced so did not know her name, interrupted. “I heard you touch the dead.”

  The room went completely silent. Only untouchables dealt with the dead.

  “My cousin is an avatar of Durga Maa, Charvi. She brings justice and revenge to murderers.” Renuka’s hair glistened with oil and had been wound into complex knots intertwined with flowers and leaves. Her feet and hands were covered in henna patterns. “I am sure you would want someone to avenge you if you were murdered.”