Thursday’s Child. Helen Forrester
I smiled.
He looked as if he was about to say something that was important to him, but changed his mind and said merely: ‘This evening my friend, Dr Wu, had promised to introduce us, but we have managed very well by ourselves, have we not?’ He flashed a little grin at me, as he took out his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe: ‘May I smoke?’ he asked.
This then was Dr Wu’s friend. Presumably they had met at the University.
‘Please do smoke,’ I said. ‘I must go – otherwise I shall miss the last bus home.’
He rose as I did, and opened the door for me.
‘Thank you again for rescuing me,’ I said, pausing by the door.
‘It is nothing,’ he said, his face inexplicably sad.
‘I hope to see you next Saturday,’ I said, desiring to clear the melancholy shadow away.
The sun shone immediately. ‘I wish that I will see you,’ he said, and I went to fetch my coat and hat.
As I hurried through the swing doors on my way out, I met Dr Wu looking harassed.
‘Are you looking for Mr Singh?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Miss Delaney, I am.’
‘You will find him in the canteen,’ I said, and ran down the stairs. As I went through the glass outer door, I turned. Wu was standing at the top of the stairs grinning down at me, as if I were the subject of some private joke.
My term of duty on the following day did not start until two o’clock, so I missed the fun when Bessie received a telephone call. As a result of the Egyptian invasion, poor Bessie had worked until late on Sunday evening but had returned to work at her usual hour on the Monday morning, in order to act as Chairman at a meeting of an Anglo-Polish organisation. She was at the meeting when the club telephonist called her out of the room and said that someone who would not give his name wished to speak to her urgently.
She lifted the receiver and a reproachful voice immediately upbraided her. Could she not recognise love when she saw it – his heart was broken – one day was all he asked.
‘Who are you and what do you think you are talking about?’ asked an outraged Bessie.
When he gave his name she became more polite – the stony politeness reserved for Muslims.
‘I think a mistake has been made,’ she said guardedly.
‘You are the Mrs Forbes, the beautiful Mrs Forbes with whom I danced last night?’
‘Well, I am Mrs Forbes, but I did not dance with anyone last night – I was too busy.’
‘Yes, I remember – I remember – there were two Mrs Forbes – you are the lady of the blue dress?’
‘No,’ said Bessie. ‘I’m the lady of the pink dress.’ Then she thought of my blue dress. All Bessie’s latent motherly instincts came to the fore. Deliver me to this lunatic? No. She dealt summarily with the Egyptian and returned, full of apologies, to her Committee.
‘Bessie, dear, what did you say to him?’ I asked, after I explained the confusion over the initial introductions the previous evening.
Bessie looked at me sideways. ‘I told him that your reluctance to accompany him was natural, because you had an Italian husband six feet tall and expert with a knife.’
‘Bessie,’ I gasped, ‘you’re a dreadful scallywag.’
‘It was effective,’ said Bessie dryly.
During the afternoon I took two Americans round the docks, after which they were to take dinner with an English family. I left them at their hotel and walked through the crowded streets towards the club, meaning to do a couple of hours of work at my desk before taking dinner in the canteen. One way of avoiding the more crowded pavements was to take a short cut through a store which had its front and back entrances on adjoining streets, and this I did, only to collide with Mother.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Mother, clutching her parcels to her.
‘Hello, Mum. What are you doing here?’
‘Christmas shopping.’
Mother was looking worn, so I asked her to come and have some tea. We turned back into the store, and were fighting our way through the Cosmetics Department, towards the lift which would carry us up to the restaurant, when I suddenly saw a familiar face bent over an array of perfume bottles, while a bored shop assistant stood behind the counter and dealt with other customers between addressing the perfume buyer. I heard her say: ‘Passion of Paris is considered most alluring.’
‘Mr Singh,’ I said.
‘Who?’ asked Mother, peering through her eye veil.
‘Mr Singh. Come and meet him – he is quite amusing.’
Mother loves meeting new people, so we walked across to the perfume counter and I asked if I could help him, and then introduced him to Mother.
‘Please do help me,’ implored Mr Singh. ‘My friends at my digs say that dragons like scent for Christmas – they do not tell me which perfume to buy – it is most confusing.’
‘Dragons?’ I queried.
‘Landladies,’ said Mr Singh unsmilingly.
I heard Mother stifle a laugh behind her parcels, and I hastily straightened my own face and looked gravely through the collection of bottles. I was very conscious of Mr Singh standing by me. He did not look at my face, but he watched my hands as I sought for the best bargain for him. He took out a finely tooled leather pocket book and paid for the present, and then looked hesitatingly at Mother and me.
‘Will you join me to drink tea in the restaurant before continuing your shoppings?’ he asked.
Before I could open my mouth, Mother said that we would be delighted. She had never met an Indian before and was evidently excited at the prospect of examining further the specimen before her. Her neat, grey curls danced as she talked vivaciously to Mr Singh, and it was obvious that she enjoyed the tea party that followed. Mr Singh held open the doors for her and helped her with her parcels, pulled out chairs, and insisted on ordering masses of buttered toast, since the restaurant had sold out of cake. Mother was conquered by him before the meal was ended.
At the end of an hour I remembered guiltily my piled-up desk and said that I must return to work. We collected the parcels and Mr Singh paid the bill.
As we were waiting for the lift to take us down again, Mr Singh asked: ‘We are – that is – the Indian community is giving a Christmas party – I wonder – Mrs Delaney – Miss Delaney – would you like to come?’
This was a rare honour. The small Indian community tended to mix amongst themselves and rarely asked outsiders to their entertainments. In any case, no opportunity to refuse was given me. Mother accepted with alacrity for both of us.
‘We are mostly students,’ said Mr Singh. ‘It will be held in the club canteen.’
The canteen was decorated for the occasion with the Indian national flag and a picture of Gandhiji framed with flowers. It was a good party, although everything went wrong. The lights fused, the hot food, cooked by the students themselves, arrived cold, and the ice cream melted, but nobody was upset. Leisurely our hosts lit matches while the Canteen Manageress mended the fuse, somehow the Indian food tasted good, though strange to Western taste – and Mother felt like an empress.
As the eldest lady there she was specially looked after, and she was enchanted by the respect shown to her. She was soon surrounded by an assortment of men in Indian costumes; and three girls were almost