White Butterflies by Colin Mcphedran

Author:Colin Mcphedran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NewSouth

Chapter 15

Getting Away

Back at the Smees’ home I became restless. They recognised this and decided, without consulting me, that they must do something about it. One night they called me.

‘Colin, I must admit that your few months with us have been somewhat different from what we had envisaged,’ Mr Smee said. ‘We have come to accept that it is not a simple task for two people in their twilight years to understand the feelings of a young lad.’

Mrs Smee nodded.

‘I have been in touch with a fellow Christian in the South of India who has a young family,’ Mr Smee went on. ‘The time has come for you to be brought up with children of your own age. You will attend the same school as the two youngest Beer children. The arrangements are made. You will be leaving us in two days’ time. We will always keep you in our prayers.’

I displayed qualified enthusiasm. I was torn. I yearned to get away, and wanted to be with other youngsters, although I would have baulked at the idea of boarding school. The thought of joining a family was appealing, but I could not be certain that the move to another strange household was the right one. How I wished I was physically fit. I could have walked away and headed back into Burma. With bags packed, a few words of advice and a good dose of spiritual bidding, I was on my way to the great South land. The train journey to Bangalore would take several days, this being war-time, and I was to stop off at Madras along the way. Mr Smee drove me to Howrah Station on the Western bank of the Hoogly River. It was late afternoon and all pedestrian traffic seemed to be headed to this wide muddy stretch of water.

The rivers I had crossed during the trek out of Burma had been relatively clear, but the Hoogly looked like an outpouring of melting milk chocolate. My knowledge of geography told me that the river was a tributary of the mighty Ganges. This stretch of water must have moved along many hundreds of miles through the most populous regions in India. Along the way it had probably served as a huge sewer; that would account for its appearance. At the station forecourt we were set upon by a horde of scrambling porters all eager to carry my worldly possessions tucked away in a fibre suitcase.

Howrah was no different from any other stations in India, serving not only as people movers, but also as centres for hawkers, pimps, thieves and families. They ate, slept and defecated in the concrete structures amid the odour of rubbish, cooking and the ever-pungent coke-fired engines. The walk to my compartment was an obstacle course and the din from hissing, steaming engines and the clanging of goods was deafening. I entered my compartment, a four-berth carriage, and smiled at my fellow travellers. They were Indians who appeared to be well-educated government employees. I soon settled in and long before the train set off we were chatting like long-lost friends.

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