Sun in the Morning by Cadell Elizabeth

Author:Cadell , Elizabeth [Cadell , Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: The Friendly Air Publishing
Published: 2017-03-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

We left for Darjeeling early in March and our departure was quiet. Only Poopy’s father, Marise’s and mine and my sisters stood on the platform beside our carriages—we had three berths in one compartment and Mrs. Knox and her sister shared a coupé next door.

I parted from my sisters reproachfully, for they had seen, and availed themselves of, an opportunity to get rid of Kariman; they had suggested to Mrs. Knox, with the appearance of great unselfishness, that the ayah would be of use in waiting on Poopy, Marise and myself in Darjeeling, and the suggestion had met with Mrs. Knox’s approval. No protests from the three most concerned had been listened to; Kariman was an old and, if not valued, then certainly a trusted servant, and she would relieve Mrs. Knox of the necessity of employing a stranger in Darjeeling.

Besides Kariman, we were to take Mrs. Knox’s cook and both her bearers. They stood a little self-consciously by their bundles of luggage, the latter swollen by the addition of new warm clothing.

Before the train moved, each of us had extracted a promise of a visit from our parent; Sir Guy said that he would come up before leaving for Simla, Mr. Andros left the date open and my father said that he would come in October, when the mists of the monsoon had cleared away and the snow range was once again visible.

“Do you remember the snows?” he asked me.

“Oh, Daddy, of course! Nobody could forget them...”

When we had been borne away, waving until the little group on the station could be seen no more, we turned to inspect the fourth member of our carriage. The name on the card pinned to the carriage door had read Mrs. Vrishna; she had come so late that we had begun to hope that she would not come at all and we should be by ourselves, but a few minutes before our departure, a white-bearded, patriarchal servant had assisted an Indian lady into the carriage, arranged her luggage and left, herding three younger servants towards the third-class carriages lower down the train.

We inspected Mrs. Vrishna discreetly—she looked young, and was short and solidly built. She said nothing, busying herself with unpacking, but she glanced at us once or twice. Something in the glance, or the eyes, or the hair disturbed something deep in my memory. Once disturbed, it kept stirring; it stirred at intervals throughout the first hour of our journey and then I startled everybody by giving a triumphant shout.

“You’re Cloma! Cloma—I can’t remember your other name, but you are Cloma, aren’t you? I knew you were. Poopy, don’t you remember? She was in my class at the Convent and then they put her in a higher one because she went on so fast. Isn’t that so, Cloma? I didn’t recognise you at once because you’ve got so—”

I pulled myself up before the word fat actually burst out, but Cloma supplied it with a gentle smile.

“So fat,” she said. “It’s terrible—I can’t think where it’ll stop.

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