The Essential Collection for Young Readers Page 10

‘Who was the girl?’ I said. ‘You must tell me who she was.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t do,’ said Grandmother, but I pretended I didn’t know. I knew, because Grandmother still smiled in the same way, even though she didn’t have as many teeth.

  ‘Come on, Granny,’ I said, ‘tell me, tell me.’

  But Grandmother shook her head and carried on with the knitting. And I held the photograph in my hand looking from it to my Grandmother and back again, trying to find points in common between the old lady and the little pigtailed girl. A lemon-coloured butterfly settled on the end of grandmother’s knitting needle and stayed there while the needles clicked away. I made a grab at the butterfly and it flew off in a dipping flight and settled on a sunflower.

  ‘I wonder whose hands they were,’ whispered Grandmother to herself, with her head bowed, and her needles clicking away in the soft, warm silence of that summer afternoon.

  The Tunnel

  IT WAS almost noon, and the jungle was very still, very silent. Heat waves shimmered along the railway embankment where it cut a path through the tall evergreen trees. The railway lines were two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in the hillside.

  Suraj stood near the cutting, waiting for the midday train. It wasn’t a station, and he wasn’t catching a train. He was waiting so that he could watch the steam engine come roaring out of the tunnel.

  He had cycled out of Dehra and taken the jungle path until he had come to a small village. He had left the cycle there, and walked over a low scrub-covered hill and down to the tunnel exit.

  Now he looked up. He had heard, in the distance, the shrill whistle of the engine. He couldn’t see anything, because the train was approaching from the other side of the hill; but presently a sound like distant thunder issued from the tunnel, and he knew the train was coming through.

  A second or two later, the steam engine shot out of the tunnel, snorting and puffing like some green, black and gold dragon, some beautiful monster out of Suraj’s dreams. Showering sparks left and right, it roared a challenge to the jungle.

  Instinctively, Suraj stepped back a few paces. Waves of hot steam struck him in the face. Even the trees seemed to flinch from the noise and heat. And then the train had gone, leaving only a plume of smoke to drift lazily over the tall shisham trees.

  The jungle was still again. No one moved.

  Suraj turned from his contemplation of the drifting smoke and began walking along the embankment towards the tunnel.

  The tunnel grew darker as he walked further into it. When he had gone about twenty yards, it became pitch dark. Suraj had to turn and look back at the opening to reassure himself that there was still daylight outside. Ahead of him, the tunnel’s other opening was just a small round circle of light.

  The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be several hours before another train came through. Till then, the cutting belonged to the jungle again.

  Suraj didn’t stop, because there was nothing to do in the tunnel and nothing to see. He had simply wanted to walk through, so that he would know what the inside of a tunnel was really like. The walls were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines.

  Coming straight from the darkness into the light, Suraj was dazzled by the sudden glare and put a hand up to shade his eyes. He looked up at the tree-covered hillside and thought he saw something moving between the trees.

  It was just a flash of orange and gold, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.

  About fifteen metres from the entrance to the tunnel stood the watchman’s hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and at the back there was a small vegetable patch. It was the watchman’s duty to inspect the tunnel and keep it clear of obstacles. Every day, before the train came through, he would walk the length of the tunnel. If all was well, he would return to his hut and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine driver would slow down. At night, the watchman lit an oil lamp and made a similar inspection of the tunnel. Of course, he would not stop the train if there was a porcupine on the line. But if there was any danger to the train, he’d go back up the line and wave his lamp to the approaching engine. If all was well, he’d hang his lamp at the door of his hut and go to sleep.

  He was just settling down on his cot for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy emerge from the tunnel. He waited until Suraj was only a metre or so away and then said: ‘Welcome, welcome. I don’t often have visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel.’

  ‘Is it your tunnel?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘It is,’ said the watchman. ‘It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the Government.’

  Suraj sat down on the edge of the cot.

  ‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then, when it had gone, I thought I’d walk through the tunnel.’

  ‘And what did you find in it?’

  ‘Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal—up on the hill—but I’m not sure, it moved off very quickly.’

  ‘It was a leopard you saw,’ said the watchman. ‘My leopard.’

  ‘Do you own a leopard too?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And do you lend it to the Government?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘No, it’s a leopard that minds its own business. It comes to this range for a few days every month.’

  ‘Have you been here a long time?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘Many years. My name is Sunder Singh.’

  ‘My name’s Suraj.’

  ‘There is one train during the day. And there is one train during the night. Have you seen the night mail come through the tunnel?’

  ‘No. At what time does it come?’

  ‘About nine o’clock, if it isn’t late. You could come and sit here with me, if you like. And after it has gone, instead of going to sleep I will take you home.’

  ‘I’ll ask my parents,’ said Suraj. ‘Will it be safe?’

  ‘Of course. It is safer in the jungle than in the town. Nothing happens to me out here. But last month, when I went into town, I was almost run over by a bus.’

  Sunder Singh yawned and stretched himself out on the cot. ‘And now I am going to take a nap, my friend. It is too hot to be up and about in the afternoon.’

  ‘Everyone goes to sleep in the afternoon,’ complained Suraj. ‘My father lies down as soon as he’s had his lunch.’

  ‘Well, the animals also rest in the heat of the day. It is only the tribe of boys who cannot, or will not, rest.’

  Sunder Singh placed a large banana leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring gently. Suraj stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then he began walking back to the village.

  The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying foxes swooped silently out of the trees, Suraj made his way to the watchman’s hut.

  It had been a long hot day, but now the earth was cooling, and a light breeze was moving through the trees. It carried with it the scent of mango blossoms, the promise of rain.

  Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his small garden, and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on a small oil stove.

  ‘I am making tea,’ he said. ‘There is nothing like a glass of hot tea while waiting for a train.’

  They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailorbird and the noisy chatter of the seven sisters.

  As the brief twilight faded, most of the birds fell silent. Sunder Singh lit his oil lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the tunnel, while Suraj sat on the cot, sipping his tea. In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer to him. And the nightlife of the forest was conveyed on the breeze—the sharp call of a barking deer, the cry of a fox, the quai
nt tonk-tonk of a nightjar. There were some sounds that Suraj didn’t recognize—sounds that came from the trees, creakings and whisperings, as though the trees were coming to life, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers.

  Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were familiar to him and he did not give them much thought; but something else—a padded footfall, a rustle of dry leaves—made him stand still for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly to himself, he returned to where Suraj was waiting. Ten minutes remained for the night mail to arrive.

  As Sunder Singh sat down on the cot beside Suraj, a new sound reached both of them quite distinctly—a rhythmic sawing sound, as of someone cutting through the branch of a tree.

  ‘What’s that?’ whispered Suraj.

  ‘It’s the leopard,’ said Sunder Singh. ‘I think it’s in the tunnel.’

  ‘The train will soon be here,’ said Suraj.

  ‘Yes, my friend. And if we don’t drive the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over and killed. I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘But won’t it attack us if we try to drive it out?’ asked Suraj, beginning to share the watchman’s concern.

  ‘Not this leopard. It knows me well. We have seen each other many times. It has a weakness for goats and stray dogs, but it will not harm us. Even so, I’ll take my axe with me. You stay here, Suraj.’

  ‘No, I’m coming with you. It will be better than sitting here alone in the dark!’

  ‘All right, but stay close behind me. And remember, there is nothing to fear.’

  Raising his lamp, Sunder Singh advanced into the tunnel, shouting at the top of his voice to try and scare away the animal. Suraj followed close behind; but he found he was unable to do any shouting. His throat was quite dry.

  They had gone about twenty paces into the tunnel when the light from the lamp fell upon the leopard. It was crouching between the tracks, only five metres away from them. It was not a very big leopard, but it looked lithe and sinewy. Baring its teeth and snarling, it went down on its belly, tail twitching.

  Suraj and Sunder Singh both shouted together. Their voices rang through the tunnel. And the leopard, uncertain as to how many terrifying humans were there in the tunnel with him, turned swiftly and disappeared into the darkness.

  To make sure that it had gone, Sunder Singh and Suraj walked the length of the tunnel. When they returned to the entrance, the rails were beginning to hum. They knew the train was coming.

  Suraj put his hand to one of the rails and felt its tremor. He heard the distant rumble of the train. And then the engine came round the bend, hissing at them, scattering sparks into the darkness, defying the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the cutting. It charged straight at the tunnel, and into it, thundering past Suraj like the beautiful dragon of his dreams.

  And when it had gone, the silence returned and the forest seemed to breathe, to live again. Only the rails still trembled with the passing of the train.

  They trembled again to the passing of the same train, almost a week later, when Suraj and his father were both travelling in it.

  Suraj’s father was scribbling in a notebook, doing his accounts. Suraj sat at an open window staring out at the darkness. His father was going to Delhi on a business trip and had decided to take the boy along. (‘I don’t know where he gets to, most of the time,’ he’d complained. ‘I think it’s time he learnt something about my business.’)

  The night mail rushed through the forest with its hundreds of passengers. The carriage wheels beat out a steady rhythm on the rails. Tiny flickering lights came and went, as they passed small villages on the fringe of the jungle.

  Suraj heard the rumble as the train passed over a small bridge. It was too dark to see the hut near the cutting, but he knew they must be approaching the tunnel. He strained his eyes looking out into the night; and then, just as the engine let out a shrill whistle, Suraj saw the lamp.

  He couldn’t see Sunder Singh, but he saw the lamp, and he knew that his friend was out there.

  The train went into the tunnel and out again; it left the jungle behind and thundered across the endless plains.

  Suraj stared out at the darkness, thinking of the lonely cutting in the forest and the watchman with the lamp who would always remain a firefly for those travelling thousands as he lit up the darkness for steam engines and leopards.

  The Overcoat

  IT WAS clear frosty weather, and as the moon came up over the Himalayan peaks, I could see that patches of snow still lay on the roads of the hill-station. I would have been quite happy in bed, with a book and a hot-water bottle at my side, but I’d promised the Kapadias that I’d go to their party, and I felt it would be churlish of me to stay away. I put on two sweaters, an old football scarf and an overcoat, and set off down the moonlit road.

  It was a walk of just over a mile to the Kapadias’ house, and I had covered about half the distance when I saw a girl standing in the middle of the road.

  She must have been sixteen or seventeen. She looked rather old-fashioned—long hair, hanging to her waist, and a flummoxy sequined dress, pink and lavender, that reminded me of the photos in my grandmother’s family album. When I went closer, I noticed that she had lovely eyes and a winning smile.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘It’s a cold night to be out.’ ‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right. And I can see from your lovely dress that you’re going, too. Come along, we’re nearly there.’

  She fell into step beside me and we soon saw lights from the Kapadias’ house shining brightly through the deodars. The girl told me her name was Julie. I hadn’t seen her before but, then, I’d only been in the hill-station a few months.

  There was quite a crowd at the party, and no one seemed to know Julie. Everyone thought she was a friend of mine. I did not deny it. Obviously she was someone who was feeling lonely and wanted to be friendly with people. And she was certainly enjoying herself. I did not see her do much eating or drinking but she flitted about from one group to another, talking, listening, laughing; and when the music began, she was dancing almost continuously, alone or with partners, it didn’t matter which, she was completely wrapped up in the music.

  It was almost midnight when I got up to go. I had drunk a fair amount of punch, and I was ready for bed. As I was saying goodnight to my hosts and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, Julie slipped her arm into mine and said she’d be going home, too. When we were outside I said, ‘Where do you live, Julie?’ ‘At Wolfsburn,’ she said. ‘At the top of the hill.’ ‘There’s a cold wind,’ I said. And although your dress is beautiful, it doesn’t look very warm. Here, you’d better wear my overcoat. I’ve plenty of protection.’

  She did not protest, and allowed me to slip my overcoat over her shoulders. Then we started out on the walk home. But I did not have to escort her all the way. At about the spot where we had met, she said, ‘There’s a short cut from here. I’ll just scramble up the hillside.’

  ‘Do you know it well?’ I asked. ‘It’s a very narrow path.’

  ‘Oh, I know every stone on the path. I use it all the time. And besides, it’s a really bright night.’

  ‘Well, keep the coat on,’ I said. ‘I can collect it tomorrow.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded to me. She then disappeared up the hill, and I went home alone.

  The next day I walked up to Wolfsburn. I crossed a little brook, from which the house had probably got its name, and entered an open iron gate. But of the house itself little remained. Just a roofless ruin, a pile of stones, a shattered chimney, a few Doric pillars where a verandah had once stood.

  Had Julie played a joke on me? Or had I found the wrong house?

  I walked around the hill to the mission house where the Taylors lived, and asked old Mrs Taylor if she knew a girl called Julie.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Where
does she live?’ ‘At Wolfsburn, I was told. But the house is just a ruin.’

  ‘Nobody has lived at Wolfsburn for over forty years. The Mackinnons lived there. One of the old families who settled here. But when their girl died…’ She stopped and gave me a queer look. ‘I think her name was Julie... Anyway, when she died, they sold the house and went away. No one ever lived in it again, and it fell into decay. But it couldn’t be the same Julie you’re looking for. She died of consumption—there wasn’t much you could do about it in those days. Her grave is in the cemetery, just down the road.’

  I thanked Mrs Taylor and walked slowly down the road to the cemetery: not really wanting to know any more, but propelled forward almost against my will.

  It was a small cemetery under the deodars. You could see the eternal snows of the Himalayas standing out against the pristine blue of the sky. Here lay the bones of forgotten Empire-builders—soldiers, merchants, adventurers, their wives and children. It did not take me long to find Julie’s grave. It had a simple headstone with her name clearly outlined on it:

  Julie Mackinnon

  1923–39

  With us one moment,

  Taken the next.

  Gone to her Maker,

  Gone to her rest.

  Although many monsoons had swept across the cemetery wearing down the stones, they had not touched this little tombstone.

  I was turning to leave when I caught a glimpse of something familiar behind the headstone. I walked round to where it lay.

  Neatly folded on the grass was my overcoat.

  The Girl on the Train

  I HAD the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents; they seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers.

  They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was going blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like; but I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.