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MERRYN ALLINGHAM was born into an army family and spent her childhood on the move. Unsurprisingly, it gave her itchy feet and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world. The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Merryn has always loved books that bring the past to life, so when she began writing herself the novels had to be historical. Merryn’s books are set in the early twentieth century, a fascinating era that she loves researching and writing about. History still holds sway for her, mixed in with a helping of intrigue and a sprinkling of romance. To my mother and father, who married in April 1937 at St John’s Afghan Church, Colaba, Bombay Table of Contents
Bombay, 1938.
The ceiling fan pushed against torpid air, the low growl of its rusty blades a counterpoint to the shrilling telephones and excited Hindi emerging in bursts from beyond the glass screen at the end of the room. From the quayside below, a rhythmic crunch of boots on stone sounded faintly through the open door, a steady train of soldiers chugging its way ashore. Daisy Driscoll sat in a bubble of silence, a large cardboard suitcase at her side. Her skin gleamed with sweat and her hair hung limp, the carefully pressed finger waves in a state of dissolution. Her make-up had slipped and the crimson lipstick was now an uneven gash. Nervously she fiddled with the ring, fourth finger, right hand, looking constantly from open door to glass partition, shifting from side to side in the shabby Windsor chair. A shadow darkened the room. A military figure had appeared in the doorway and was walking towards her. She started to her feet, her smile feigning brightness, but a glance at the newcomer’s face and she crumpled back onto the chair. ‘Miss Driscoll?’ The young Indian’s voice was soft and cultured, and his expression a mixture of dismay and compassion. She wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t dared to go in search of a mirror for fear of missing Gerald when he came. She’d donned her very best dress for the occasion but that was hours ago on board The Viceroy of India, and the heat and dust had already taken its toll on the silk print for which she had saved so hard. ‘Yes,’ she answered uncertainly, ‘but Gerald …’ ‘He will be waiting at the church. My name is Anish. Anish Rana. I am a friend of Gerald’s and I’m to take you to him.’ Her face fell at the news but he affected not to notice and continued in a smooth voice, ‘He apologises for not coming himself but he had several important matters to attend to before the ceremony.’ She found herself wondering what could be more important than meeting the woman you were to marry after she had been three long weeks at sea, but she said nothing, grateful at least to have an escort. Getting to her feet once again, she bent down to retrieve the bulging suitcase but Anish was quicker and scooped it up with ease, the knife-edged pleats of his uniform hardly wavering. Everything about him spoke ease, the kind of ease that came with authority. ‘Please, follow me.’ His tall figure strode towards the open door. ‘The port is very busy today and we must find our way through the crowds to the main road. I have a conveyance waiting.’ Dispirited by the unexpected turn of events, Daisy followed him obediently. At the door, he paused. ‘Do you have some kind of head covering, Miss Driscoll? The April sun is very hot.’ ‘Only this,’ and she took from her bag the fragile confection of feathers and net she had chosen for her wedding. His raised eyebrows made her horribly aware of how ill equipped she was for this strange country. ‘Then we must make all haste,’ he said, and flashed her an encouraging smile. Together they walked from the waiting room and down a flight of steep stone steps onto the crowded quayside. The air was stifling and the sunlight so blinding that it hit her like a physical blow. For a moment she was overpowered by the heat, the noise, the smells. Spices and dust, she thought, jasmine and drains.
