Becoming Lola Page 3

  *

  A few weeks later, holding fast to Patrick Craigie’s hand, Eliza trotted beside him, keeping up with his long stride as they drew close to the ship. She had cried when her ayah said goodbye, but for the moment, the bustle of the docks distracted her.

  The quayside was a kaleidoscope of colour. Here a Brahmin stepped from his gold-curtained palanquin and, with haughty disdain for the crowd around him, strode towards the gangplank. There a massive white bull, painted with bright arabesques and flowers and garlanded with marigolds, helped itself undisturbed to mangoes and cabbages off a vegetable stall. Skinny urchins dodged through the crowd offering to run errands in return for a few annas. A water seller shouting his wares cursed when one of them cannoned into him, splashing water from his goatskin bag onto the dusty ground.

  At the bottom of the SS Malcolm’s gangplank, Eliza dragged her feet. Patrick looked down at her with a solicitous expression. ‘Come along, Eliza.’

  Eliza drew little circles in the dusty ground with the toe of one shoe. Her mother frowned.

  ‘Be a good girl now, Eliza. We will come and see you as soon as we can.’ She held out her hand and hesitantly, Eliza took it.

  ‘There, that’s better,’ said Patrick with a smile. ‘Now shall we go on board and find Lieutenant-Colonel Innes and his wife? They will look after you on the journey.’

  The Inneses’ suite was on the starboard side of the ship. Patrick knocked at the door. When it opened, Eliza saw a tall man dressed, like her stepfather, in army uniform.

  Patrick saluted. ‘Good morning, sir. May I introduce my wife, Elizabeth, and my step-daughter, Eliza?’

  Innes peered down at Eliza. ‘So you are the child who is to sail with us?’ he asked in a gruff voice. His stern expression and ramrod-straight figure looked very intimidating. Eliza hung back, but Elizabeth pushed her forward. ‘Speak when you are spoken to, Eliza.’

  A short, plump woman wearing a voluminous blue dress and with her white hair drawn back from her face in a tight knot bustled in from the next door room. ‘At least the bedding seems clean,’ she said. ‘Have you spoken to the captain yet about washing arrangements, dear?’

  She stopped. ‘Why, Lieutenant Craigie! Forgive me, I didn’t realise you were here.’

  ‘We’ve only just arrived, ma’am. Elizabeth and I are so grateful to you for agreeing to look after Eliza.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be no trouble.’

  At that moment, a loud blast of the ship’s siren sounded. Mrs Innes smiled kindly and reached out her hand. ‘Come, my dear, say goodbye to your mama and Lieutenant Craigie.’

  Eliza felt dismay overwhelm her. She turned her face so that it was half hidden by her hunched shoulder. Mrs Innes took a step forward, a subtle scent of violets wafted with her. ‘We shall have such a lovely time,’ she said. ‘Once we leave harbour there’ll be dolphins to watch and perhaps even whales. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Eliza peeped under her eyelashes as Mrs Innes opened a small door in the wood-panelled wall of the cabin to reveal a tiny room, little bigger than a cupboard. In it was a narrow bunk covered in a pink quilt. ‘See, you even have your own special bed to sleep in.’

  ‘How cosy it looks, Eliza,’ Elizabeth said. ‘What a lucky girl you are, to be sure.’

  Mrs Innes smiled. ‘I expect you know lots of games. I’d like it very much if you would show me some new ones.’

  Eliza took a hesitant step towards the outstretched hand. ‘I play games with my ayah. We play hide and seek. That’s my favourite.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  Two blasts of the ship’s siren rattled the cabin door. Eliza felt her stepfather’s strong, sinewy hand on her head; his voice sounded hoarse. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’

  ‘Will you give me a kiss, Eliza?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Eliza stood on tiptoe. The shovel brim of her mother’s bonnet hid her eyes, the lips that brushed Eliza’s cheek felt cool.

  Elizabeth straightened up again. ‘Be a good girl for Lieutenant-Colonel and Mrs Innes,’ she said briskly.

  Back on deck, Eliza watched her mother and stepfather wave from the quayside then the ship’s siren boomed three times. She felt the deck judder as they moved away from the shore. Tears pricked her eyes. Scotland seemed a very long way off.

  That first night, in spite of Mrs Innes’s kindness, Eliza cried herself to sleep. The next day, she trailed disconsolately about in her wake. It was only after a few days had passed that the novelty of shipboard life proved a sufficient distraction to dispel her homesickness.

  As Mrs Innes had promised, they saw dolphins leaping in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, and once, in the distance, a whale spouting. Eliza liked the romantic names of the places they passed: the Eastern Ghats and the Coromandel Coast. Even Lieutenant-Colonel Innes unbent a little. In spite of his wife’s concern that Eliza might be frightened by them, he regaled her with bloodcurdling stories of pirates and shipwrecks that she begged to hear over and over again. At Madras, when they docked to take on rice, coconuts and sugarcane, one of the crew threw a coconut in the air and sliced it in half with one blow of his knife to amuse her. She laughed as the blade flashed and watery milk sprayed out.

  As the weeks wore on, however, the ship’s course took them out of sight of land. The endless expanse of ocean, now the grey, cold waters of the South Atlantic, lowered everyone’s spirits. Eliza missed her ayah and her old home. The ship’s meals dwindled to thin stews and gruels, served with hard bread. Water was rationed to five pints a day for each person, barely enough for drinking, washing and cooking. Instead of the lovely, leisurely baths her ayah had given her, Eliza had to shiver through a cold strip wash once a week.

  But through it all, Mrs Innes’s kindness cheered her, and a real affection grew up between them. The lady was a born teacher and under her patient tutelage, Eliza’s reading and writing improved greatly. Mrs Innes was shocked that she had been used to doing so little for herself. ‘You are not too young to know how to brush your own hair and lace your shoes,’ she said firmly. ‘And it’s time you learnt how to cut up your food and use a knife and fork to eat it. No more feeding you as if you were a little bird.’

  One of Eliza’s favourite lessons was embroidery. Amid so much grey, the rich shades of the wools that Mrs Innes gave her to work with delighted her, for they reminded her of the vibrant colours of India. By the time the Malcolm steamed up the busy Thames estuary one fine morning in the middle of May, she had sewn a neat, cross-stitch picture of a thatched house, with a country garden crammed with lavender, hollyhocks and roses. She hoped that her new home would look like it.

  When the ship came to rest at Blackwall docks, Patrick Craigie’s sister, Catherine Rae, and her husband waited to meet them. Eliza felt full of misgivings: here was another new life to get used to. When the time came to disembark, Mrs Innes hugged her and said goodbye with a tremor in her voice. ‘Be a good girl, Eliza. I hope we shall meet again one day.’

  Chapter 3

  The first thing Eliza noticed about Montrose was its smell. Later she learnt it came from the markets by the harbour where herrings were cleaned and gutted for sale. The fishy stench mingled with the salt tang of the wind blowing up the estuary that sheltered the town from the North Sea.

  They arrived on a cool, damp evening as a fine rain fell over the town, making the streets gleam like polished pewter. Tired after the long journey from London, Eliza’s spirits sank at the sight of the sober, grey stone houses and the drab shops. No pretty cottages and flower gardens here.

  It was eight o’clock by the time the coach deposited them at the house. Patrick Craigie’s father, another Patrick, and his wife Mary had dined early as usual but supper was set out for the travellers in the parlour. While the adults talked of the journey and the news from London, Eliza ate her bowl of thick soup in silence, hungry enough to finish every drop, although she found the bland mixture of barley and vegetables tasteless compared with the spicy food of India. Her eyes darte
d around the room. Dark-green paper embossed with lozenges picked out in drab brown covered the walls. The button-backed chairs arranged around the fireplace had their legs concealed by ruffled skirts. A large oil lamp with a globular, etched glass shade stood on a side table. The rest of the light in the room came from a heavy, brass chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling.

  There were many ornaments: a brass clock on the mantelpiece; domed glass cases containing stuffed birds and small animals that she did not recognise; a pair of tawny and white china dogs sitting on their haunches and numerous pots containing spiky, flowerless plants. Beside Mary Craigie’s chair stood a basket of wool from which a skein of grey stretched to the sock she knitted as she talked.

  The crackle of the fire and the click of needles made Eliza feel sleepy. She cupped her chin in her hands and yawned.

  ‘I expect you are ready for bed, Eliza,’ Catherine Rae said. She got to her feet. ‘I will take you up and show you your room.’

  Together they mounted the stairs. The treads were of dark, well-polished wood that creaked beneath their feet. Mezzotints framed in black depicting highland scenes and ruined castles lined the wall opposite the banisters.

  ‘Here we are,’ Catherine said walking into a small room and holding the door open for Eliza to follow her. The lamp on the table by the iron-framed bed cast a yellowish glow over off-white walls and a bare floor relieved only by a faded rag rug. Thin curtains hung at the single window and a washstand held a plain white basin and jug.

  Catherine pointed to a chest at the end of the bed. ‘Your clean clothes will be kept in there and there are hooks on the back of the door.’

  Eliza went to the half-open window and looked out into the darkness. The rain had stopped but fog, grey as an elephant’s hide, enveloped the street. Catherine snapped open the locks of the trunk the manservant had brought upstairs earlier. ‘Most of these clothes will be unsuitable for our Scottish climate,’ she remarked, ‘but I suppose they’ll have to serve for the time being. Now, let me see, here’s a nightdress that will do for tonight.’

  Eliza shivered. She did not want to undress in this chilly room but Catherine was adamant. Soon, her clothes had been hung up and, wearing the nightdress, she wriggled into the tightly tucked bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The sheets felt like ice and her teeth chattered. ‘It’s so cold,’ she complained.

  Catherine frowned. ‘Fresh air is good for you,’ she said, but she went across to the window and pulled it shut a little. She picked up the oil lamp and took it to the door, then paused a moment. The lamp flame cast a warm light over her strong jaw and Roman nose, softening the appearance of her face. ‘Sleep well, Eliza.’

  The door closed with a click. Eliza lay in the darkness listening. A feeling of unease oppressed her. Montrose seemed so quiet and alien. The cold air blew through the window, stinging her cheeks. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. As the rain hissed down once more, she slept.

  *

  After breakfast the next morning, Catherine completed the unpacking of the trunk, watched by Eliza who sat on the bed swinging her legs in time to a private tune going on in her head.

  ‘There, all done,’ Catherine said at last. ‘Now we’ll go to the nursery. I think there are some old toys there you can play with.’

  The nursery had not been used for years but it still contained several china dolls, a bear whose fur was almost worn away with age, and a box of dominos. Eliza passed the day happily enough.

  Late that afternoon, she sat in the parlour with Catherine and Mary Craigie as they knitted and talked. After an hour, Catherine looked up at the brass clock on the wall. ‘I think you should have a bath tonight, Eliza,’ she said. ‘There’s time before tea.’

  She stood up and tugged the bell pull beside the mantelpiece. Somewhere in the house, a distant clanging sounded. A few minutes later, a maid dressed in smart black covered with a spotless white apron entered the room. ‘Ah, Betsy,’ Catherine said, ‘please take the tin bath up to the nursery and fill it with water. Ask Sarah to help you.’

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried away.

  Half an hour later, Eliza eyed the tub.

  ‘What’s the matter, child?’ Catherine asked. ‘Did you never have baths in India?’

  ‘Oh yes, my ayah bathed me twice a day. She washed me in the waters of the Holy Ganges.’

  Her aunt raised a disapproving eyebrow. ‘You must learn not to tell tall stories, Eliza.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘It’s rude to argue, Eliza. Apologise at once.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Eliza muttered.

  ‘That’s better. Now take off your dress and undergarments and jump in before the water grows cold.’

  Eliza dipped her hand into the tub then snatched it away. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered, but then seeing her aunt’s stern expression, she began to peel off her clothes. She was a sorry sight without them: thin and small for her age. Her thick, dark hair and her large eyes, of such a deep blue that they were almost black, made her skin look pale as paper.

  Catherine took up the large bar of carbolic soap that stood on the little table beside the tub and dunked it into the water. She picked up a flannel then lathered it briskly. Beginning at the neck, she soaped Eliza all the way down to her ankles. ‘Now we must wash your feet.’

  Eliza held up each foot in turn. ‘My ayah says I have very pretty ones.’

  ‘God gives us our bodies, Eliza. There’s no cause for vanity.’

  Catherine straightened up. ‘There we are, that’s better. In future you’ll have a bath once a week.’

  Eliza looked doubtful.

  ‘Once a week is quite enough, hot water and soap don’t grow on trees. Now duck under and rinse off the soap.’

  Eliza looked at the water, now slicked with a pungent, yellow film. She hesitated.

  ‘What a fuss,’ Catherine snorted. She scooped up a handful of water and tipped it over Eliza’s shoulders. Quickly, Eliza ducked under the water and emerged as fast. Catherine stepped back in alarm as she jumped out of the bath and stood dripping on the mat like a bedraggled kitten rescued from a water butt.

  ‘Really Eliza, there’s no need for that. Look at the floor! There’s water everywhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Catherine sighed and held out a small towel. Eliza didn’t move. ‘Surely you know how to dry yourself?’ Catherine frowned.

  ‘Ayah always dried me.’

  ‘Here you’ll dry yourself.’ She draped the towel around Eliza’s bird-thin shoulders, but suddenly Eliza’s face lit up with a smile of such mischievous charm that her aunt’s heart softened. ‘Oh very well, I’ll help you, but just this once, mind.’

  Eliza perched on the side of the bath as her aunt rubbed her down and dried her feet carefully between each toe.

  ‘Ayah always said we must dry my bottom very well too,’ she giggled.

  Catherine emitted an involuntary gasp. ‘Eliza! I don’t want to hear you use that word again. It’s most improper.’

  Eliza drew down the corners of her mouth and tried to look repentant. Mama had not liked her to say that word either and she had been cross with ayah for allowing it, but it was fun to tease her aunt. She hid a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Catherine,’ she said meekly.

  *

  The following Sunday, as was their custom, the family walked from the house to the sandstone church in the centre of the town. The weather had cleared and tulips and forget-me-nots brightened the front gardens of the houses along the way. Church bells pealed in the clear air and Eliza skipped along beside Catherine clutching the small bunch of flowers she had been allowed to pick to bring with her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Rae, I trust you are well?’

  Eliza felt her aunt stiffen as a woman dressed in a plain black cloak and bonnet accosted them. She had a pinched, disapproving face.

  ‘Very well thank you, Mrs McDonald, and looking forward to your husband’
s sermon.’

  ‘I take it this is your niece?’ Mrs McDonald stared at Eliza who returned the look. The minister’s wife coloured.

  ‘Why are you carrying those flowers, child?’

  ‘In India people always bring flowers to the gods.’

  ‘We must go in Eliza,’ Catherine said hastily. ‘If you will excuse us, Mrs McDonald?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Aunt Catherine?’ Eliza asked as her aunt hurried her away.

  ‘You must not say such a thing, Eliza.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s naughty.’

  Eliza sat down beside her aunt in the family pew and laid the flowers in her lap. She felt bewildered. So many things seemed to be different in Scotland. She was not sure that she liked it.

  A hush fell when the minister appeared. He announced the opening hymn and the organ wheezed into life. Eliza felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Now remember, don’t fidget,’ Catherine whispered.

  Eliza liked to sing and she joined in lustily as the congregation followed the laborious strains of the organ. But a few minutes into the sermon that followed, her attention wandered from the minister’s stentorian admonishments. Checking to see that her aunt was not looking, she undid her small bouquet of flowers then leant forward to put a sprig of stitchwort into the powdered wig of the elderly gentleman dozing in the pew in front of them. A puff of powder from the tight, horsehair rolls dusted her hands. Lips pursed in concentration, she added two harebells, a daisy and a sprig of heather.

  ‘Stop that at once.’

  Eliza jumped at the intensity of her aunt’s voice. ‘Take those out immediately,’ Catherine hissed.

  Eliza stifled a giggle and removed the wilting flowers but their pollen left a stain on the wig. Red-faced, Catherine glanced surreptitiously at the rest of the congregation.