The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

      And what seemed like a hundred eyes swivelled in Daisy’s direction. She felt herself turn hot and red, and wanted more than anything to disappear through the battered floorboards. What had the woman meant? For naturally it had been a woman’s voice. The room buzzed furiously until Edith took charge of the situation, clapping her hands and silencing the wagging tongues.

      ‘Don’t forget, ladies, we’ll be taking the six o’clock train on Thursday. Come prepared with food and drink. And not too much luggage, please. The last thing we want are corridors overflowing with trunks.’

      Voices subsided and passed on to quieter topics. But Daisy could not pass on. She felt Gerald sitting rigid beside her and couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The woman had meant her and everyone had known it. Was she too dark, too different? Her hair and eyes were a deep brown and her skin perhaps a shade darker than many of those she’d lived and worked beside, but she had never given much thought to her colouring. And neither had anyone else until this moment. What was the woman suggesting? That she was not English? She was as English as any one of them in this room, she thought indignantly. She had only one keepsake from her mother, a faded photograph but, beneath the starch of a nurse’s uniform, the woman portrayed was clearly English. But her father? Had he been English too? She had no idea. And she never would, for there had been only one name on the tattered birth certificate the orphanage had reluctantly handed to her when she left. She was an outsider and used to being so. As a poor girl without known family, it was inevitable. Miss Maddox’s friends had counselled her against favouring Daisy, and her fellow shop assistants had looked down their noses at a girl they knew instinctively was not one of them. But now apparently there was another reason for her exclusion. She was the wrong shade.

      Mortified, she found she could no longer make conversation, no longer mouth the trivialities that seemed necessary to the evening. But rescue was close. Colonel Forester announced that he and Edith were about to leave and, as their departure was a signal for the rest of the company to make their way home, it was only minutes before Daisy was able to hide her burning face in the darkness of the night.

      Rajiv had primed a solitary kerosene lamp to light the bungalow and she undressed by its shadows. Her heart was so full she could hardly get the breath to her lungs and tears were constantly pricking at her eyes. It had all gone so horribly wrong. She’d been highly nervous, terrified of making a mistake, but she had been managing the evening well. She’d smiled, she’d listened, spoken a little and swallowed food that made her feel ill. She had made a good impression or so she’d thought, and Gerald had been pleased with her. This would have been the time to tell him what she needed him to know. But then that one devastating remark and everything had been thrown into the air.

      She unclasped the necklace she had been wearing and packed it carefully away among her clean underwear. Her only necklace, the string of pearls Miss Maddox had given her when she’d won the job at Bridges. How far away that seemed now. Then she hung the silk dress back into the wardrobe, feeling she never wanted to see it again. Despite all the hopes she’d invested in the garment, it had not brought her luck. Lifting her hairbrush, she began half-heartedly to pull it through waves that, as always, had grown limp from the sultry air. In the mirror she glimpsed Gerald framed in the doorway. He was fresh from the bathroom but his pyjamas were already damp with sweat.

      ‘Just come to say goodnight,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s hotter than ever, don’t you think? Best I give you a bit of space, my dear.’ And he turned to head towards the spare room.

      ‘Gerald!’

      He looked back at her, a frown carved into his forehead. It was clear he didn’t want to stay and she felt too broken to try and detain him. But there was one thing she had to say before they parted.

      ‘I’m not going to Simla, Gerald.’

      The frown deepened. ‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’

      ‘Just that. I can’t bear to be with those women.’

      ‘This is nonsense. What’s got into you?’ He leaned heavily on the doorframe and she remembered he had drunk lavishly.

      ‘I don’t want to spend the next few months hundreds of miles away from you and with no other company than people who hate me.’

      ‘No one hates you. If this is about that stupid remark, you should forget it. Margot Dukes is a bitch and well known for her unpleasantness. Nobody will take the least notice of her.’

      ‘It’s not just her. It’s all of them.’

      And it was, she realised. Only a few of the women tonight had been unfriendly, several in fact had been amiable, but to be constrained to spend her days in such shallow, wearisome company was wretched. It would be weeks of trivia, of gossip, then if her knowledge of women living on top of each other was anything to go by, the inevitable fault finding, the backbiting. She would be the target, she was sure. And she was not strong enough to take it; she would buckle for certain. She tried telling herself that she was as good as anyone she’d met in Jasirapur; tried convincing herself that she should be proud of what she’d achieved against all the odds. But deep inside she knew that she didn’t really believe it.

      Gerald started to walk towards her. She caught a glimpse of his figure reflected in the mirror and it was taut with tension. His voice, too, was tight and hard. ‘That’s ridiculous. I saw you talking quite happily with any number of the wives. You’ll go, and you’ll enjoy yourself.’

      She shook her head and was near to tears again, but she was determined not to capitulate. As he drew closer, she rose to meet him. ‘If I go, Gerald, it won’t be willingly. You’ll have to bind and gag me to get me on that train.’

      ‘There’s no need for these dramatics.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘I know this country far better than you, which is something you seem to forget. And if I tell you it’s for your own good that you go, you have to believe me.’

      When she said nothing, his exasperation seemed to build in the silence and then spill over. ‘I’m your husband, Daisy, which means you’ll do as I wish.’

      ‘Why is it so important to you that I go?’

      The question had come to her out of the blue but it left him looking discomfited. She could see he was struggling with the situation and wondered why. He moved even closer and took the hairbrush from her grasp, then captured both her hands in his. His voice had a note of tenderness she hadn’t heard before.

      ‘If you won’t do this for me, then do it for the baby. Simla is perfect. You must have heard that from everybody. And there couldn’t be a better place while you’re in this condition. You’ll love the gardens. You’ll love the walking. There are dozens of gentle strolls to take. And when you get too tired, you can call a rickshaw. At night—think of it—you’ll be able to sleep soundly in cool air. How can you not want to go? How can you deny our child the very best start in life?’

      His tone had grown more coaxing with every word and she felt herself warm against his body. She wanted his arms around her, wanted to hold him so tightly he would never escape. Instead she eased her hands from out of his clasp. This was not the way she’d wanted to tell him, but she had no choice now.

      ‘There is no child, Gerald. There is no baby.’