I fancy that they must have become used to rescuing stranded motorists, for they went smoothly into action. There was a good deal of noise, but no arguments as to how to tackle the problem; and after an endless interval of shouts and yells of encouragement, the Wolseley was pushed, tugged and half carried across the powdery sand and on to the firm wet sand at the river’s edge. Mother, terrified of flooding the engine, drove with extreme caution across the ford, and encouraged by shouts of advice from her squad of helpers, and delighted squeals from the chorus of cherubim, took the shallows on the far side at speed; aided by those who manned the ropes, she managed to cover quite an appreciable distance on the dry sand on the opposite side before getting stuck again. However, we were across!
Once free of the sand we soon reached the village, where the women offered us cups of milk, fruit and freshly cooked chapattis, and — like most women in a country of small outlying villages — were friendly and forthcoming, once they had got over their shyness, asking a hundred questions, laughing themselves into stitches at Bets’s and my stumbling attempts at Hindustani, and congratulating Mother on her fluency in their tongue. Bets and I taught the assembled cherubim ‘Little Miss Muffet’,* in the vernacular, which was very popular. All in all it was quite a party, and I remembered it when, much later on, I heard horror stories about travellers who had attempted to drive over country where there was no main road, and been practically held to ransom by ‘simple villagers’ who demanded enormous sums, paid in advance, before they would give any help. At no time did these people, most of whom had probably never seen a white face before, so much as hint that they would like to be paid for their help. They had given it out of pure good-heartedness — as they gave the food and drink. Mother hadn’t got much money with her, but she gave our passenger — who had to be pressurized to take it — as much as she could spare, and asked him to distribute it to the helpers who had got us across the ford; and he insisted on coming with us to set us on our way and see that we did not miss a field track that would take us on to a passable road.
We parted with him with regret, and ploughed on across unmapped country, hoping for the best; and luck was with us, for towards sunset we actually managed to reach civilization in the form of a little Dâk-bungalow, where we put up for the night and ate the familiar Dâk-bungalow dinner of ‘a couple of Chapattis and a murgi grill’. (There was once a topical song sung by the comic in a musical comedy put on by the Simla Amateur Dramatic Society at the Gaiety Theatre, in which every verse ended with that line. Tacklow used to sing it to us. But although I can remember the tune to this day, those are the only words that survive.)
Once again we would be sleeping under canvas in New Delhi, for the members’ quarters at the IDG had been booked out for Horse Show Week, and the overflow were put up in tents. Our particular tents were not even in the Club grounds, but on the racecourse a short distance away. That was a lovely interval. A brief taste of fun and glamour after a spell in the wilds of Rajputana and life as it must have been lived by members of the East India Company a century and more ago.
Our tents were spread out under the shade of a line of gold-mohur trees, and separated from the rails of the race track only by a gravel path and a strip of lawn. We would be awakened in the brilliant Indian dawn, clamorous with birdsong and glittering with dew, by horsy friends who started each day by riding on the racecourse and would draw rein when opposite our tents and shout to us to wake up. And every morning, as I scrambled out of bed and into a dressing-gown, and ran out to greet them, I used to congratulate myself smugly on the fact that however late I had gone to sleep on the previous night — or rather the small hours on that same day! — I always looked my best first thing in the morning: I could thank the Lord for a Grade A complexion that didn’t need any make-up to improve it, and was probably given me in compensation for a regrettable figure.
I don’t remember the names or faces of any of the young men I danced with during that glamorous Horse Show Week, so I presume that for once I wasn’t in love. Yet I do remember having a perfectly lovely time. This, once again, was the Raj at play; and it was wonderful to be young and to be part of it, with all of life ahead of you. The whole of Delhi smelt of flowers. Sweet peas and carnations, delphiniums and roses, pinks, hibiscus, jasmine and orange-blossom grew and flourished in every garden, while bougainvillaea and trumpet-flower poured over rooftops and walls in a blaze of colour; and when darkness fell the air was heavy with the sweetness of night-scented stock, moon flowers and Rhat-ki-Rani; and always, somewhere within hearing, a dance band or a gramophone would be playing the sweet, sugary melodies of that era: ‘You Were Meant for Me’, ‘You’re the Cream in My Coffee’, ‘The Birth of the Blues’, ‘What’ll I Do?’, ‘Always’, and ‘Fancy Our Meeting’… Odd how they still come back after so many long years.
Bob Targett was still around, and I danced with him and laughed with him, but realized that Tacklow had been right: I wasn’t his type of woman at all, and I would never have been a success as his wife. Bets and I struck up a lasting friendship with the wife of Alan Riley, A. I. R. Riley, who ran the Delhi Flying Club. His wife, who was Dutch (her maiden name had been Van Oz), had been nicknamed ‘Ooloo’ long before she set foot in India, where Ooloo means ‘owl’, and is widely used as a term of abuse — ‘You son of an owl!’ However, ‘Ooloo’ stuck and a more inappropriate name for the witty, amusing, beautiful (she was like the young Lauren Bacall) and attractive wife of A. I. R. Riley you couldn’t imagine. We both loved her dearly — as did almost everyone she knew, and we saw a lot of her, since she and Alan lived in one of the Club Quarters. Dear Ooloo! — how you used to make me laugh. You had a lot to do with making my stay in Delhi, and the Horse Show in particular, a memorable time in my life.
I have, as I have said before, never had any use for horses. I took a dislike to them from an early age, and since I am also no gambler, race meetings have never been my cup of tea. I have attended a good many, but only because I have been taken by some friend whose company I enjoy, and who seems to think he is doing me a good turn by taking me to see a sport that he is sure I must enjoy as much as he does. And because I have lacked the nerve to blot my social copybook by admitting that race meetings leave me cold — except (there is always an exception) when I happen to be personally acquainted with at least half of the amateur jockeys, and know the rest, together with most of my fellow race-goers, by sight. Only then does the whole jamboree become entertaining to me. Which is why I actually enjoyed the Delhi races.
To give an example of their unique entertainment value, there was the occasion when a friend of ours, one McCandlass (better known as ‘Loopy Mac’), whose enthusiasm for riding was not matched by his skill, when competing in an owner-riders race sponsored by the business community, came tearing into view on the first lap and, to wild cheering from his supporters, a full two and a half lengths ahead of the field. Unfortunately there was a narrow side track ahead of him — possibly for the benefit of any rider who had lost a stirrup or otherwise come to grief and wished to retire from the race. But since his horse was in fact bolting, and not even faintly under control, it made straight for the side track and tore off down it — followed by the entire field, who either thought this was the correct way round, or whose horses had also got the bit between their teeth and intended to forge ahead or else … The whole lot, following Mac’s lead, shot off the course and disappeared with the speed of diving ducks into a fairly dense patch of wooded land, which at that time bordered one side of the course. After lengthy but unknown adventures, they eventually emerged, looking exceedingly sheepish, wreathed in strands of creeper and assorted greenery and brushing twigs and bits of bark out of their hair.
There was also a more dramatic occasion when one of the amateur jockeys parted with his mount a mere yard or two from the winning post, and crashed to earth among a forest of hooves. At which point a girl rose like a rocketing pheasant from her seat in the stand, and, shrieking his name over and over ag
ain, fled down the aisle and across the grass, scrambled over the rails, and, still screaming, flung herself down on his recumbent form yelling, ‘Speak to me, Johnny! Speak to me!’ Whereupon his wife broke the deathly silence that had fallen upon the stands by tutting impatiently and remarking in a carrying voice: ‘Silly bitch! He’ll never forgive her for this.’ I gather she had got used to her husband’s frequent straying and come to terms with it.
You didn’t get those sort of dramas included in the price of the tickets during Ascot week or Newmarket. The only tragicomedy of that exciting Horse Show Week was provided by the ‘ballgown’ that Aunt Bee had selected for me much earlier and posted weeks ago to mother, c/o the Imperial Delhi Gymkhana Club.
It had been waiting for us in the Secretary’s office, and proved to be a dazzling confection in heavy white crěpe de Chine, lavishly embroidered with glimmering silver beads, each one shaped like a daisy and attached to the material by a small central bead. It really was the prettiest thing, and did credit to Aunt Bee’s taste; for, frankly, I had been dreading the arrival of some flouncy thing in pale pink with a high neck, puffed sleeves and frills in all the wrong places, ‘suitable for a young girl’. I regretted that it wasn’t longer, for hems, after a decade of twenties knee-length-or-above fashions, were at long last beginning to edge downward, which was good news for girls like myself whose legs were far from shapely. I had rather hoped that the London shops would by now have taken the plunge and opted for long skirts, even though the Raj had not yet got around to them. I also regretted (not for the first time) that I wasn’t a lot slimmer, for those shimmering daisy-heads (I have one or two of them to this day) did tend to make me look slightly like a stranded salmon. Still, it was not only an attractive garment, but one that was definitely not darzi-made, and I set off for the Viceregal Ball feeling definitely pleased with myself.
It was the custom for Delhi hostesses to give large dinner parties prior to the Viceregal Ball, and although I don’t remember who my hostess was, I do remember that her house was in Old Delhi, not far from Maiden’s Hotel and the Kudsia Bagh, that there were two unexpected guests who had arrived in Delhi only that day — I think relations — and since there were not enough dining-room chairs to go round, an extra two were hastily brought down from the bedrooms or wherever, and that I, as the most junior member of the party, was given one of them, a cane-bottomed chair of local manufacture.
I enjoyed that dinner party. My partner was a young man I knew, and the one on the other side was a cheerful and chatty type, and the conversation flowed like Tennyson’s brook. It was only when the meal was over and our hostess rose, signalling that the ladies would now remove themselves to drink coffee in the drawing-room and queue up for the dressing-tables and the bathrooms on the upper floor, that disaster struck.
Turning from left to right and back again, to talk to one or other of the fellow guests I was seated between, I had not noticed (it had not occurred to me to even think of it), that those glittering little daisies had worked their way through the holes in the basketwork seat of my chair. It was only when I attempted to rise, and found that I couldn’t, that I realized what had happened. And by that time it was too late, for one of those gallant young men had sprung forward and helpfully jerked my chair away. There was a rending noise, and I stood up. But with a large, blank, daisyless patch on my behind and between sixty or seventy glittering daisies strewn all over the carpet. One of life’s darker moments.
Mother shrieked in horror and my hostess in sympathy, while khitmatgars and guests scrabbled around picking up the twinkling pieces of the fallen flowers. But it was no good; the dress was a total write-off and there was no way I could go on to the Viceregal Ball wearing that ruin, since apart from that daisyless patch on its seat, the crěpe de Chine had been ripped in several places, giving the assembled company a private view of my petticoat and camiknickers. There was nothing for it but to streak for home and change into another dress. One of my fellow guests nobly offered to run me back to my tent on the race course and I accepted the offer thankfully; once there, I changed hurriedly into the green-satin-and-dyed-mosquito-netting confection that had already received an Hon. Mensh. in the social columns — and which anyway, suited me a lot better than those daisies — and we arrived, late and panting, well after the remainder of our party, but otherwise in good shape.
That was my first look at the finished and furnished Viceroy House and I thought it an enormous improvement on the old Viceregal Lodge in Old Delhi. It was the most magnificent building; something out of a fairy-tale, with its sweeping stairway of white marble — open to the sky. Its huge corridors lined with uniformed men of the Viceroy’s Bodyguard of tall splendid Sikhs, all of whom in their towering turbans looked to be at least seven or eight feet high. There were not only flowers in the Mogul gardens, but in every room and all the long corridors, reflecting themselves, together with the dancing guests, in the black marble walls of the great ballroom, which had been polished until they resembled sheets of black looking-glass. I could see myself in them waltzing to the strains of ‘Always’ or ‘Alice Blue Gown’ and laughing because life was such tremendous fun — in spite of the ruination of my first expensive evening dress, and having to arrive late at the ball. Tacklow used to be fond of quoting a verse from The Ingoldsby Legends, Barham’s translation of Horace’s ‘Eheu fugaces, … Postume, Postume!’ ‘Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me!’ except that they are not lost to me. That ball in the new Viceroy’s House is still, with much else, a glittering fragment that remains clear and bright in my memory.
It was in that same cold weather season that one of the many practical jokes, with which Sir Edwin Lutyens had booby-trapped his Viceroy’s palace, went off with startling success on the occasion of the first New Delhi Viceregal garden party. Sir Edwin had decorated each corner of the roofs of the two wings of the house with enormous shallow bowls of red sandstone on short stems, each one standing in a marble, or possibly sandstone saucer. The bowls were in fact fountains which, when turned on, filled up with water which brimmed over and fell in a silver veil into the saucers below, from where it was recycled to fill the bowls again, or else rerouted to water the gardens. I had seen them tried out on a hot still day the year before, and thought how very pretty they looked, and what an original and brilliant idea they were.
Brilliant, my Aunt Fanny! I don’t believe for a moment that the old boy didn’t know exactly what would happen, and probably regretted not being there to laugh his head off when it did. For half-way through that particular garden party, a light breeze got up …
Well, I don’t need to describe what happened, you can visualize it for yourself. All those pretty, frilly, diaphanous silks and muslin confections, those fabulous embroidered saris and the elegant wide-brimmed hats, the crisp, starched muslin turbans, the top-hats, and the gaudy uniforms of the ADCs on the stretch of garden nearest the house, scattering like leaves in an autumn gale, and stampeding for cover.
Mother, Bets and I spent a lovely three weeks in New Delhi. But back in Tonk, tragedy had struck darling Tacklow. He had put Pozlo back into his cage after his usual evening walk, but for once forgot to put the cover over it, which he normally did after sunset, since Pozlo preferred to sleep in the dark. Just at that moment one of the Nawab’s relatives had dropped in to pay an informal call on him, and Tacklow merely closed the cage door and hurried out to greet his visitor. The caller did not stay very long, and having seen him into his car, and watched it leave, Tacklow came back into the drawing-room and was about to call for the lamps to be lit when he heard a sudden frantic squawk from Pozlo, and hurrying into the dining-room (where the doors, like all those in the bungalow, were set wide, for the weather was beginning to warm up) saw that there was a wild cat clawing at the cage and that Pozlo was lying on the floor of it. The cat streaked out of the room but Pozlo was dead … He had gone to sleep as always, with his head tucked between his wings, on the perch nearest the top of his cage, and by a sa
d stroke of bad luck, too near the bars of his cage. The sun had gone down and dusk was gathering in the rooms, and he had not heard the cat, which had clawed at him with a taloned paw. It was sheer chance that one of those talons had pierced the back of Pozlo’s fluffy little head, and killed him instantly — he had only had time for that one squawk as he died.
It is almost impossible not to grow fond of an animal or a bird that obviously dotes upon you, and Pozlo had made it plain from the start where his heart and devotion belonged. No one could have resisted such patent adoration, and Tacklow became devoted to that endearing little bunch of green feathers. When he had had to leave us in Kashmir and go down to Rajputana, he had insisted on taking Pozlo with him — ‘to keep me company’. And Pozlo had done just that. And now he was gone.
Tacklow was devastated. I really think he could not have been as shocked and bereft if it had been one of his children who had been killed. At first he couldn’t believe it, and tried to revive the little bird with brandy, and when he realized that there was nothing he could do, he fetched his gun, went out to look for the wild cat which had retreated to the rock-strewn waste land behind the kitchen quarters, and shot it. Even though he liked cats. He cried for Pozlo as, more than forty years later, I too was to cry bitterly over the death of an even smaller piece of fluff and feathers — a little budgerigar named Hamlet whom I had adopted practically from the egg, and who, after a few years of devoted companionship, I had to have put down, because he had acquired a cancerous growth that was killing him painfully. I remembered Tacklow that day, and I knew how he must have felt: except that it had been much worse for him, for he must have been so lonely and Pozlo had been such an adoring companion — spending most of the working day perched on his shoulder, snuggled up close to the curve of his neck, from which vantage point he would reach up occasionally to nibble lovingly at Tacklow’s ear, or growl reprovingly and inquire, when anyone else came into the room, ‘Now what?’ (a phrase I am afraid he had picked up in his early days from me, when I was busy and did not welcome interruption).