Seasons of the Neem

By Angela Halge

Can love survive the ever-changing kaleidoscope of lifes challenges or is it just a mirage forever out of reach?

Seasons of the Neem is a spellbinding book of love, revenge, mystery and secrets.

Set in the dying days of the British Raj, nineteen year old Alison Shaw has to make a decision about her future. Her life unexpectedly changes when she falls in love with the handsome and dashing Captain Michael Balfour Brown. But before her idyllic life can unfold she is victim of a shocking event that changes everything.

As political turmoil, Partition, deception and prejudice intervene; Alison draws her inner strength from resilience and the power of love..

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496998545

Angela Halge

Angela Halge was born in Middlesex in the UK but went to India at the age of three. She migrated to Australia in 1970 and worked as a teacher for the Education Department of Western Australia for almost three decades. In the 1980’s she took a break from teaching and ran her own fashion business for ten years. Inspired by anecdotal accounts of the dying days of the Raj she felt compelled to write a narrative for posterity borrowing from real historical events that would encapsulate with accuracy the beliefs and mores of the times.

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© 2015 Angela Halge. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9853-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9852-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9854-5 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

Love and thanks to my husband David and my daughter Shea for their continual support during the writing of this book and for believing in me.

To my late Mum, thank you for the gift of creativity and perseverance. You shall always be remembered for giving me the legacy of a good education.

Thanks to my Father, the late Marmaduke Ian George Herford-Alley (ex - Royal Signals) for the vibrant accounts of life in British India. I thank you also for bequeathing a small portion of your love of words and pursuit of knowledge into my genetic make- up.

A special thanks to the following for the roles they have played in providing in-sights, stories and understanding of life in the dying days of the Raj, during Partition and Post War England.

To my Aunt Shirley Barker for her detailed description of life at St Bede Teacher’s Training College in Simla.

To my Great Grand- mother Gracie Day (deceased) who spent many an evening keeping us grand-children enthralled with her stories of life in Delhi during Partition.

To Maureen Doutre, wife of the late Colonel Ted Doutre for the details she provided about life at their first posting at Dagshai.

To the late Jan and Larry Mead (British Indian Army) who provided a detailed account of life in England in the early 1940’s.

To all those members of the Anglo-Indian community whose love of narrative about ‘days of the Raj’ was a colourful tapestry woven into our everyday life.

The following are fictitious:

St Brigit’s Teacher’s College in Simla.

The one teacher school in Jarrahdale, Western Australia.

I would like to thank the contributors to the book ‘Stories from Headmasters’ Wives’ (On life in Western Australia – one teacher Schools) for the valuable insights on life and the role of teachers in one-teacher schools in Western Australia.

Slowly he walked with peaceful gait

Head gently bowed,

Hands clasped together in salutation

He took his place at the foot of the neem.

Oh! Gentle fakir, she said

"Why sit you there?

I have prepared a place for you by yonder guava tree."

Behold the neem, he said

"It is the tree of trees.

Do not its branches give us shade in all the seasons?

Like life, it is God’s gift to us.

It’s fruit draws goodness from the earth

To replenish the hunger of the spirit.

Its juice, a gentle pacifier of the senses

Helps to restore the balance of change.

Its bitterness heals like balm to the soul.

Is it not then, the ever mindful reminder of life;

With all its bitter-sweetness?

It is a refuge for all beings

The peace- maker for all souls.

A constant reminder that we are

And life is, but a dream.

Hence I sit under the neem."

Chapter 1

March 1946

"Alison Baba, palang ka chai, chai pio; drink your tea."

She stirred dreamily; unhurriedly easing herself into a sitting position before taking the cup from Bitya’s extended hand.

Ta Bitya, she smiled, taking a sip of the scalding liquid before putting the cup down on the bedside table.

"Jaldi, jaldi, quick, quick, much to do, Alison Baba," she called as she retraced her steps to the dining room.

Bitya could never quite understand that drinking tea first thing in the morning made her feel quite bilious.

Not quite my cup of tea, she would quip with a laugh, but Bitya never got it.

Yes Baba! Your tea, I make it myself, only for you.

Sitting inert for a few moments, feeling disconcerted, Alison hugged her knees to her chest placing her chin down in a resting position. She sat suspended between the reality of her dream and the present moment. She was finding it difficult to separate the two, the dream still running in her mind even though she was in a state of wakefulness.

She had been moving with synchronistic harmony to the rhythmic beat of the chugging train as it meandered its way through the winding hills making a slow ascent. A knight in shining armour on white glimmering steed stood in the middle of the track beckoning the train to slow down. It came to a grinding halt.

In exaggerated slow motion he lifted his visor and with deliberation made his way to her carriage window. His eyes the colour of a clear blue sky with iridescent flecks of grey darkened to the deepest blue, his pupils dark and mysterious widened as he held her gaze.

Where have you been? he said. I have searched for you in the infinity of time.

She opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck tenaciously to the back of her throat refusing to evolve into sounds. His eyes held hers in visual embrace. For some unknown reason she felt drawn in, unable to tear herself away.

The encounter with the stranger had left her shaken. Romance was the last thing on her mind, yet she felt mystified by the intensity of the emotional charge between the knight and herself. Incinerating thoughts that did not dove-tail into her plans of self- determination she drained the cup without giving it much thought, reluctant to get out of bed even though she knew she had to get a move on.

The air was heavy with the scent of spring. The raucous cawing of the crows interspersed with the full throttled cry of the mynahs and the soft chirrup of sparrows crowded the morning. Every now and then the bul-bul emitted its distinctive greeting. The faint antiseptic spiciness of the neem flowers wafted on the air but today she did not have time to savour its offerings, she was on a different mission. Today she had a train to catch.

The bungalow already alive with activity had lost its lay back feel. Bailal the cook was deep in the throes of toast and scrambled eggs or ‘rumble tumble’ as he called it. Sounds of the activity of shuffling feet filtered through to the bedroom bouncing off the high ceilings and hung in the air reminding her that she better get a move on.

Glancing out of the large window, its parted brocade curtains gently moving with the breeze, the view through her mosquito net took on a filtered view. Her father, the Colonel, was sitting on the veranda on a wicker chair deeply engrossed in ‘The Times of India,’ cup of tea in his hand, his brow furrowed. Not more trouble she hoped. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Da.

Justifiably concerned at the rapidly changing political climate she realised that the unrest in India was now becoming widespread as the ‘Quit India’ movement was gaining momentum. Demonstrations, becoming more frequent and menacing, pushed her father into the fracas. Every day there were incidents involving the naked fakir Gandhi, the dynamic and charismatic Nehru, the Muslim leader Jinnah, Subash Chandra Bose, or one of the villages where there was an uprising. The fragile balance between the Hindus and Muslims was being disrupted. An essence of suspicion had been planted in the minds of the Muslims as the Congress Party with its Hindu leaders took on a Hindu facade. The Muslim League, she sadly reflected, was now insisting on the division of India, creating a land for the Muslims.

Bitya the ayah called out, "Alison Misssahib, jaldi karo, hurry, hurry, breakfast tayar hai; breakfast is now ready, you have much to do today, you will be late."

"Mai aah raha hu, I’m on my way,’’ she called back in Anglo-Indian patois. Tell Bailal I’ll be there in about five minutes.

She smiled, good old Bitya. Having taken on the role of surrogate Mother after her own Mother had died unexpectedly of a ruptured appendix when she was nine; she was tuned to her needs with the vigilance of a mother hen.

She washed and dressed quickly, her athletic body shapely yet lithe in grey slacks, white pin tucked short sleeved shirt with Peter Pan collar. An inch or two taller than the average woman of her generation, her upright bearing and energetic enthusiasm made quite an impression. The vitality and energy she radiated, apparent in the quickness of her movements, took the words ordinary right out of the equation.

She decided to take a light cardigan and an overcoat with her when she left later in the evening. Although the plains were warming up she knew from experience that the ascent into the hills would result in chilly weather. She had packed the week before. The nine months spent in St Bridget’s, the Teacher’s Training College in Simla, meant that she had to anticipate her needs for almost a year. Surveying the Viceroy trunk to determine if she had packed the necessary clothes, she quickly flicked through her almirah to see if she had left anything important behind. Beside it, packed to capacity, sat another large steel trunk with tuck food, text books and equipment.

Mother Christina’s habits draped on the armchair in their brown paper wrapping reminded her that she would have to carry them separately. This had become a yearly ritual, Mother Christina sent her new measurements to the durzi or tailor, and he would alter the existing habits and make some new ones. There were plenty of durzis in Simla but Mother Christina insisted that Muneer Ahmed was the only durzi who knew exactly how to fit her.

Approaching the dining room Alison was her usual cheery self. Life for her was an adventure, making her alive to every moment in existence. Yes, today was definitely going to be one of those really exciting days when the unexpected happens. Would her dream be an omen of things to come? She pushed the memory to the furthest recesses of her mind.

Da as she called him was already at the breakfast table; his copper tinged whiskers a gathering place for the crumbs from the toast.

Morning Al, hope you slept well last night, big day today!

His voice boomed, its deep timbre reverberating off the walls of the large Victorian dining room. Attired in military khaki, his sizeable frame with its generous proportions was an asset to the dark mahogany dining table at which he was seated. Alison planted a kiss on his forehead. Grey eyes twinkling, he gazed fondly at his daughter.

Morning Da, not too well, too excited I guess.

All packed? he queried.

A week ago, she answered. I’ve just a few last minute things to do.

Scanning the plate laden with eggs, bacon and toast that Bitya placed in front of her with some dismay, she realised she would be expected to do it justice.

My last year at St Brigit’s, can’t wait to meet my friends again. I saw you reading the paper, any improvement in the current situation?

It’s falling apart Al, I’m not sure that things will hold out, he said chewing ponderously on another mouthful of eggs and toast.

The birth of social and religious conscience is very likely a catalyst for change my girl, but in today’s world it means ‘danger…

He was more vocal than usual, his normally short sentences convoluted and lengthy as if he wanted to get a message across.

But Da, she interrupted shaking her head impatiently; We’re so safe here in the cantonment. It’s hard to believe that the country is in such a state of upheaval. She nodded briefly at the bearer, who hastened to pour piping hot tea into the cup.

It’s a danger you haven’t quite comprehended, Alison. India is no longer the safe haven of your childhood. Aziz will accompany you.

Oh Da! she interjected.

No, Oh Da! he retorted. He’ll travel in the male third class compartment and he’ll check on you at every major station.

Da, I’ve done this journey before, there are a whole lot of us travelling together, she said looking at him in disbelief. I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.

He had that no nonsense expression in his eyes. Nonsense girl, we’re expecting trouble, the country’s a bloody mess, one never knows what to expect.

She made an effort not to react too strongly; questions in her eyes. More trouble? she asked, her eyebrows rising inquiringly as her voice softened.

He shook his head. It’s hard to believe but even the sepoys are becoming notorious for changing allegiances. Gandhi wouldn’t agree, but violence my child, has become the ultimate panacea for freedom.

Bitya hovered near the dark mahogany side-board anticipating Alison’s need for more tea or toast, she looked worried too. Her tiny frame less than five foot high appeared bent and frail as she leaned forward intent on gleaning snippets of the conversation. She patted her white hair held in a bun at the nape of her neck adjusting the end of her sari as it slipped off her head. Her toothless mouth widened in a smile as she placed a glass of milk in front of Alison who was too stimulated by the impending journey to indulge with exuberance. Moving the food around her plate in practised moves she picked at it with indifference. No need to alarm Bitya who was quite likely to insist that she finish her breakfast.

She remembered the days when as a little girl she had held the spoon to her pursed lips willing her to open her mouth and swallow saying, Kholo baby churia, kholo- open little bird, open. The spoon would dive back and forth like a bird in flight, until Alison finished the contents of her plate. Gulping down the hot tea that the bearer poured into her cup with astonishing speed as if the remnants were to be part of a tea leaf reading, her mind was a hundred miles away.

Da smiled, I’m going to miss you when you are gone. You’re a spirited one Al, chip of the old block. He lifted his cup and drank deeply, his eyes for a moment watery and misted over.

She was a delicate balance, with the best from both her parents. She smiled at him warmly, the bright glow of her skin intensified by her long wavy chestnut hair. It framed her face with soft waves, a tendril escaping to cover her oval face. She lifted green flecked hazel eyes with a look of concern. For a moment she looked so like her Mother that he felt a surge of nostalgia and had to look away to avoid the teary gaze that threatened to expose his vulnerability.

Damn! she said, impatiently.

Watch your language, girl, he interjected.

Things are changing so rapidly Da, if only they could stay the same.

The golden oasis of the cantonment; home to the British army and Police officers in India had become a worrisome discussion ground about the present turbulent situation. The Officers Club rife with stories about the latest disaster sent a shiver down her spine. Even the tennis matches at the club were interspersed with occasional snippets of news and information about yet another family who had decided to leave before the anarchy became widespread. As they sipped their chota or burra pegs of whiskies and gins on the cool lawns of the club or on their rambling verandas the unrest of the teeming millions hung like an approaching thunderstorm before the monsoon.

George Shaw and his daughter were caught up in the dichotomous position they were now in, their deadly sin was to ignore the simmering pot of discontent. The melting pot that they were a part of was beset with its own complications.

The problem, said Da, glancing at the paper at the far end of the table; Is we have got to make a decision. Self Rule is just around the corner, it’s going to eventuate whether we like it or not. We have to decide what is to become of us.

I’m trying not to think about it Da, she said looking away.

He was quiet for a few moments.

I know you love India, girl. Our family has been here for generations. He bent forward ready to reach for his teacup. The orderly anticipating his every need through years of practise refilled it. He reached for it absentmindedly.

She leaned halfway across the table. I don’t think of England as home Da, it has never occurred to me that our home isn’t India. I’m sick to death of Anglo-Indians talking about England as home when they have lived all of their lives here. The look on her face was one of pure bewilderment. I really wish life did not have to become so complex.

No use burying our heads in the sand Al, the country will not be the same after Independence. Are we going to stay, or do we leave for England at the end of this year? His voice was questioning, almost demanding an answer.

I’m going to have to give it some thought, Da.

We’re between the devil and the deep blue sea. They issued us with British passports so we can move out at any time; the trouble is I’m not sure where we fit in. It’s Britain for the British and India for the Indians.

Good lord, Da, she said, You’ve hit the nail on the head, where exactly do we belong?

That my dear child is the burning question.

She gave a deep sigh. It’s a damn nuisance; it seems that what we have is a dilemma.

* * * * * * *

It had never escaped them that Victorian India, initiated by the ‘memsahibs’, the British wives who sought to segregate their men folk from the exotic temptations of the indigenous female population was the manipulator of events that followed. They had contrived to develop a ‘better than thou attitude,’ that resulted in the social segregation of the English and Indians.

However the first generation of Englishmen had enchantingly succumbed to this tempting situation with fervour. The result was a new race of people – the Anglo Indians. They were a curious mixture, sons and daughters of the Raj, suspended between two worlds; the world of English culture and India the land of their birth.

The Shaw’s were one such family. Exported from England in the eighteenth century to set up opium farms for medicinal purposes, Jonathan Shaw was given large tracts of land in a village in the North of India. When his first wife died he married a begum; daughter of the local Muslim ruler and consolidated his holdings on even more land.

These unions suited the British who needed allies to protect the ‘jewel in the crown.’ In fact as an act of self preservation they had set up a deliberate policy of encouragement of these liaisons. By encouraging British males to marry Indian women of noble birth they created a micro-minority who could aid in the enforcement of British rule. The East India Company paid fifteen silver rupees for each child born to an Indian mother and European father.

The history of the past had never escaped them. Lord Cornwallis disheartened by the British defeat in America was wary of the offspring of British personnel born in a foreign land. History had taught him that their loyalties were divided. The introduction of the Cornwallis legislation from 1786, excluded British men who had Indian wives from direct involvement in any occupation that was directly involved in administration or land ownership. What was once worn as a badge of honour was now worn as a badge of shame.

Being rich enough to send his children back to England to be educated Jonathon Shaw’s children were successfully absorbed into main stream British society when they returned to India. Thereafter every generation was sent back to England for the final years of their schooling. This was to ensure that they could take the necessary exams that were only administered in England and successfully enter the British Indian Civil service and return as covenanted hands.

Generations later, the Shaw’s maintained their unique identity. To preserve their economic and social status the large portrait of the begum that hung in a prominent place at the family farm was ferreted away. Like most others in the community they had swept records on any such allegiances under the carpet.

The lilting notes of the reveille filtered through and hung in abeyance as if waiting for the Shaw’s to make a decision. Would they leave India as part of the general exodus, or would they become part of the new social order. The strangeness of reality is that sometimes decisions are made based on uncontrollable circumstances. Both Father and daughter were caught in the dance of decision. They both loved their lives in the idyllic India of the past; it was the unpredictable India of the future that was a concern.

* * * * * * *

She glanced at her father wondering what the future would hold. The Colonel was a popular figure with his men. His fairness and sense of humour a counterpart for the loyalty that they gave him. Tenaciously fearless and unbending when it came to discipline, he displayed a humane approach when dealing with the men in his regiment. Unlikely to fly off the handle when provoked with terms like You bloody wog, a common place description which he felt was unwarranted and did not make for group solidarity. He was hard wired to see the world as good fighting evil and had a realistic approach to every situation. Now he was caught in the crossfire. A seasoned soldier, years of allegiance to The Crown in the British Indian Army meant that he was now at the forefront of decision making in the turmoil.

Alison quickly finished her breakfast and rose.

Don’t worry Da; we’ll be on the lookout. We’ll keep the louvres shut and the doors locked. We won’t let anyone into the compartment. She tossed her head with a determined nod as if that problem was taken care of. Darting back to the bedroom she collected her belongings and placed her pillow into her holdall before she called out to the orderly.

Orderly, take the holdall and trunks to the veranda. They would be transferred to the Army jeep waiting under the portico at a later hour when she would travel with Da in the Austin to the station.

"Aacha, Misssahib," he called back hurrying to follow through; his footsteps quick and seasoned.

Aziz, she shouted, Chalo. I need to go to Civil Lines to do some last minute shopping.

I’m coming Misssahib Alison, the ghari is ready and waiting, he exclaimed in halting English, referring to the Austin in the driveway.

Used to impromptu arrangements he promptly arrived on the scene. He never knew from hour to hour what Alison Misssahib was planning to do. The Austin made its way through the cantonment stopping as Alison dropped in to visit her Godmother, Aunty King for a cup of tea and a hasty goodbye.

I’ve made you some pickles and jam child, you’ll need them when you don’t like the food. Now don’t forget to pack them.

Thanks Aunty King. Alison kissed the white haired lady hugging her affectionately.

Now be good lass and promise to write, tell me everything, every little detail. It’s very lonely without you.

I promise, I promise Aunt King, you’ll get a letter from me every week. I have to drop in to see Father Peter; he has a parcel for his sister who is a nun at our convent.

Standing in the shadows of the porch she waved goodbye. Have a safe journey. I’ll miss you, Toodle-loo, she called. There’s never a dull moment when you’re around.

The time spun out of control and before Alison knew it, it was time to depart.

"Mai ja raha hu, I’m leaving," she called out to Bailal, Bitya and the house orderlies. They arrived on the front porch anxious to say their goodbyes their actions motivated by the genuine fondness they had for her rather than the baksheesh she gave them.

"Salaam Misssahib theek rao, they chanted in unison. Ghar bohoott chup chap rahigah, the house will be very quiet."

Cheerio, she called jumping into the waiting Austin, leather bag slung over one shoulder and brown paper package in her arms; the bulging habits ready to split their wrapping at any given moment.

Ta, ta, Misssahib, they called back waving their hands and watching the car till it became a speck in the distance. Bitya used the end of her sari to wipe a tear from her eyes then walked forlornly into the bungalow. The house wouldn’t be the same with Missy Alison away she reasoned to herself. It would be a long nine months without her.

The drive through the Delhi cantonment was swift. Large colonial bungalows flashed by as the car sped on the straight, wide roads. Straining her eyes to take in the landscape she sighed, I’m going to miss this place; I’ve had such good times here.

No place quite like home, Da chuckled. Before you know it you’ll be back.

She nodded in agreement afraid to speak lest her voice give away the emotion she felt.

They sped past rambling officers bungalows with ample land holdings and smaller lower rank officer’s bungalows on smaller plots. The bungalows were set back from the road by a walled compound. These early bungalows with pitched tiled roofs built up to the 1900’s were a mixture of the Gothic revival in England and the colonial style that had developed over time. They were single storeyed with a military precise symmetrical layout; large airy rooms that ran into each other with the characteristic high ceiling to disperse the heat, no central passage dividing the entry to each room but the appropriate use of curtains in doorways as a mark of demarcation. Multi-functional verandas located around three sides of the building created a shady haven against the blistering summer heat and hot swirling ‘loo.’ The kitchen, usually connected with a covered walkway, was located at the rear of the house with an adjoining store room. Running parallel to the rear of the house the servant’s quarters extended, placing them within easy reach.

Over the years as the elite in the British Raj evolved so too did the aggrandisements of each bungalow. The English styled gardens with their rose bushes, petunias, pansies, larkspurs, sweet peas, phlox and snapdragons, neatly trimmed hedges, manicured lawns and perfumed laden trees a welcome sight for the eyes. Every now and then a heavily laden bougainvillea or climbing lantana would emerge, adding a dash of colour to the regulated landscape.

The cantonment disappeared as they sped past the Catholic Church and then past the impressive Anglican cathedral and cemetery.

As they left the cantonment with its ample tree lined avenues the landscape changed to poorly constructed dwellings, narrower roads, busy bazaars and noisy crowds. Enthusiastic vendors surrounded by a group of buyers an all too frequent sight. They noticed none of these sights. They were a generation of people who saw everything but saw nothing. Anesthetised by the British dogma of superiority they accepted the social order of things without question, the lifestyle of the elite ruling class an opiate against change.

Alison and Da were deep in conversation discussing the civil unrest when the entourage took a turn onto the main road leading to the Old Delhi station. Ahead the stately columns of the railway station were visible; it’s red and cream stone work and Neo Gothic architecture made it a dominant sight. The red turrets dominated the skyline long before the building was in view.

The entrance to the building was a conflux of activity. Military personnel conspicuously moved around with efficient purposefulness. Coolies in red turbans and khaki uniforms scuttled from place to place some carrying two or three trunks on their heads; their knees buckling under the weight. The activity although seemingly erratic and pandemonic to an onlooker was orderly and systematic to those involved. The noise at the entrance was raucous with the sounds of vendors, coolies, tonga wallahs, phaetons, passengers and military personnel.

With dexterity the Austin and jeep swung into the entrance and the coolies descended like vultures to the Tower of Silence to grab their baggage.

"Dhera chalo, walk slowly, the Colonel informed the coolies. I don’t want you to get separated from us. The Misssahib is going to platform 2."

Alison enthusiastically alighted from the Austin, her eyes scanning the entrance for a familiar face. She followed the coolies, charging after them, her father and Aziz walking behind them. Aziz’s slim, upright frame walked with an air of efficiency, his waxed moustache immobile as he carried a tiffin carrier in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. A train journey was only considered an enjoyable journey with an assortment of food. There were delicate cucumber sandwiches, seed cake, potato cutlets, chocolate fudge and some home made lemonade. The Colonel strode forward with authority and manoeuvred the crowd, frequently lifting his arm in salute as he responded to the continuous cries of Salaam Sahib, Salaam Sir.

Making their way to platform 2 Alison scanned the train for the large white banner tied on the outside of the 1st class sleeper. It was conspicuous, its uppercase writing in bold black ‘St Bridget’s. She quickened her pace, eager to meet her classmates who would probably be there already. Some had taken connecting trains to link up for the trip. Brown paper parcel in hand she wove her way through the crowd eyes only on the carriage ahead. A coolie obstructed her view just as she spotted Valerie Nicholls.

Val, Val! she shouted waving her arm wildly and started to run, her exuberance getting the better of her.

She had misjudged her speed and suddenly collided with a young, handsome, oncoming army officer who had been distracted by all the shouting. The parcel flew out of her arms as her head hit his chest.

I’m terribly sorry Ma-am, he said grabbing her arm to steady her before she could do herself any further damage. Straightening up she was keenly aware that she was back in her dream. There was no white steed, no helmet or visor, no suit of armour but the clarity of the same pair of blue eyes flecked with grey gazed into her eyes with candid admiration. They were the eyes of her dream. She stood riveted to the spot too bewildered to react with her normal complacency. As though transfixed by an apparition she opened her mouth and gasped in startled recognition.

Sorry I startled you Ma-am, Captain Balfour- Brown at your disposal.

His voice sounded familiar, she felt she had known it all her life; as if it had been laying dormant waiting for recognition at the appropriate moment.

Morning Captain, boomed the Colonel; I see you have already met my daughter. Alison this is Captain Michael Balfour Brown. He’s a commissioned officer with the Royal Signals.

Pleased to meet you, she replied, a little taken aback by his intense gaze.

Captain Balfour Brown swung to attention his arm extended in a sharp salute.

Morning sir, I had no idea that this lovely lady was your daughter. His eyes lifted at the corners in amusement as he nodded and banteringly said, Pleased to meet you Alison.

Captain Brown will be accompanying the train all the way to Simla Al; I’ve asked him to keep an eye on you.

Oh! Da you worry so, there are a whole lot of us travelling together, I’m sure we’ll be quite safe.

Can’t be too careful girl, prepare for the unexpected I say. Do you agree Captain?

Confidently squaring his shoulders he stood his six foot one inch frame to attention, nodding his groomed dark head in agreement but his eyes never left Alison’s face. He was clearly mesmerised by her exotic looks and outgoing personality.

The annihilation of time was apparent to neither as they were inexorably drawn to each other, the past and the present having run together into one malleable moment. However the squeals of her classmates broke their concentration, she quickly came back to reality and responded to the world.

Please excuse me, she said to the Captain as she tore herself away from his intense gaze.

He followed her with his eyes and she felt shaken inside; a quiet disturbance shaking her normally unruffled demeanour. Fortunately the excited cacophony of voices was a welcome distraction as she made her way to the carriage.

The compartment was already filled with a group of girls who were all training to be teachers. The Francis twins were shouting animatedly; each finishing the others sentences, their curly auburn locks bobbing up and down, their freckled faces smiling as they called out in unison.

How was your holiday Alison? Wait till you hear what we’ve been up to. Her best friend Cynthia Mills had travelled all the way from Jubulpur and was already ensconced in the compartment. She moved to the doorway to pull Alison up the two rungs leading in giving her a quick kiss and hug.

So great to see you Al, been looking forward to our final year together. I’ve got so much to tell you.

Jennifer Atkins was talking to her Mother through the barred window, shaking her hands animatedly as she spoke. At the far end of the compartment Celia Wentworth, her long raven hair draped decorously over her olive complexioned face was fiddling with her baggage; undoing her holdall and laying it out on one of the bunks. She lifted her head and smiled welcomingly at Alison who was obviously a great favourite with the occupants. A number of new faces tentatively observed the camaraderie, taking in the scene not knowing how to react. They were first years no doubt who would soon get into the swing of things; the atmosphere too infectious to stay in isolation.

Da stood outside on the platform talking conspiratorially to the Captain while Aziz hovered at the periphery. She stole a quick glance at the Captain aware that he could not see her. Something about him intrigued her; was it his apparent confidence or did she detect a