The Towers of Silence by Paul Scott

Author:Paul Scott [Scott, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Classics, Historical Fiction
ISBN: 0380718103
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 1978-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

March 8th, 1944

Dear Helen,

It is all right. About Edwina. Let me describe it to you while the detail is fresh in my mind. Ever since the news of the enemy’s invasion of Indian soil we have been alert. This morning when I rose I knew that something of vital importance to our safety had happened. I called Aziz but got no answer. I knocked at Mabel’s door and went in expecting to find her still in bed because it was early. Her bed had been slept in but was empty. I searched. She was nowhere to be found. She and Aziz had gone. The servants’ quarters were abandoned. It didn’t take me long to work it out that everyone was making for the railway station and that a place would have been reserved for me on the train alongside Mabel. In fact I remembered that this had been carefully planned beforehand in the event of Pankot falling in danger of enemy attack.

I packed a few things, closed and bolted all the doors, windows and shutters, and let myself out. Imagine my relief when I saw a tonga waiting. The wallah flourished his whip and warned me to step on it. I thought, ‘I may step on it but can the horse?’ It looked more like an ass than a horse but I thought it would embarrass the driver to have this pointed out. ‘You’d better jump in,’ he said, ‘because they’re coming and everyone’s gone ahead to catch the last train out.’

I stopped trusting him. He observed my hesitation and in a different tone of voice said, ‘What are you waiting for, Barbie? You’d better buck up.’ It was Mr Maybrick in disguise. He had piles of his organ music tied up in untidy bundles in the back. I scrambled in, made room for myself. Off we started. The horse wasn’t lame as I’d feared. We made excellent progress. I felt elated, as in those days when my father took me on a spree and I had to hold my hat on. (It had a wide brim with artificial flowers Mother made out of coloured scraps of velvet). As we bowled down the hill past the golf-course I thought there were people there all wearing hats like this but then realised they were holding up umbrellas, coloured ones, made of paper. Mr Maybrick told me they were fifth columnists and that the golf-course was the rendezvous. We were in danger of being cut off and there was no time to catch the train. We would have to seek refuge in St John’s Church.

It was at this stage that everything became weird. You say I dreamt. But what is a dream? Everything ‘happens’ in the mind whatever the source of the event. Now four-in-hand, first Mr Maybrick and then I whipped the horses down Club road making for the haven of the church. My short grey hair flew black and long and I was filled with joyful longings and expectations. I was not myself.

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