Stevens turned to the lady, saying, ‘Sorry, Miss Bailey.’
So he appeared to know her, too.
‘The . . . well, the flipping thing is staring right back at Bassett, and he’s sort of entranced by it as I say, and he makes no move for the brake. It’s his mate, Timmy Rice, who claps it on, and Bassett goes flying forward, and . . . he only crowns himself on the fire-door handle doesn’t he? Knocked his lights out, and that was the end of old Kit Bassett.’
A beat of silence.
‘The revenge’, said one of the R.E. men after a while, ‘of the sheep.’
‘That’s just about the size of it,’ said Stevens. ‘Well, that’s my story . . . Bit of railway in it anyhow.’
He collapsed into his seat, as the assembled party broke into applause, a sound that began to mingle with shouts and running feet from beyond the square. I heard the raised voice of a Tommy: ‘You fucking . . .’ But the whole incident was mobile, and faded away fast.
Stevens was breathing deeply and clasping and unclasping his fists. His blue glass was empty. After his great effort, he needed another drink. I reached for the wine jug, but of course I would have to offer the lady first, since she sat between us.
‘Would you care for . . .’
She turned and saw me for the first time. And she held my gaze for longer than was needful, frowning the while.
‘. . . wine?’ I said.
She shook her head briskly, and I poured for Stevens. A moment later, she put her hand on my wrist.
‘Is there water?’ she said.
I reached for the other jug, and poured.
‘That’s very kind,’ she said, turning and facing me directly. ‘I’ve been in the desert all day.’
‘I’m Captain Stringer,’ I said. ‘I’m in the Railway Office, assisting Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd.’
Again, she eyed me. Then she said, ‘Naturally . . . I know nothing of railways, and nor does Major Findlay.’
She nodded towards the other end of the table, where Shepherd was introducing our next speaker: the fair-haired, sunburned major: Findlay by name, evidently. As he stood, I saw from his uniform that he was a cavalry officer. It was the lower half that gave it away. He would be addressing us on ‘Some Notes from the Indian Railways’, which – he hoped we’d agree – was ‘a very fitting subject for an officer of the British Indian Army’.
As he spoke, the lady lit a cigarette – a Woodbine, I was astonished to see – with the same practised speed as she’d employed in the arrangement of her hair. She looked sidelong at me, saying, ‘Where’s your gun?’
‘It’s in my haversack,’ I said, shocked at the question, ‘under my chair.’ I mumbled something about webbing being too uncomfortable in the heat.
The lady sat back blowing smoke as Major Findlay began his speech. Very dull it was, too, and all directed at the lady, who after a while lowered her gaze and began looking down at her lap as Findlay droned: ‘The South Indian railway is pre-eminently a Third Class passenger-carrying line. The Third Class contributes eighty-two per cent of the numbers . . . The gross receipts of the Assam–Bengal Railway . . .’
I thought: India’s a big place. This could go on all night. It was nothing you couldn’t have got from an article in The Railway Magazine, and I believed Findlay had cribbed it all from some such paper. Why? More men came into the room at intervals as he spoke, and stood against the walls. The waiter offered them drinks, and as he did so there was another round of shouts and commotion from the square, which drew some of the new men over to the window – and caused the brigadier to ask no one in particular, ‘What’s the bally racket?’
Half to herself and without looking up, the lady uttered a single word: ‘Insurgency.’
Findlay was saying, ‘. . . the stock being subscribed about two and a half times over by the railway’s own stockholders,’ and sat down. Apparently, he had finished. There was a small round of applause, and it was safe for the lady to raise her head. Shepherd was saying that the formal business of the evening was concluded, and we were to help ourselves to supper. Captain Ferry remained in his seat, smoking steadily, but most others were beginning to circulate, and the atmosphere of the mess room took over. The lady turned towards me, and began a close inspection of my face, breaking off when the waiter came past. She spoke to him in fast Arabic, and he brought a couple of small plates over. One held bits of meat in a thick sauce.
‘Dhansak,’ she said to me, ‘it’s very good.’
Most people were moving towards the table by the window for their grub. But not only did the food come to the lady, so did half the men in the room, some addressing her respectfully by name: Miss Bailey. A sort of queue was forming at her chair, with the boring major – Findlay – at the head of it. It did not include Shepherd, however. He was being charming to the brigadier, was evidently stuck with him. He had been ‘landed’ as they say in Yorkshire.