Fields of Gold Read online

  Ned scoffed and threw a peanut at him. The Indians roasted them and flavoured them with chilli and coriander. They were delicious. He swallowed a mouthful. ‘You’ve got a nerve. Daphne Ellis is heartbroken.’

  ‘Daphne Ellis will be heartbroken for a few hours and then she’ll move on to her next target.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel, Jack. She’s a nice girl.’

  ‘Then you take her out.’

  Ned grinned. ‘No, I’m waiting for Iris.’

  ‘Ah, the elusive Iris Walker. How many times has she apparently been packed and ready to leave England?’

  ‘This time I think she’s definitely on her way.’

  ‘Well, at the risk of sounding like a parrot, I’d advise against dating a girl of parents you know well. Destined for doom.’

  ‘Harold and Flora know we’ve been writing to each other for years. I always get the impression Flora’s encouraging it. They worry about Iris. She’s sort of a free spirit.’

  ‘And you think Mrs Walker sees stability in her dating the dependable Edward Sinclair?’

  ‘Well, she could do worse … she could date you.’

  Jack laughed. ‘What if she has a glass eye?’

  ‘Keep laughing, Jack, because here’s a photo of her at seventeen.’ He opened his wallet and pulled out a small family photo. ‘That’s Iris,’ he said eagerly, pointing to a slim, dark-haired girl in the middle with her arms coquettishly wrapped around her father.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Jack murmured, not prepared to give too much away. But he was surprised. Even in the grainy photo she looked deliciously pretty with her wide, dimpled smile. And she seemed to be staring straight at him. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad? She’s gorgeous and you know it.’

  ‘It’s a shocking photo. For all you know, one day soon she’ll limp off the train, dragging her club foot, and —’

  Now both of them dissolved into laughter and Ned flung an entire fistful of nuts at Jack. ‘Well, you’ll meet her soon enough. The Walkers left for Bombay this morning. They want to see her off the ship and I shall meet them with the rest of the family when their train draws in from Bangalore.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you. I hope she finds you irresistible.’

  Ned grinned. ‘Just keep yourself well away is all I ask.’

  ‘She’s all yours. What about Bella?’

  ‘She’s so grown up. I had another letter yesterday. Her social life sounds extraordinary – Grenfell did a special six-week stint in Calcutta so she’s been the complete social butterfly for the last month and a half!’

  ‘Is that what you wanted for her?’

  ‘I couldn’t have given her one quarter of that life. And Bell suits being a socialite. When I was in Madras last year she had more poise and confidence than some of the women twice her age. Bell’s very different to me. All I’ve ever wanted is a family life. I just hope the man she falls in love with is wealthy and will give her all she desires.’

  ‘When are you going to bring her down?’

  ‘Now she’s finished school, and she’s almost sixteen, I’m hoping in the next couple of months.’

  ‘Good. Now, what’s happening about housing for you, by the way?’

  Ned sighed. ‘I don’t have the comfort of being a covenanted man, like you.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re on the company payroll. It’s not as though they’ve got qualified electricians banging down the door, and old man Lawson can’t even read the dials.’

  Ned gave Jack a look of soft rebuke. ‘Lawson’s all right, you know, and he’s a good boss. I’ve learned so much from him. I’ve got no desire to push him from his perch, although he’s definitely due and I’m certainly capable.’

  ‘You’re being modest. You’re all but running the place.’

  ‘I’m only twenty-four, Jack. They won’t give me the status or the house that goes with it.’

  ‘I think they will. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t.’

  Jack held up a hand to stop Ned’s protests. ‘I’ve only been in my own place for a couple of months so I know how sick of the lodgings you must be. I have nothing against the Italians, but if Vince Batista sang one more rendition of “O Sole Mio”, I was going to drop him down Harry’s Shaft.’

  Ned gave him a look. They both knew how dangerous the work was in one of the deepest mines in the world. ‘Don’t even joke about it.’

  ‘Well, I know how different life is in your own bungalow. And I’m offering you somewhere to stay. Was that your strange way of saying, thank you, Jack, for being so thoughtful and yes, I’d like to stay at Marikuppam?’

  Ned smiled at him. ‘I’m grateful for the offer, Jack, but I think I’ll let you stew out there alone, scowling from your new verandah at all who dare pass by. I’ll get my own place soon. Are you coming to the Champion Reef picnic, by the way? You can meet Iris.’

  ‘I’ll come to the dance afterwards just to satisfy myself that my love-struck friend isn’t planning to marry someone with an arse like an elephant.’

  Ned nearly spat out the beer he’d been nursing.

  Jack waggled a finger. ‘Always look at the mothers.’

  ‘Stop!’ Ned said, laughing helplessly. ‘You’re wicked.’

  Jack stood. ‘I’m off for a sleep. I’ve got a longer shift this evening.’

  Ned watched his tall friend heading away from the club, realising he was left to sign for the drinks. He didn’t mind. Jack was generous in all things towards him. He motioned to the servant and while he waited he watched Jack striding down the pathway that separated the pristine whitewashed club buildings from the road. He wondered whether Jack would ever find a woman to suit him; somehow he doubted it.

  They’d enjoyed a fun-filled handful of years in Kolar and everyone thought Jack Bryant was a philandering opportunist. Only Ned knew him for the deep thinker that he was, and while Jack was happy to let the KGF community believe he was every inch the handsome rogue without a heart, the truth was that he was lonely. Ned sensed this – always had – and deeply believed that when Jack finally fell for a woman, it would be one of those intense, fiery loves that consumed everything in its wake.

  He shook his head free of Jack and instead let his mind fill with thoughts of Iris. It was her first letter, arriving out of the blue, that had ignited his helpless infatuation. No girl had ever written to him before, and if he were honest, no girl had ever really noticed him, let alone taken an interest in his life. Since then he’d dated frequently, could even now consider himself a popular addition at any dance or around anyone’s dinner table. But no other woman held the same fascination for him as Iris, despite the fact that they had never met.

  Iris’s letters were always full of questions, and she didn’t seem to mind in the least that her parents treated him as a son. The letters included sketches of a squirrel she’d seen in Hyde Park, a swatch of fabric from a dress she’d recently had made, a ticket stub from the Theatre Royal in Brighton. And so it went. Snatches of her exciting life in London arrived frequently for him. Ned had taken to refusing to open her letters until he was alone and had the time to savour them. He often caught himself smiling as he read and he would always read them several times after the first eager skim-through.

  She had always been affectionate, but the relationship had deepened over the years. Ned had never admitted how he felt, yet he sensed she was looking forward to their meeting every bit as much as he was. Every time he thought about her arrival, his throat seemed to tighten. Would she be disappointed? Would he be too short, too reserved, too adoring, too boring? His fears grew but then her latest letter suggested that their relationship had blossomed to a new level.

  It had arrived accompanied by a photo, a close-up of Iris. She said she’d had one taken of herself for her parents but on a whim had enclosed a copy for him. So you know who to look for when you pick me up. Her words had oozed expectation and confidence that he’d be waiting. On the back of the photo she had scrawled in an eleg
ant hand: For Ned. I x

  His heart began pounding twice as hard the moment he saw the photo and its cryptic note. Perhaps he was reading too much into it; perhaps Iris was this affectionate with everyone. He had wanted to show Jack, but for some reason held back, needing to keep Iris to himself.

  Jack didn’t mind the long walk home. It always helped to clear his thoughts and, if he blurred his eyes and ignored the red earth and the dark skins of the people moving around, there were moments when the mining structures – winding wheels, engine houses, the buildings surrounding a main shaft – echoed a life back in Cornwall. He missed it. He missed the cold, and while KGF was astonishingly verdant due to the constant irrigation, beyond people’s gardens the landscape was very arid. He missed the green seas off the Cornish coast on a bright spring day and the green of the fields surrounding those rugged granite cliffs. And while he would never complain about club life, there were moments when he genuinely missed the anonymity of a Cornish pub and the smell of fresh pasties baking.

  Jack never allowed himself to indulge in too much reminiscing or he dipped into a bleak frame of mind. But it was comforting now and then, and he carried a sense of hope that one day he would return to Penzance.

  For now, though, KGF was home, and there was much to love about the place. Henry had been right all those years ago. This was a thriving community made up of plenty of British and Europeans. And while the bulk of the actual mining was done by a legion of Indian workers, it was the Anglo-Indians who ‘owned’ KGF and gave it the flourishing lifestyle everyone enjoyed. Their families were large and the mix of blood gave their offspring a handsome, exotic look with very thick, almost black hair framing everything from a pale complexion through to tawny and even dark skin. They were a fun-loving, party-going society who worked hard and played hard; who followed the etiquette of the British but happily sat down to spicy curries and strange-sounding Indian fare that would send their British counterparts running.

  There was a clear segregation in KGF when it came to housing. The club itself was an obvious demonstration of this – no Anglo-Indian was permitted to approach by the main road that led members into the grounds. Only the British were granted membership, so only the British could use that roadway. If an Anglo-Indian needed to visit, he entered via a special side road. As for the Indians, their only reason for being on the manicured grounds was to tend them or to serve food and drinks to club members. And so the low, majestic-looking building loudly proclaimed its colonial heritage with its impressive circular drive and stairwell that led onto the sprawling verandah framed by arched colonnades, providing a cool retreat for guests. The arches were continued in the bank of picturesque windows, with their hundreds of tiny panes of glass that sat proudly beneath the steeply angled, clay-tiled roof. English trees stood alongside palms and other tropical plants, all set against lush green lawn and styled beds of glorious flowers.

  As he walked, Jack admired how beautifully kept KGF was. Breezy, bungalow-style houses sat back from the road, each within their own well-tended and creatively planted gardens. Grass was watered and mown regularly, so a carpet of green extended as far as the eye could see. The British, who were mainly the senior mines management, had the pick of the houses with tall hedges and bigger grounds. The more important Anglo-Indians were next in the pecking order for the larger bungalows with high-grade fencing and exquisitely tended gardens. What impressed Jack most was that every family was provided free housing by John Taylor & Sons – in fact, not just their houses, but their electricity and all manner of special allowances.

  Little wonder the region was such a popular spot. Even the Indian workers, who made up the bulk of the community, were given excellent housing in the Miners Lines, simple, robust dwellings called tatti houses that were made from bamboo strips and highly desired by the Indian families who made their living from mining gold.

  As he approached the Oorgaum Bridge, the trolleys thundered overhead, taking their quartz to the mill on the other side. Jack waved to someone who was just stepping into the library on his right. It remained one of the most popular spots in all of KGF – a place where many a whispered item of gossip was exchanged. A lot of that gossip was about Jack, as it happened. But he wasn’t thinking of the very attractive girl he was planning to see later that afternoon. The one person whose face kept swimming into his mind was Iris Walker. When he’d looked at her picture, the fancy had struck him like a bolt of the electrical current Ned controlled so well to all the mines. Iris was staring out of that old photo and straight into his heart. The notion had rocked him. Jack had long ago learned to be careful with Ned’s emotions, for they were fragile, and this thing he had for Iris Walker was very real.

  Jack couldn’t help wondering how Iris would live up to Ned’s vision. He hoped she was every inch the princess Ned believed her to be, but Jack saw something in her glance that told him differently.

  Ned wanted little more than a secure family life. Jack couldn’t help but feel sorry for his friend. As much as Jack would have liked to see his mother again, perhaps impress his father that he was making something of himself, he didn’t want to feel as though he needed anyone – not in the way that Ned constantly needed people around him.

  He smiled ruefully at the very thought of trying to impress his father. He imagined trying to explain to William Bryant how he had covered up the death of a man – a bad man, but it was murder nonetheless. All his stern advice to Ned, advice he had truly believed as he’d delivered it a few years ago, fell away to leave him feeling suddenly filled with the self-hatred he’d become accustomed to back home. He tried to imagine how he’d explain it to his father.

  ‘A man was murdered … and I never said anything. In fact, I went out of my way to cover it up.’

  Jack shook his head, clouds of regret settling about him. He suddenly wished he could see his father again. He hadn’t thought about Walter Rally in years, yet now the cruelty of Wally came back to haunt Jack. He had run away and let his father pick up the pieces.

  As he strode up Funnell’s Hill, feeling suddenly gloomy, he wished he could apologise to his father for being a coward as much as a liar. And then he made a promise to himself. He would go home one day and find those right words and the courage to stand up and tell his father of his ugly deed in Bangalore. His father might never forgive him, but perhaps that would release him from the burden of trying to live up to his high expectations.

  Jack wasn’t hungry or thirsty. In fact, he was exhausted. Nevertheless he steered towards the tiny ‘petty shop’, little more than a kiosk, by the side of the road. Jack had never felt lonelier than he did in that moment, and he was grateful for the sight of another person on the road for it made him stop and snap out of his dark mood.

  ‘Hello, Chinathambi,’ he called.

  ‘Mr Bryant, sir!’ the shopkeeper exclaimed, his hands coming together as though in prayer, a smile beaming. ‘I did not expect you today.’

  ‘No, well, I just thought I’d call in and see if you had some fresh eggs,’ he lied.

  The tall, reed-thin Indian with a deep sing-song voice waggled his head. ‘Yes, yes, very fresh, sir. Laid only this morning.’ He hissed at a young chokra boy. ‘Marimuthu, go get the eggs. Jaldi, jaldi,’ he urged. ‘How are you, Mr Bryant, sir?’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Finished your shift and ready for the shut-eye, as they say,’ Chinathambi said, grinning.

  ‘Indeed.’

  As the son arrived back holding half a dozen eggs, so did a tall girl – his sister, going by her features. Jack had seen her before, instantly recognising the fluid way she walked. It was more of a glide really; like the dancers he’d seen in London. She was barefoot, but golden jewellery around her ankles jangled prettily like bells and her bright-yellow sari was a blaze of colour in the otherwise dark shoebox of a store.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, sir, this is my daughter.’ Jack loved the Indian accent speaking English. Daughter came out
as ‘darter’. He was equally sure that any English person speaking Tamil would sound just as amusing to an Indian. He tried to avoid it for that reason. ‘She is called Kanakammal,’ Chinathambi said proudly.

  She recognised her name and averted her gaze. Chinathambi growled something to the girl and she reluctantly turned to Jack and nodded behind the veil of her sari that she’d drawn across her face. Jack was struck by the shocking lightness of her eyes. They were an arresting dove-grey, and set in the deep chocolate tone of her skin, they were mesmerising.

  ‘You have beautiful eyes, Kanakam,’ he blurted, taken aback by her piercing gaze. As he worked his tongue around her difficult name, he knew he hadn’t succeeded in saying it properly.

  The shopkeeper laughed. ‘Their grandmother on their mother’s side was from Persia. She is my favourite, this one. And she loves her daddy, brings me my meal each day at this time, as you see, sir?’ He gave his daughter a hug.

  Jack noticed that the girl carried a small dekshi wrapped in a linen cloth, its corners tied to form a makeshift handle.

  ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Dhal and rice, sir,’ Chinathambi explained, his hand twisting upright in the air – another trait that Jack liked. He’d seen it used to mean many things. ‘Six annas, Mr Bryant, sir.’

  As he waited for Jack’s payment, Chinathambi issued orders to his children. Jack took his time handing over the coins.

  ‘Is there anything else, Mr Bryant, sir?’

  He reached desperately for a reason to keep him here. ‘Er, yes, actually. Now I come to think of it, I do need some Indian ink.’

  ‘I have only black.’

  ‘I didn’t know it came in different colours,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Oh yes. Blue, and there is talk of red and green, but black is all I ever have.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jack said, imagining a letter in green. He glanced at the daughter, patiently waiting behind the counter. She was as still as a statue, her curious eyes downcast. ‘Do your children speak English?’