Eve

  Naini Tal – with its library, its assembly rooms, and Sunday morning services at the church of St John in the Wilderness, instead of Apa and I reading the prayer book and singing the hymns together as we did in camp.

  Yes, Naini Tal was civilization, with its corrugated iron-roofed and verandahed bungalows clinging to the hillside – in one of which we stayed with Mr Benham, and Mrs Benham, who saw it as her role to civilise me. ‘That child looks like a savage, Evelyn. Come along with me, Eve.’

  I returned wearing a white starched muslin dress, black patent leather shoes, white socks, and bows in my hair!

  Life in Naini Tal was so different: stodgy food, frilly clothes, best manners – and women, white women, lots of them. Who all said things like, ‘You really should send that child home to school, Evelyn – she’ll develop a chee-chee accent.’

  Apa would reply patiently, ‘Since she hasn’t yet done so, I don’t think she’s likely to in the future.’

  ‘She’ll learn bad habits from the servants.’

  Apa’s reply to this was less patient. ‘Some of their habits are admirable – I certainly hope she learns to be as loyal as my servants have been to me.’

  ‘If you won’t send her home to school, then you should at least send her to a decent boarding school in the hills.’

  Apa shook his head. ‘As long as my work keeps me in a healthy climate, I don’t see any need for sending her away. Besides, I think Eve is old enough now to decide for herself on the matter.’

  And sooner or later Mrs Benham was sure to say, ‘You spoil that child, Evelyn.’

  ‘I don’t think a girl who’s walked up to Milam, across the Girthi Gorges and back down here again with scarcely a word of complaint can be called spoilt, Moira.’

  Indignantly I interrupted, ‘Scarcely! I didn’t complain at all!’

  Apa grinned at me, ‘Once or twice, Eve, I believe I did just hear you express some slight lack of enthusiasm for a final ascent.’

  ‘Only when I was hungry.’

  But I’d given Mrs Benham another chance – she was off again. ‘And when I happened to bump into Peter’s sister in the bazaar she told me you didn’t even use knives and forks on your expedition…’

  Gosh, you certainly used them in Naini Tal; it was manners, manners, manners – all the time.

  But generally I did behave myself, for Apa’s sake. As he said to me, ‘I don’t want to have them proving me wrong, when I insist that you do know how to conduct yourself in a civilised manner.’ Unfortunately this included doing my usual quota of lessons, since my maths textbook had caught up with me now, along with the ones for English, history, geography … oh well, you can’t win all the time. And Naini Tal had its drawbacks for Apa, too – the principal one being that he had to spend every day at the Forest Service offices there, dealing with paperwork, which he hated. That was the trouble with the monsoon – there was no going on tour while that was on.

  But, there was ‘The Gondoliers’ to compensate – at last I was going on the stage! That was almost worth behaving myself for.

  I was the youngest in the cast by years. I’d tried to argue my way in as a Rapturous Maiden in last year’s production of ‘Patience’, when Apa had been Bunthorne, the Fleshly Poet – not very appropriate as Apa was so lean and lanky, but his voice was just right. Anyway, to shut me up, Mr Linley, the producer, had said I could be a Rapturous Understudy, since I was tall for my age. Only unfortunately none of the chorus dropped out. But after much badgering on my part Mr Linley had promised I could be a Contadina in next year’s production – if I behaved myself.

  Which was not easy, as Sirhan Sears was playing the Grand Inquisitor and kept making faces at me from the wings, but I managed not to laugh, most of the time. Mrs Benham was Apa’s Duchess of Plaza Toro – she was quite good fun really, Mrs Benham, as long as you remembered that you were really a girl. And after the first couple of rehearsals I had no trouble at all in remembering that …!

  Mr Eddison, the dashing cavalry lieutenant who was playing Marco, was unexpectedly recalled to his regiment down in Meerut. The next day Apa told me that a doctor in the I.M.S. who was on leave from Agra was going to take his place – Apa had met him at a dinner party the night before.

  Remembering rotund, balding Dr Lloyd over at Ranikhet I exclaimed, ‘But he won’t look right – I mean, Mr Eddison was quite good-looking, even if he was a soldier – but a doctor—’

  Apa said in his ‘let’s look on the bright side’ tone, ‘You can do a lot with make-up, you know.’

  ‘Oh, gosh.’

  He began to hum. I recognised the tune from ‘Trial by Jury’ – the Judge’s song,

  ‘…She may very well pass for forty-three

  In the dusk, with a light behind her!’

  ‘They can get the lighting pretty dim on stage, if they need to,’ Apa consoled me.

  I was horrified. ‘Oh no – it’ll look really odd having an ancient Marco alongside a young Guiseppe.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly would.’ My father was grinning.

  I realised why when Captain Bradley of the Indian Medical Service walked on to the stage. ‘That’s him?’

  Apa nodded, ‘Yes – but of course, he’s not got his make-up on yet.’

  I didn’t reply. I was too busy falling in love. Wavy chestnut hair, clean-shaven face so you could see his firm mouth, a well-modelled chin, beautiful brown eyes, tall, slim figure… By the time I was introduced I’d fallen the depth of the Girthi Gorges and was still dropping. I could only stammer a reply to his, ‘How d’ye do, Miss Courtney?’

  Apa said, ‘Oh, Eve’s only just thirteen, no need to be so formal.’

  I glared at Apa, and as Captain Bradley moved away I hissed, ‘Why did you tell him I was only thirteen? I’m not, I’m thirteen and a quarter, and I’m tall – tall enough to be in the chorus.’

  Apa smiled. ‘I think he might have discovered your age before too long, anyway, Eve.’ Then, ‘So you think he might just about pass muster as Marco? With careful make-up, naturally!’

  I retorted accusingly, ‘You said he was forty-three!’

  He chuckled. ‘I don’t think I did say that, did I Eve?’ I giggled. Clever old Apa.

  It was a totally pure love that I felt for Captain Bradley. I just wanted to look at him and dream. Dream of rescuing him from a fire, saving his life when his yacht capsized on the lake, even helping him nurse plague victims – whom he’d recently been treating. What a hero! When there’d been a bad cholera epidemic four years ago in Almora, Apa had packed me off to Naini Tal and then stayed behind to help with all the quarantine and disinfection and sanitary arrangements. But I took that for granted; Apa would, obviously. But Captain Bradley – oh, he was so brave…!

  Then, further bliss. For the opening scene, Mr Linley wanted a well on stage, so the chorus of Contadini could come tripping in carrying big water jars. And when he saw me fooling about backstage, walking around with a jar balanced on my head (the way village women do in India), he told me that in future I could bring up the rear of the procession with my jar on my head! To be honest, what he actually said was that if I was going to fool about anyway, I might as well do it to some effect.

  In the same spirit, when all the Contadini were going dancing off with their jugs and Gondolieri and I was bringing up the rear again, he told me toss the jug to my Gondolier and exit stage left, turning cartwheels. ‘Only no looking back, Eve!’

  He had to bellow that a few times at rehearsals – I always wanted to see the effect of my grand exit. Until Apa explained that it wasn’t nearly so effective as a grand exit if I was peeping back for admiration. ‘Why didn’t Mr Linley tell me that?’ I demanded indignantly, ‘Giving orders without explaining is stupid.’

  However, I forgave Mr Linley, because he let me cartwheel in again in Act II, and then he let us dance all three dances – cachuca, fandango and bolero – before we were frightened off stage by the arrival of Sirhan Sears, (alias the Grand Inquisitor). The
n, after our final chorus, when we all curtseyed, Mr Linley said that since I could dip down lower than the others I might as well keep on doing it, and play the rogue Contadina to the end. And, and – Captain Bradley complimented me on ‘the grace of my movements’! Bliss upon bliss!

  I couldn’t manage even a stammmered reply this time. I just blushed and blushed as I gazed up into his melting brown eyes. Oh yes, in Naini Tal that year I was a girl alright.

  And ‘The Gondoliers’ was great fun, apart from the initial boredom of hanging around between scenes while other people were rehearsing. In fact, as Apa said to Mrs Benham, ‘Eve seems to have developed a remarkable enthusiasm for rehearsals these days, hasn’t she?’ He grinned as he added, ‘I really can’t imagine why!’ Then he began to whistle Marco’s solo, ‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes’.

  Afterwards I scolded him. ‘Apa, you shouldn’t have done that – she might have guessed.’

  Face innocent he asked, ‘Guessed what, Eve?’ And chuckling at my blushes he went off to practise the solo in which the Duke of Plaza—Toro describes his own lack of enthusiasm for military engagements:

  ‘In enterprise of martial kind,

  When there was any fighting,

  He led his regiment from behind –

  He found it less exciting.

  But when away his regiment ran,

  His place was at the fore, O –

  That celebrated,

  Cultivated,

  Underrated

  Nobleman,

  The Duke of Plaza-Toro!’

  That song was the cause of the only wrinkle in the undersheet of Naini Tal that year. Apa was singing it at the dress rehearsal, and I was in the shadow behind the flats, watching, when I heard Captain Delahaye murmur to Major Rylands, ‘Those words are rather too appropriate in Courtney’s case, eh? Except that he failed to lead even from behind!’ I was puzzled – then Captain Bradley came up to join them, noticed me – and smiled. I drowned in his sparkling eyes. Gosh, he was wonderful!

  * * *

  ‘The Gondoliers’ was a great success. Apa was brilliant, so funny as well as being in such good voice. I did rather well, too – my cartwheels got a special round of applause. And I felt as if I’d burst with joy when Captain Bradley sang, ‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes.’ But he had to go back to Agra as soon as the opera was over, while Apa still had several days’ work to do at the Forest Service offices. As far as I was concerned, with my hero’s departure Naini Tal had lost its lustre. I was bored now, I wanted to go home, to Almora. Even the monsoon was three times as heavy over in Naini Tal, so I got wet and whinged, until at last Apa said, ‘We’ll be off on Friday, Eve.’

  Then it was a good-bye tea party with Sirhan Sears’ sister, ‘Auntie’ Mary, farewells all round, thank-yous and ‘See you in Almora at Christmas’, to Mr and Mrs Benham, and we were off.

  We cut across to Bhowali first, where Apa had to see the forest ranger in charge of the turpentine still. Since turpentine is distilled from the resin of the chir pine it’s the responsibility of the forest department to organise the tapping of the trees and collection of the resin.

  From there we walked on to Bhim Tal, so Apa could talk to the forest guard who was stationed there. Bhimeshwar is one of the names of Shiva, and tal, of course, means lake. Bhim Tal has a dam across one end – the water is let out through sluices to irrigate the land at the foot of the hills – but obviously that’s not a problem during the monsoon. The water is a clear blue-green, and if you have a permit you can fish there – but we were going on to Naukuchya Tal, where there’s plenty of fish and hardly any people. Fishing was Apa’s ‘p. and q’ time – peace and quiet time – he fished on his own, and nobody interrupted him, not even me.

  Apa and the forest guard finished their discussion, and we walked the two and a half miles through the oak wood to Naukuchya Tal where our camp had already been set up. There was just time for a quick swim and then our evening meal was ready. Afterwards Apa took me out on the lake in a boat. Naukuchya means nine-cornered, and there’s a saying in Kumaon that if anyone can see the nine bays of the tal all at the same time then over the next year they’ll have a stroke of either very good, or very bad, luck. So naturally when we got to the centre I insisted on standing up and trying to Spin round very fast. The boat rocked dangerously and Apa exclaimed, ‘Don’t tempt fate, Eve!’

  I didn’t see all the corners, it’s not really possible with normal eyesight – but on the way back, as we neared the shore, for a second I saw them – all nine. ‘I saw them Apa, I saw them!’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, come on Eve – it’s just not possible, you know that.’

  ‘I did!’ I could hardly believe it myself – I never had before.

  Apa obviously wasn’t convinced I had now, either. Teasing he said, ‘Well, I admit it was you who saw the mermaid at Chatrapur.’ I blushed. ‘And then there was that two-headed elephant at Bangalore—’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was a reflection—’ And we were off, reminiscing about our Grand Tour of India, that we’d made the winter before last, during Apa’s long leave.

  By train, foot, bicycle and bullock cart we’d travelled the length and breadth of India. Calcutta, where I’d been awestruck at the huge buildings and teeming streets. Chatrapur, where I’d romped on the sands and swum in the ocean for the very first time – and thought I’d seen a mermaid! Madras, and Pondicherry – to the south of which I’d climbed a coconut palm (well, to be honest I only got halfway up – they are pretty difficult). Trichonopoly—’City of the Three-headed Demon’; Bangalore, home of my one-headed elephant – we saw them all, and much more besides.

  We made our leisurely way across to the west coast, to the palm-fringed beaches of Goa, then on up to the great docks of Bombay – where I watched all the hustle and bustle of the big ships leaving for England. The green hills of the western Ghats unfolded before our eyes until we left the train to explore the forests and jungles of the Central Provinces, and visit those forest officer friends of Apa who were stationed there.

  It was back to the railway and civilisation to see Udaipur and its lake, and Chitor of the famous seige, when Humayun, bracelet brother of Queen Kurnavati arrived too late to save her and she and her women all flung themselves onto their funeral pyre rather than be captured by their enemies. We saw pink-painted Jaipur and fiercely-forted Jodhpur, and then crossed the desert of Rajputana to arrive in the land of the five rivers. After travelling over the vast plain of the Punjab we came at last to the bustle of Delhi, and soon after we were back in our own United Provinces of Agra and Oudh.

  We saw all the splendour and squalor, all the kindness and cruelty that is India, and I revelled in all the sounds and sights and smells of the land of my birth. Screech of peacock, shrill cries of pani sellers offering Hindu water or Muslim water in the bustle of each crowded railway station, patient village potter squatting at his ever-turning wheel, acrid scent of cow-dung cooking fires rising into the still evening air – I delighted in them all.

  It had been a wonderful six months, yet we nearly hadn’t gone, because the original plan had been for us to go to England so I could meet my Grandfather Courtney. Then one day Apa told me that if we went to England it wouldn’t be possible for us to visit my grandfather anyway – so, he asked, did I still want to go there, or would I rather we spent the time touring India instead? Naturally I opted for India.

  I hadn’t been disappointed at not meeting Grandfather Courtney, because although Apa had talked to me of my grandmother and Aunt Ethel – and Kitty, who’d had red hair and blue eyes and lots of freckles, just like me – he hardly ever mentioned my grandfather. I knew he was a retired general and lived in Woolwich, but otherwise to me he didn’t really exist. Though other people spoke of him from time to time – usually people who were connected with the army, like Major Broome, who was an officer of the Gurkha regiment which was stationed in the Almora cantonment.

  I’d seen him one day not long after we came back fr
om our six month tour. The Singh boys and I were hanging around at the entrance to the golf course. It’s at the bottom of a very steep hill, and although golfers liked to whiz down at top speed on their bicycles, they weren’t nearly so keen on riding them back up again. So the minute they arrived we’d offer to do it for them – for a few pice a time.

  This enterprise always involved the four of us in a lot of wrangling – not about the money, we pooled that – but if we couldn’t get enough bicycles, whoever was left over had to run up the hill behind. That day we’d only got three bikes, so the four of us were wrestling in the dust like young puppies when there was a loud ‘Harrumph!’ above us. Major Broome was back from his long leave, too.

  His ‘Harrumph!’ was followed by a commanding, ‘Eve,’ – at which the three boys seized our current stock of bicycles, and with mocking farewell grins promptly pedalled off. Leaving me with Major Broome, who informed me brusquely that my skirt was ripped. I pointed out that it generally was. Next he glared at my sagging socks. I pulled them up to show willing and offered, ‘For three pice I’ll ride your bicycle back for you.’

  ‘But it’s got a crossbar.’

  ‘It’s alright, I’ve got my breeches on under my skirt.’ He must have seen them, anyway – besides, we had this conversation every time. I reached out for his handlebars.

  He fended me off. ‘The going rate is two pice.’

  I retorted quickly, ‘But I am the only bidder.’

  He snorted. ‘You bargain like a bazaar wallah, young lady – two pice or nothing.’ I grinned. ‘Well, it was worth a try.’

  He handed over the bicycle and the two pice, then, still holding the saddle, told me, ‘My wife and I saw your grandfather while we were on leave – we dined with him one evening at Woolwich. His health isn’t so good these days – tell your father that.’ I nodded. Then, ‘He asked after you, Eve.’ I pricked up my ears. Jerking his thumb at the backs of the Singh boys, who were pedalling laboriously up the hill, Major Broome announced, ‘So my wife told him about how you were allowed to run wild with the natives.’